“Don’t ask. Don’t even ask what’s happened. Ayşe, take Ali to your room … Never mind. They’ve seen it all. We’ve got nothing to hide. Samim came by this afternoon. In a big hurry. He looked such a fright. He dropped off a package. He said someone will pick it up. This was inside the package.”
Ayşe’s dad cursed when her grandma opened the lid. Ayşe went in between her mom’s legs. She looked at me from in there. When I looked at her, she ran over and sat next to me. She thinks everything will be okay if she holds my hand.
“Mother, did Samim say anything else? Who’s going to pick it up? When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nejla Hanım, concentrate. Are you certain he didn’t tell you? It’s important. Maybe we’d better ask the kids.”
“Do you think something like that would slip my mind? He said they’d be back. What’s going on, Sevgi? Or is Samim …”
We keep our eyes on Samim Abi and Ayla Abla’s house. They keep talking. But Ayşe grandmother forgot what I told her. They’re Hüseyin Abi’s guns. Nobody’s asking me.
“What shall we do, Aydın?”
“What can we do, Sevgi? Nothing. We’ll wait. We’re leaving tomorrow morning, and as long as somebody comes by then—”
“Well what if nobody comes? Should we still go to Ordu? Or should we wait?”
“Wait for what, Sevgi? Why did they go and get us mixed up in this? Think of the children!”
“Aydın, aren’t you concerned about them, at least?”
“What good is your concern doing you, Sevgi?”
They looked at each other. Then they came into the living room, went out on the balcony, and looked over at Samim Abi’s house. They turned their backs to me and Ayşe. On TV, a man was telling a bedtime story. Ayşe’s parents and her grandma were whispering to each other, little streams of words coming out of their mouths. They’d forgotten us.
I held tight to the lighter in my pocket. Hüseyin Abi forgot all about it. When someone forgets something and you see that they forgot, and you say nothing, that thing just stays there. Like it never belonged to that person in the first place. And they suddenly leave like nothing happened and it was never theirs. That nothing doesn’t make a sound. It waits there until it’s remembered. Then, if someone says, “Oh, I forgot it!” and comes back, the thing kind of comes back to life and cheers up. When Hüseyin Abi comes back, his Ibelo is going to come to life. It’ll be happy. For now, it’s waiting in my pocket.
Ayşe’s mom closed all the curtains. Tightly, without a gap. We can’t see Samim Abi’s house anymore. They went to their bedroom after that, whispering all the way. They didn’t look over at me and Ayşe. She got scared. Her mom and dad did, too. Her grandmother was already scared, because she’s old. They’re scared because nothing happened. They’re scared because they didn’t do anything. Because they didn’t yell. If they yelled, they wouldn’t be so scared. Ayşe got up and opened the curtain. She sat back down next to me. A movie started. The Mouse That Roared. It’s a funny move, I think, but me and Ayşe are watching the darkness. The balcony window is like a big TV. A broken TV that doesn’t show anything.
Before they went to bed, Ayşe’s mom and dad got the pot with the guns from the kitchen. They looked over where the phone is and in front of the door. They put the pot in a drawer. Then they pulled it out and took it to the kitchen. Ayşe’s grandma kept walking back and forth in front of me and Ayşe.
“Are you leaving early in the morning?” I asked Ayşe. She nodded her head “yes.” “Then when are we going to save the swans?” I asked. She shrugged. I didn’t ask anything else, because Ayşe was scared. If she thought about the swans, she wouldn’t get scared. You don’t get scared when you have a job to do. Hüseyin Abi’s coming back. That’s what Samim Abi said. Revolutionaries never lie. If they say they’re coming, they come. Ayşe’s grandma was standing right in front of us, by the balcony door, with a bunch of clothespins.
“Sevgi! I did some laundry, but in all the confusion I forgot to hang it up. It’s too late now, isn’t it?
From the bedroom, Ayşe’s mom said something.
“What did you say? I can’t hear you.”
That’s when it happened. Flap flap. Like the sound of a kite. A kite flying right past your ear.
“Surrender! Surrender!”
