—
Ali can’t see the orange butterflies, I think. He believes Hüseyin Abi and Birgül Abla can fly, but he doesn’t believe in orange butterflies. They got between the books, and the big ones got between the big books. And they made marks there. Orange ones. Later, when they look at the archive, they’ll say, “Ayşe and Ali brought butterflies in here.” They’ll know, because when they touch the books they’ll get orange dust on their hands, the dust of butterfly wings. And they’ll laugh and say, “What clever kids, that Ayşe and Ali are. Nobody’s as brave as them.”
—
We left the wheelbarrow in the tall grass. Ayşe lay the parka inside it. “To make it nice and warm,” she said. If we make noise, they’ll catch us. I can see jeeps, not so far away. Up ahead. They don’t see us, but they can hear us, maybe. If they do hear us, soldiers will come running and they’ll yell, “What are you doing here!” Really loud. My head will hurt, and I won’t be able to do a thing. Maybe Ayşe will yell, “He’s with me! Let him go!” But then they’ll take away Ayşe. They won’t care if her socks are white. Don’t be scared, Hüseyin Abi. I’m going to do it. I’m almost there.
—
Ali’s going to hold the chloroform cotton to the swan’s nose. Then I’ll put the swan in the wheelbarrow. It’s a little swan, so we can get it in there. And then we’ll take the same streets home. I think it’ll be easy. Ali’s a hero. He’s sneaking up on the sleeping swan, slowly, like a cat. Ali goes for the little swan’s beak. It lifts its head. The other swans wake up. They all look at us. The little swan sways its head, back and forth. But Ali’s holding its beak. And he’s holding the cotton to its nose.
—
The little swan didn’t make a sound. Even when we were tying its legs together. The other swans looked at us. Then they looked over at the soldiers, at the jeeps. But not a sound. These swans don’t have voices, but that’s not the reason they’re quiet now. It’s because they know who we are. They get up on their feet, but they don’t walk away. They just stand there, looking. One eye on the soldiers, the other eye on us. The little swan falls asleep right away.
—
Ali opens the swan’s wings. “This is the one,” he says. “It has the nicest wings.” I don’t think they did an operation. It’s still so little. And then, the swan seems to get longer and longer. Like a roll of dough. Soft and white. But it kind of stretches and falls apart when you pick it up. Long and sad. We get it in the sack. Me and Ali each hold one side of the sack, and we slip it under and around the sleeping swan. Its head goes inside, too. “Will it be able to breathe?” I ask. “Yes.” Ali said. He knows everything, because he reads the encyclopedia. We open the sack and look at the swan’s head. Beautiful. All white. With an orange beak and black marks around its eyes. “Snow White,” I say. “These swans don’t make any sounds,” Ali says. “Only when they die—” Rat tat tat!
—
The sun’s almost ready to come up. A man is running, down into the park. Holding a gun. “Freeze!” a soldier shouts. Just once. Then, rat tat tat! The man’s on the ground. His face is looking at us. But not his eyes. He didn’t have time to close his eyes. Me and Ayşe sit in the tall grass. Ants walk by our feet. They didn’t hear any of it. They’re still in line, walking. Some go into a hole, some come out. They walk and walk. Clank! goes a shop shutter. The grocer doesn’t look at the man. The grocer doesn’t look at the soldiers. He looks at the key in his hand. The key goes into the hole. The door opens. Is he deaf?
—
The man looked at us when he fell. I didn’t look at him. I’m mad at the ants. I step on their hill. I close their hole. “Don’t,” Ali says. I stop doing it. We’re going home. We’ll give the swan some lettuce. We’ll have breakfast with the swan. Maybe Mom will spread the Şokella all the way to the edges, again.
—
People look out at us from windows. We look at them. Nobody says anything. Nobody makes a sound when they see us. I look back. Do they see something we don’t? There’s nothing there. Why is everyone so quiet? Smoke starts puffing out of chimneys. In the summertime? All the chimneys are smoking.
—
There are uncles in pajamas out on the street. They walk real close to the walls, hiding. Like they’re playing hide-and-seek on the way to the bakery. Then they run home with their bread. It’s a bread game, but a serious game. They have to get their bread as fast as they can, so they don’t really look at us. The swan is sleeping, nice and quiet. We’ll wrap it in a blanket when we get home. We’ll give it water. We turn into our street and see Mom and Dad. Mom’s been crying. Dad’s face is dark. They don’t shout when they see us. Nobody shouts, “Ayşe!” Dad runs up to us. We were going to run to him, too, but we stop. Dad is so, so mad. Mom claps her hand over her mouth, so she doesn’t make any noise. We stand between our building and Samim Abi’s. They’ll be happy soon, but they don’t know it, not yet. There’s a lot of film in front of Samim Abi’s building. The film for the projector, a mountain of it. His secret film.
