The Time of Mute Swans

by Ece Temelkuran

  There’s so much going on here, so much to look at, but Mom keeps looking inside her handbag.

  “These files are so damn big.”

  Uncle Önder takes Mom’s arm.

  “Shall we sit for a while in Station Restaurant?”

  Mom’s shoulders must have been way up. When Uncle Önder said that, I saw them come down.

  “Ayşe, would you like a cola?”

  She doesn’t need to get me a cola. I’m not going to tell Dad. That’s because this morning, when Mom pulled her nice shoes out of the closet on the way out the door, I yelled, “I’m coming to Parliament, too!” Mom said, “I’ve got a lot to do today,” and Dad said, “Sevgi, why do you keep wearing those shoes? They cut into your feet and give you blisters.” Mom said something about her shoes being “fine” and “what blisters?” and lots of other stuff. And then Dad said, “Well, that’s not what Ayşe said. The other day she said those shoes always hurt you.” I looked at Mom, and then at Dad, and then back at Mom. She made big eyes and suddenly changed her mind.

  “Ayşe, all right then. You’re coming with me.”

  I was going to whisper something into Mom’s ear, but she said, “Come on. Be quick about it.” Grandma came up and said, “Aydın, my boy, would you mind changing the bulb in the hall light before you go? It exploded again.” Dad said he’d do it when he got home, so Grandma said, “Don’t forget,” but real quiet. Mom didn’t look at me even once. I wanted to say, “I didn’t tell Dad.”

  When the cola came to the table, I said, “Aren’t you going to put some water in it?” She lit a cigarette without looking at me.

  On the way to the station, Mom said, “Ayşe, Uncle Önder’s leaving today. We’ll never see him again. That’s why I need to meet him one last time and give him something. Listen, Ayşe …” She talked and talked, but she looked at the ground, not me. When she saw Uncle Önder in the train station, she took my hand. But she hadn’t held my hand before.

  “Stop doing that, Ayşe!”

  They were sitting without talking, so I wanted to make some noise. When I blow into the bottle of cola, it gets all fizzy and almost overflows, so I stop at the last second, and then I do it again. Mom got mad.

  “You’re going to spill it!”

  Mom put her handbag in her lap. She held her knees together. She acted like her handbag was huge, like she couldn’t find the yellow envelopes, like she couldn’t lift her head from her handbag. Then she slowly pulled out the envelopes.

  “They were sealed, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, but your director must have opened them.”

  I blew on my cola again.

  “It was Abdullah who opened them. The dirty rat!”

  I made it fizz again.

  “And he did do that, too?”

  “Did what?”

  “They’re burnt. The faces are burnt. I mean, someone burned them. Sevgi, who would do that? Are they nuts?”

  “What? There were photos inside? Of children? And they burned them? Who did it? It’s outrageous!”

  The cola fizzed all the way up to the mouth of the bottle. Then I blew real soft, just to keep the foam there.

  “Whose photos are they, Önder?”

  “They’re childhood photos of our friends who got killed.”

  “Why did you ever give them to me, anyway?”

  “I don’t know, Sevgi. Perhaps I believe in the power of whispering now. When everyone else is shouting, it’s one way to be heard. It’s silly. There are so many photos of dead young men our age. I wanted them to be remembered like this, as children. Everything’s being swept away and destroyed. I wanted those photos to be preserved in Parliament. Images of children reciting poetry on national holidays, playing in the park, posing for their school photograph. Stored away and on the record, right there in Parliament, in the heart of the nation. Do you understand? Never mind. Like I said, it’s silly. Are you giving back the letters as well?”

  “Yes. I can’t risk it.”

  “You mean you can’t risk upsetting the order, Sevgi? The order in your home, in your marriage?

  Mom didn’t laugh. Uncle Önder half-laughed. I stopped fizzing my cola because they didn’t understand. If they had, I’d have sprayed cola everywhere.

  “There’s room for everything in the national archives except for these kids. So, that’s how it is, huh, Sevgi?”

  Mom looked straight ahead. Uncle Önder looked at a train.