It all happened so slowly, heavy and slow. The light in Samim Abi’s house went on. Ayşe’s mom and dad came into the living room. Ayşe’s grandma stood in front of us with her clothespins. Samim Abi’s balcony door opened. Hüseyin Abi! Birgül Abla! Hüseyin Abi’s holding his Port-Said. Birgül Abla’s hair is wild. They both climbed up onto the railing. They stopped. Hüseyin Abi saw me. He lifted his gun into the air. Did he smile? Birgül Abla was next to him. She was looking at Hüseyin Abi, not me. She held his hand. Then … flap, flap, flap … Hüseyin Abi and Birgül Abla began to fly. Over to Ayşe’s balcony. Through the air. The curtain closed. The clothespin fell to the floor. Ayşe’s dad yelled, “Go to the bathroom! Go to the bathroom!”
It all got faster. Ayşe’s grandma was trying to gather up the clothespins.
“Mother, leave them there. Come to the bathroom!”
Ayşe started crying. But without making a sound. I was standing there. We both looked at her dad. He was yelling.
“Go to the bathroom! Go to the bathroom!”
We didn’t move. I took Ayşe’s hand.
“We have to save the swans tonight. Before Hüseyin Abi and Birgül Abla land.”
Ayşe opened her mouth wide. She shook her head. We looked at Ayşe’s dad.
“Quick! Go to the bathroom!”
I didn’t let go of Ayşe’s hand. We were both embarrassed. It was because of Ayşe’s dad. He was doing something bad, and we were embarrassed. Revolutionaries can fly, though. Ayşe’s dad doesn’t know that, of course. But for them to keep flying and for them not to get shot, we have to save the swans. Nobody knows that. Not Ayşe’s dad, or her mom, or her grandma. But Ayşe knows. I won’t let go of her hand. She cried without making a sound, that’s why.
UNIT 15
Civics
Solidarity
Soldiers go blind when they look at the light. That’s why we’re squatting under the glowing aquarium in the dark. Me and Ayşe, in the shadow of the light. Together, we’re wearing the parka, my right arm in my uncle’s right sleeve, Ayşe’s left arm in his left sleeve. Uncle Sait, a tent for us both. We’re inside him, and nobody can see us. From behind the wheelbarrow, we peek. Tramp, tramp is the sound the soldiers make as they get out of their jeeps. The fish gurgle as they swim around and around. The aquarium light hmmms and hmmms. Fish pass in front of the light, becoming shadows of themselves. A murmur and a soft clatter comes from the many windows of the many apartments. The people, like the fish, are gliding shadows. Curtains swish! open and swoosh shut. The fish press their eyes to the glass. The only sound now is the aquarium … hmmm … and the fish … gurgle, gurgle.
They won’t do anything if they catch us; I made Ayşe put on her white socks. But it’ll be terrible if they look inside Ayşe’s lunchbox. I thought she was scared, so why is she smiling?
—
It’s wonderful this, “the middle of the night.” This is my first time. If Ali hadn’t woken me up, I wouldn’t have seen it. I was asleep, or something like it. When he got me up, he made me wear my white socks. And I put on my overalls, too, because I’m strong in them. Then Ali got my lunchbox. Inside it was the rope and the chloroform. We have the sack and the parka, too, for going to the park. Ali hears everything, so we can’t make a peep. He listens in the hallway. “The sound of sleeping,” he says. I sniff the air. The house smells like sleep. “Shhh,” goes Ali when I whisper, “It smells blue.” He opens the door so slowly I think we’ll never go. We creep down the stairs. The wheelbarrow is waiting where Ali put it, in the entrance hall. It’s heavy at first, before it gets light. Walking makes it lighter. Ali talks normal now.
“I thoug
ht your mom and dad would never sleep.” He laughs, but a scary laugh. “They got scared, of course. They thought Hüseyin Abi and Birgül Abla fell to the ground. Then they couldn’t sleep.”
When we pass a streetlight, I see Ali’s cheeks, all red. Maybe he has a fever again; maybe everything is a dream to him. “This is a shortcut. It’s called Ahmetler Hill.” Ali thinks he’s grown-up because he knows the name of the street. He thinks Hüseyin Abi flew. Or maybe Ali thinks everything is a game. Even falling. And if you fall from the balcony, you die. That’s what Grandma said this one time when Dad was handing me to Samim Abi.
“You’ll end up dropping her, God forbid! One day she’ll fall to her death.”
But if I tell Ali that falling isn’t a game, he’ll get sick; his head will hurt; he won’t talk. What’s more, if I say that, I’ll be the same as Dad. Why did Dad close the curtains? Hüseyin Abi and Birgül Abla were going to jump onto our balcony, and they wouldn’t have fallen. Or does Dad think it’s all a game, too? Maybe I should pretend it’s a game. That’s what the soldiers are doing.