—
Ayşe’s dad is running up to hit us. It’s okay. We have the swan. The sun has come up. The colors have come back. Red is back, too, there on the ground. There, where Hüseyin Abi and Birgül Abla went flying. So, there was some blood. It’s okay. It’s okay. When Ayşe’s dad picks her up and runs away, I push the wheelbarrow all by myself. Ayşe’s mom cries when I push it inside the building. She hugs Ayşe. Nobody hugs me. It’s okay. “Darling!” yells Ayşe’s mom, making the doors open one by one. The doors of the neighbors all listening to the same thing on the radio.
A door opens:
“Parliament and the government …”
That door closes and another one opens.
“… dissolved.”
That one closes and another one opens.
“Across Turkey …”
It closes and another one opens.
“… martial law …”
And again.
“… declared …”
The last door closes. No more doors open.
UNIT 16
Cleanliness Is Next to Godliness
Let’s Keep Our Environment Clean
“Ayşe! Ali! Stop it. The only reason the poor thing’s scurrying around like that is because you two are. Oh dear! And there’s been a coup d’état. Sit down and keep still, children!”
The swan wanted to run because it opened its wings. It ran in the hallway first. Now it’s running in the living room. We’re trying to catch it. Mom and Dad are smoking and listening to the news on the radio. But there’s music, not news.
“It’s rearing up again, oh my
The gray horse of the column leader …”
The more that song plays the more the swan opens its wings. Grandma’s so mad at us. She’s smoking a cigarette now, too.
“My dear girl, it’s nearly one o’clock, time for the news to begin. The pashas will appear on the television any minute now. Ayşe! Leave that bird alone. Sevgi, do something! Why are you listening to Ottoman marching music at a time like this?”
The man on the radio has a nice, deep voice. It makes the swan want to run more and more.
“… it looks as if
We are off to do battle!”
Mom didn’t answer Grandma, but she did turn on the TV.
“Aydın, could you turn off the radio, dear? The generals are about to take center stage.”
Mom called Dad “dear”!
—
Ayşe’s mom and dad are still in pajamas, in the middle of the day. They stayed by the little radio the whole time. Over by the window. The radio keeps talking about what’s happening out in the streets, but they never look out the window. They only look at the radio. Even when it plays folk songs. Like they’re waiting for the radio to tell them what to do. The swan sat in the hallway at first. It didn’t move. Then it started running all over. Me and Ayşe gave it some lettuce before it walked and walked. Grandma said to shut it in the bathroom, but they coul
dn’t because Ayşe was going to cry. Then it ran round and round the coffee table in the middle. When Ayşe’s mom turned on the TV, the swan got in front of it. Ayşe’s mom and dad are watching TV. We’re behind them. There’s a general, holding pieces of paper. He’s reading, not talking. You’re not supposed to do that. Nobody listens when you read from the paper. And he doesn’t say “the people.” He says “citizens.” That’s wrong, too!
“… as we have all witnessed in recent months, the Republic of Turkey, which was entrusted to us by the Great Atatürk, and which is a nation whose state and citizens are united, has been subjected to treacherous attacks—both mental and physical—at the instigation of foreign and domestic enemies that target its existence, its regime, and its independence …”
—
When Dad opened the sack this morning and saw the swan, he said, “What the hell have you done?”—but he wasn’t that mad, I think, because they were scared we were dead—and that’s when Ali whispered in my ear, “You tell them.” I looked at Mom. She was crying hard. Dad had red eyes. Grandma had muslin wrapped around her head and was sleeping on the sofa because her “blood pressure spiked.” I said, “We saved the swan to make you happy.” I said it in a tiny voice, so maybe they didn’t hear. Dad yelled, “What?” I said it again.
“We saved the swan so that we win and you’re happy.”
That’s when that song started playing.
Off on campaign we go, oh my
Oh, from campaign to campaign!
“We saved the swan so that we win and you’re happy.”
That’s when the swan first got to its feet. It walked and walked. The song played again and again, and it kept walking. But now the news is on and the swan has finally stopped. It went in front of Mom and Dad, though. When it opens its wings, all you can see is the general’s hat. He’s the chief of staff, the one we saw at the concert. The one who wanted to hurt the swans! But the swan’s in front of him now, so only his hat is talking. And the swan can see him, but he can’t see it. Now that’s funny!
“… in order to protect national integrity, unity and solidarity; prevent a probable civil war pitting brother against brother; restore the authority and the functionality of the state …”
—
Ayşe’s laughing, but why? The general doesn’t say anything about swans. If he knows we saved one, that’s why he doesn’t say anything. He’s mad. We saved the swan, so it didn’t happen exactly like he wanted. The swan spreads its wings with a flap flap flap, making that kite sound. The swan knows, too, that the general’s a bad man. That’s why it’s making fun of him. The swan’s a lion!