  “There will be a record of everything in Parliament but our kids. Okay, I get it. But why did the bastard have to scorch their faces?”

  After one last fizz, I drank the whole bottle in one go. Mom lifted her head and looked at me, finally.

  The whistle blew. The nose-picker shouted.

  “Istanbul Express. Platform One.”

  Uncle Önder leaned into Mom. He was going to hug her. She took a step back and pulled me in front of her. I stood there, between the two of them. He’s handsome, but he should just go now.

  A Still Tongue Is Better Than a Lying One

  They finally came. We were waiting in front of Gima for Ali and his mom. “They’re probably not coming. Ayşe, shall we go now?” Mom said, but I pulled her by the hand.

  “They’ll come. You’ll see.”

  And then I saw Ali. He was tugging his Mom’s hand. Lots of people were getting in their way. I grabbed Mom’s hand and pulled her toward them, past all the people. They were banging into my lunchbox.

  “Hello, Aliye Hanım. Ayşe was so worried you wouldn’t come.”

  “Hello. The whole neighborhood went off to Çubuklu Reservoir today. But when Ali insisted on going to the theater—”

  “The play lasts for two hours. You can get him here when it’s done. Aliye Hanım, there’s something I want to say to you. You completely misunderstood me the other day.”

  “Sevgi Hanım, it was you who misunderstood.”

  “Really?”

  “We won’t leave our boy with you and run off. We’re not that kind of people.”

  “Aliye Hanım, there’s no need to explain. That’s why I wanted to see you today. We consider Ali to be our own child. He’s stayed over at our house any number of times. And we’re the kind of people who don’t shirk our responsibilities. Let me put it another way, Aliye Hanım. If something happened to us, would you look after Ayşe?”

  “Of course! Of course I would.”

  “And there’s one more thing. If you’d agree, and only if you really want to, it would please us greatly if you came this Thursday, as usual.”

  “I’ll be there, Sevgi Hanım. You can count on it.”

  —

  Ayşe’s mother took my mom’s hand. Mom took Ayşe’s mother’s hand. It was the first time they shook hands. My mom was happy. We went to the theater. The entrance to the theater is the most exciting thing in the world. Like the door to a fairy tale.

  —

  “The Honey That Makes You Go Prrrt!” That’s what I yelled, to make Ali laugh. It’s the name of the play we’re going to see. Then I went, “Prrrt, prrrt, prrrt.” And then, while Mom was getting the tickets, I told him, just like that.

  “You’ll never guess what I did.”

  “I saw Hüseyin Abi.”

  “Really?”

  “He grew a beard.”

  “A long one?”

  “Yes. I added another thing to my list.”

  “What?”

  “Not to die before I grow a beard.”

  “Grow a mustache. They’re nicer. Ali, I have a surprise for you.”

  “My head hurt so much.”

  “Do you know what I did?”

  “And I threw up a lot.”

  “Hey! Ask me! Ask me what I did. Okay, I’ll tell you. I got chloroform. Right from the pharmacy, too.”

  “You did?”

  “It’s in my lunchbox. I brought it because I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Let me see.”

  “Look! Are you glad? Are you? I found it
because I could read the little letters. I did a good job. Didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “And something else happened, too.”

  “What?”

  “They didn’t understand.”

  “The photos?”

  “Yes. Uncle Abdullah works in Parliament, and he’s kind of a fascist. Mom thinks he did it.”

  —

  I made a click click in my pocket. Ayşe laughed. Nobody else heard. Only Ayşe knew why we had to burn those photos. They all look like me. And if they make all those kids “Wanted” and they catch me, they’ll make me say “O Turkish Youth!” at the police station, and then they’ll torture me. They’ll kill me and put me in a sack, like the fascists do in Almond Stream. They could even hog-tie me.

  —

  I’m glad we burned the photos that day. When we got back from Swan Park I showed Ali the place where Mom hid the yellow envelopes. They were in the closet under the extra blankets. With the letters in green ink. Ali was scared.

  “They shouldn’t have photos. Photos make it easy to find people when they’re ‘Wanted.’ They can’t find you without photos. That’s why your mom hid them. She doesn’t anyone to find them. When the time comes, they’ll all fly away to where the swans go.”