—
Maybe the revolution happened. But probably it didn’t, because the people in the windows are scared. They close the curtains when they see soldiers, open the windows when they don’t. When they look out, they get scared. Maybe they get scared when they don’t look out, too. When the fish pass in front of the light, become shadows of themselves, become dark, their colors are no more. Are they scared to go outside? Or are they scared to be inside? Ayşe leaned closer to me in the parka and whispered, “It’s wintery, isn’t it? Inside this parka, we’re playing the wintertime game.” Her voice is the wind in my ears, whoosh whooshing. I shiver. The soldiers clomp, clomp into line. Nobody talks. Nobody looks like Hüseyin Abi. No, the revolution didn’t happen. They’re not laughing; there are no big sisters. Something bad is happening. Something awful.
—
“Ayşe! Let’s go!”
Ali stood up all at once. He got mad at the wind noises I was making in his ear, I think. He doesn’t want to play that game. He wants to play real games.
“We have to go in the dark, Ayşe! A coup’s happening.”
There were soldiers—one, two three … ten of them—in front of the post office. The other ones got into a truck and left. Ten soldiers, frozen and still. Like a photo. Like everyone is watching. Like the national anthem is playing. The street is empty. Nobody’s out here! It’s funny, this “coup” thing, but the people in the windows aren’t smiling. They aren’t making a single sound. Nobody laughs at this “coup,” so it isn’t a funny thing. But it is exciting, I guess.
—
Since Ayşe’s a girl, we go real slow. I’d go fast with the boys from the Gardens, but they wouldn’t believe it, either. They’d make noise, sing anthems and things.
“Ali, if we go behind the light, they won’t see us, I’m sure of it.”
Ayşe’s smarter than them, because she’s a girl. If only I was stronger. We’d push the wheelbarrow up the hill faster then.
“Ali, we’ll be back before they wake up, won’t we? With the swan. Then we’ll all have breakfast together. Right?”
But because she’s a girl, she still thinks it’s all a game. Birds start singing. The sun will come up soon. It’s not possible to get the swan before that. If we get caught, Mom will be so sad.
“The littlest one, Ali, that’s the swan we should save. It’s worse for the little one. They haven’t operated on its wing yet.”
Yes, Ayşe is smart. The smartest girl of all. Two more birds start singing. They look down on us, two black shadows on top of the streetlight. Soon, it will be morning. Everyone will see the soldiers. Right now, everyone is at home, waiting for the sun. They’ll yell when the light comes. Soldiers probably won’t come to my neighborhood. There’s nothing there, not even a bus stop.
—
Ali’s not scared at all. I am, though. But only a little bit. In one window, I see a father, a mother, and a daughter. There’s a radio on the windowsill, and they’re standing around it. The mother’s in a nightgown, blue, and the father’s in pajamas. The girl’s pajamas are just like mine, I think. Her mother and father are sleepy. They’re both smoking, puffing white smoke into the blackness. Birds are chirping. I can’t hear the radio. If I were up there, in that apartment, I’d go to sleep. I wouldn’t be scared at all. If they catch us, though, they won’t take us to the police station. That’s what I think. They’ll say, “What a pity. They’re so little.” I cleaned Ali’s shoes before we left, so they won’t do anything to him, either. That’s what I think. More birds start chirping. They fly high in the sky over Ankara, so they know all there is to know. Two sparrows sit on a branch, not chirping, tiny and quiet. What a pity. They’re so little. “Get down! Get down!” Ali yells.
—
Me and Ayşe get down on the ground in front of an apartment building. We need to hide. Big brothers are handcuffed. They get in a jeep. Why don’t they say anything? Then a man comes. A watchman. I think it’s a place for students, a dorm. The watchman yells.
“Let them go! What have they ever done to you?”
A soldier with a flat hat gets out of the jeep. He hits the watchman with the handle of his rifle. The watchman spits. Is that blood? “Mind your fucking business!” the soldiers says, with a kick. “That’ll teach you!” The big brothers aren’t fighting back. Are they scared? Maybe they’re not revolutionaries, not real ones. So why do they have to get into the jeep? A dog comes up to us, quiet as can be, not a sound but its breathing. It’s wagging its tail. Ayşe gets scared.
—
The dog smells terrible. We’ll get rabies if it bites. Stray dogs have rabies, that’s what they say at school. Then you get a shot in the stomach, with a big needle. I hide in the parka. “Don’t be scared,” Ali says. “It’s a street dog. It wants to protect us.” But I say, “But what if it bites?” and Ali says, “Street dogs want to protect you.” The soldiers beat that man up bad. But the big brothers didn’t say or do anything. One after another, all in a line, the soldiers smack the big brothers. They do that with a ruler at school, too, smacking one hand after another, all in a row, and nobody ever says anything. I think the dog likes us, but he can’t come. They’ll hit it, too, if they catch us. The truck drives away fast. The wheelbarrow is light now, at the top of the hill. The sky is dark blue, such a nice color. So this is what they mean by “the wee hours.”
—
“The park is at the end of this street.”
We’re close now, but I’m a little tired. My face is hot, too, but I think it’ll pass before we get to the park. “Ali, we have to be extra careful now,” Ayşe says. “We’ll hide as we go, right?” More jeeps pass by, fast. If we get caught, Dad will get mad, mad that I took Ayşe along. And Mom will get sad. The dog leaves us on the corner of Tunalı Hilmi. It barks behind us. It’s not wagging its tail. “Come back,” it’s saying. “Don’t go. I can’t protect you.” Street dogs want people to protect, or they get scared. I’d be scared, too, if Ayşe weren’t here to protect.
—
We stop in front of shops and apartment building. Three times. We were getting ready to go again and another truck passed. So we stayed down on the ground in front of a pastry shop. There were big sisters in the truck. They were in the back, in the open, and they looked at us. They looked, but they couldn’t see us. They’re like a photo, too. Still, hands chained together. Hands wriggling, but not moving. They hold out their hands, but they can’t hold each other. The truck jumps and they fall. Down go all the big sisters, and they can’t get up again. Ali looks through the window. Maybe he wants a pastry, now, all at once. He forgets me. He doesn’t turn and look at the big sisters. A bug crawls up between my feet. A big, black bug. The truck lights turn its black back to purple. The truck drives away. The big sisters are gone. Ali comes and sits next to me. He looks at the bug.
—
Big sisters are in the bed of the jeep. I didn’t look, cou
ldn’t look. They’re scared, maybe. I mustn’t look. They’ll get embarrassed. They wouldn’t get so scared if they knew we were saving the swans. But now, in the truck, they don’t know who they are. Like they’re weak. Like they’re not revolutionaries. Vınnn goes the fridge in the glass box in the pastry shop. The pastry is nasty, all of it. When the jeep drives away and the buzzing stops, I go up to Ayşe. There’s a bug by her leg. It’s crossing a crack in the sidewalk and it gets turned onto its back. Its feet wriggle and it wants help. Ayşe looks at me. She gives the bug a little push. Back on its feet, it walks away. I think Ayşe can hear it when bugs scream. Just like me.
—
When all the jeeps and all the soldiers are gone, we run to the park. The wheelbarrow tips to one side, tips to the other side. It doesn’t fall over, because we’re inside the park. The big arms of the parka hold it straight, keep it steady. It’ll be terrible if we can’t save the swans. But if we do save them, Mom won’t get mad at me for running away in the middle of the night. Dad won’t get mad, either. And he won’t be scared. We’ll laugh, and Grandma will say, “My goodness, Ayşe!” We’re almost there. We see an uncle and an auntie. The uncle has a little suitcase and they’re running, running straight toward us. Running away from the park. The auntie can’t go very fast. She takes off her shoes. “Wait!” she says. “Run!” he says. “The car’s waiting. It’s our only chance.” Me and Ali stand there. They’re surprised, but they don’t stop. “Go home,” the uncle yells at us. “Children, at this time of day?” says the auntie. They look back at us, but they keep going. It’s kind of funny to watch the auntie run in bare feet. They’re scared, though. I don’t laugh. Then, out come the butterflies. Orange!
—
Ayşe laughed when she saw the woman and the man. The woman made a high sound, like a whistle. Like she had a dead bird inside. The man coughed and coughed. They’re running away. Escaping. Are they going far far away? To a place where Turkey can’t get them? But if they don’t get caught … I mean, if you’re playing “catch me if you can” and you don’t get caught, not even once, it feels like you never played the game, like you weren’t there. If nobody chases you, you disappear, like you aren’t even there. Ayşe pointed to some butterflies and went, “Orange!” But they’re not orange. She thinks all butterflies are orange, because they make her happy. Then they disappear, those butterflies. We got the butterflies into Parliament, and they got caught. If nobody caught them, and nobody saw them, nobody would know they got into Parliament. It’s weird.
The Time of Mute Swans Page 34