  “I understand,” I said. Then Ali took out his Ibelo. One by one, he held the fire close to the faces of the children. They turned black down to the neck. “Don’t burn their necks!” I said. Ali asked me why. “‘Cause they have to breathe, silly!”

  —

  It’s noisy at the theater because everyone is happy. Nobody can hear me and Ayşe.

  “Did your mom understand that we took one of the letters?”

  “No.”

  “Not at all?”

  “She didn’t look at them. They make her cry, so she doesn’t look. She gave them all back to Uncle Önder. But—”

  “Shhh. Your mom’s coming. Is the letter in your lunchbox?

  “Yes. Here, hide it! I can’t keep it at home. If Dad finds it … Take it!”

  —

  “Come on, we’re going through that door.” Mom found us in the middle of all the kids. She put her hand on Ali’s head. “Is this your first time at the theater, Ali?” Ali didn’t say anything. He just nodded his head yes. “That’s nice. You’ll be watching your very first play with Ayşe. It’ll be a good memory. First times are always unforgettable.”

  —

  The theater’s a weird place. Up on the stage, they all have red faces and huge eyes and big mouths. They always shout. They’re not like normal people. They’re from another world. A nicer world. The big brothers have mustaches like Hüseyin Abi and the others. The big sisters look a lot like Birgül. But they’re so happy up there, behind all those lights.

  —

  It was such a funny play and, best of all, we got to sing along. Ali doesn’t like singing, I guess, because he covered his ears. But I loved that song. It’s about honey and sharing and making all the sick people well again.

  —

  All the kids in the audience started singing. Ayşe made my ears hurt. While all the kids were screaming along, her mom got a mirror out of her handbag. She looked at her eyes. With her finger, she pressed the skin under her eyes and above her eyes. She pulled up her eyebrows. She looked at the little white hairs by her ear. She pinched her cheeks. She set the mirror on the lap and looked at the stage. She never smiled. She’s a nice woman. I think she’s sad, though.

  —

  There’s this old woman—in the play I mean—and she’s terribly poor. And there’s a rich man who has honey. The woman asks for a little honey. The man won’t give it to her, so she says, “Then everyone who eats this honey will go ‘prrrt, prrrt.’” And later, everyone really does go “prrrt,” so much that they can’t even talk right anymore. Ali keeps looking at Mom. He doesn’t like plays or singing. And he didn’t do his jobs. I’m doing everything. But bad things keep happening to him, so that’s why.

  —

  Ayşe found chloroform. If Hüseyin Abi were here, he’d say, “If that don’t beat all!” He’d say that when someone was really brave. He says it, I mean. All we need now is a sack and a wheelbarrow. I’ll be the one to find them.

  —

  “They said the play was two hours long.”

  Mom didn’t know what to do at first. “We have an hour. What shall we do?” she asked. Me and Ali yelled at the same time.

  “Let’s go to Swan Park.”

  Mom laughed.

  “Well, it’s agreed then. Okay, let’s go.”

  Me and Ali pulled Mom by the hands so we’d get there faster.

  “What’s the hurry, kids?”

  We just got to the park when an auntie yelled.

  “What are you doing to that swan? You’ll kill the poor thing if you’re not careful.”

  We started running. Us and the auntie were the only ones looking. Nobody saw it but us. “Slow down, kids,” Mom shouted. “What’s going on?” Ali ran faster than me. Two men were holding a swan by the wings. The swan’s neck got longer and longer, and wriggled like a snake.

  —

  The only sound was the swan’s wings. Flap, flap, flap, just like the kite. I knew those men. They were the ones in Uncle Şeref’s van. They were yelling at each other.

  “Fold down its wings. Fold them under.”

  “This one’s like an ornery ostrich. Settle down, you bastard.”

  I was going up to them when I saw Uncle Şeref. He threw down his cigarette and ran over.

  “That’s enough! Stop torturing it. There’s a right way to do this. Let’s tell the vet to come and get it himself.”

  The two men smiled at Uncle Şeref just like that day.

  “Şeref Abi, I guess you lefties believe in equal rights for animals, too.”

  “Get going,” Şeref Abi said. He didn’t know me. They left the swan. It was just escaping into the water when one of the men yelled again.

  “You’re not going anywhere! I’m going to catch you if it’s the last thing I do. Nobody’s going to say I can’t even catch a giant chicken like you.”

  —

  One of the men runs and jumps on the swan. He grabs it by the tail. The swan sticks out its head. It opens its mouth, but I can’t hear anything. Ali’s pulling out his hair. His mouth is open, wide. But I can’t hear anything. Mom goes up to the auntie.

  “What are they trying to do?”

  “I’ve got no idea. They’ve been torturing that bird for half an hour at least.”

  I understand now. We have to save the swan. For Ali. So he can talk. So he won’t stand there with his mouth open, not talking. That’s why we have to save it.

  —

  They took the swan to the van. I couldn’t stop them. Ayşe was looking at me. But there was nothing I could do. My head started hurting again. Ayşe came up and held my hand.

  —

  “There’s another one over there, Ali,” I said. “See it? The little one. We’re going to save that one. Don’t cry, Ali. Come on, don’t cry.” Ali didn’t cry.

  —

  Mom is waiting in front of Gima. My head hurts. When Mom saw me, she understood. “What happened?” she asked. Ayşe’s mom started talking.

  “Aliye Hanım, I didn’t understand what they were doing, or why. They wanted to go to Swan Park. So we went there, but … something happened to Ali. He didn’t say anything, but … I wonder if he’s ill?”

  —

  “He’s fine,” Ali’s mom said. She pulled him close and covered his face with her hands. “Let’s go,” she said. They walked off fast. Auntie Aliye’s shoes are too big for her. Just like that man with the white shoes at the train station.

  —

  Everyone wanted to go to Çubuklu Reservoir, so the municipality took them in a bus, for free. Now the neighborhood’s empty. It’s so quiet. “It’s strange like this,” Mom says. “There’s not a soul around.” She held my hand. My head still hurts. I saw the swan’s to
ngue. That’s why. It stuck out its tongue, black and thin. But it didn’t make a sound, and now my head hurts. I can’t even play with my strings.

  —

  When we got home, Dad was in the hall. The front door was open and he was looking at something. Grandma was saying, “It must be one of Sevgi’s old friends. I can’t remember the name. Just throw the light bulb away. You don’t have to put it in its box.” When we stepped inside, Grandma squeezed her hands together and wrinkled her forehead. In a tiny voice, she said, “Look, Sevgi’s home.” Then she held my hand, real quick. Dad showed Mom the box. The light in the hall was burning. The old bulb was all covered with dust. “What’s this, Sevgi?” Dad asked. “Whose number is it?” Mom stumbled as she was taking off her shoes.

  —

  Mom was still putting the key in the hole when the door opened all by itself. “Oh no! I must have left the door open. Now that’s asking for trouble. Ali, you’re hungry. That’s why your head hurts. Once I make you some soup, you’ll be—Owww!”

  The man grabbed Mom by the hair. Another man grabbed my neck. They jumped out from behind the door. I could hear walkie-talkies. Mom was on her knees.

  “Don’t make a sound, you bitch!”

  “This is my house, you bastard!” Mom yelled. He punched her in the face.

  “Who are you calling a bastard, you fucking commie bitch!”

  Mom banged her head on the floor. I couldn’t hear anything.

  The man was yelling at me. But I couldn’t hear. There were three of them. When they yelled, their eyes and their mouths got close. But the only thing I heard was a whoosh in my ears. Mom was saying something, but I couldn’t hear her, either. The man hit her every time she tried to talk to me. Dad wasn’t there. They threw Ulduz and the Crows on the floor.

  —

  Mom looked at the lightbulb box. I pulled my hand out of Grandma’s. I don’t want to go to my room. I want to tell Mom that I didn’t tell Dad anything. “Sevgi, this number belongs to the Ankara Hotel. Do you know anyone there? Perhaps the man you met at the train station?”