“Parliament and the government have been dissolved. The legislative immunity of members of Parliament has been removed. Martial law has gone into effect across the country. Travel to destinations outside of Turkey has been banned …”
—
The swan starts flapping its wings even more. Mom and Dad are trying to see the general. They stick their heads to one side, then to the other side. But they can’t see a thing.
“Aydın, could you grab that swan!”
“Why do I have to grab it? Why don’t you?
“How am I supposed to grab it? It’s huge.”
“I’m not doing it.”
I laughed at that. Mom and Dad are being funny. They looked at me. The general was still talking, but we could hardly hear him over the sound of the swan’s wings.
“A nationwide curfew has been declared.”
Mom and Dad laughed a lot. They forgot to smoke their cigarettes, their ashes got long and they kept fake fighting like kids.
“Oh, come on. I can’t. You do it.”
“Go on. Give it a try.”
Grandma kept saying, “Goodness gracious!” again and again. Then she started laughing, too. I’m glad we saved the swan. Home smells like börek again.
—
Ayşe and her family were all laughing when the general got off the TV. Then we heard something like the call to prayer. Her grandma stopped and listened. As she listened, it got quieter everywhere. I could even hear the samovar boiling in the kitchen. It was rattling, and the man was shouting, going quiet, shouting, going quiet. Ayşe’s grandma made her eyes big, like the bogeyman was really coming this time.
“He’s reciting the sala. Someone must have died.”
She stopped, and got sad.
“To die on a day like this. All alone. What a pity.”
Ayşe’s mom and dad looked at her. Her grandma held up her hands.
“There’s a curfew. That’s why I said that.”
—
Mom and Dad are laughing because they can’t help it. Because they haven’t talked since morning, they can’t stop laughing once they start. They’re laughing to themselves, in secret. “My nerves are shot,” Mom said. Dad went over to the window.
“Sevgi, come and see this. Jale Hanım’s hanging a flag on the balcony. She’s as cheery as a child on the last day of school.”
The phone rang. Dad was rushing to it when the swan ran in front of him.
“Stay right there, sonny. Or missy. Or whatever you are. I can’t believe this! But it is kind of funny, waddling around like that. Hello? Hello? They hung up.”
—
We’re all in a row looking at Ayşe’s dad. Even the swan. “Hello? Hello? They hung up.” When Ayşe’s dad hung up the phone, the swan opened its wings. Ayşe yelled.
“Dad, let’s call Uncle Selahattin. Tell him me and Ali saved a swan.”
When Ayşe yelled, they got quiet. They looked at us both. They looked at the swan. Ayşe’s mom sounded a little mad, but she was pretending.
“We’ll discuss the swan later, Ayşe.”
The swan ran ahead, and me and Ayşe followed it. We stopped in the hallway. The swan is used to us now. I think it likes Ayşe more. Only because she’s a girl, though.
Ayşe’s mom and dad are talking in the living room.
“Sevgi, what are we going to do with that bird?”
“How do I know? Shall we ask Selahattin Abi about it? He does have a bird shop. He’ll probably know what to do.”
“Today of all days, just after a coup happened?”
“There’s something far more urgent…. Have you noticed all the smoke? The whole neighborhood’s been lighting their water heaters. What shall we do?”
“We’ll have to light ours, too.”
“And the guns?”
“How do I know, Sevgi? I’m thinking.”
“Okay, dear.”
—
That’s the second time Mom called Dad “dear.” I heard her. They’ve turned into the mothers and fathers on TV. It’s because they have a different enemy now. The generals came, that’s why. And because they’re scared. It makes me happy. But Ali is sad. He heard Mom and Dad, too.
“Sevgi, this boy’s turned out to be a bit of a bother. We don’t even know which hospital Aliye Hanım is at.”
“They won’t be able to come now. And if they don’t come tomorrow—”
“He probably doesn’t have any other relatives in Ankara.”
“That’s why they left him with us.”
—
If Mom and Dad came, I’d say, “It was us who saved the swan.” And I’d say, “Don’t be sad, Mom. Hüseyin Abi and Birgül Abla flew away.” Ayşe’s dad saw us and came up. He patted my head.
“Your parents won’t be able to come today, Ali. They’ll come tomorrow. Right, Sevgi?”
—
Mom came up and cuddled Ali’s head. “Ali! You have a fever again. When did that happen? Aydın, we’d better put him to bed. He’s burning up.”
The phone rang.
“Hello? Dad? The hospital! When? Who took you? You’re not alone, then? We’re fine, Dad. No, tomorrow at the earliest. How can we? There’s been a coup. There’s a curfew. A coup, Dad! Please, Dad. Don’t. Okay, we’ll be there tomorrow.”
Dad hung up and turned to Mom. “He says he’s dying and we
have to come at once. What shall we do?” One of Mom’s hands is on Ali’s forehead and the other is on my forehead. She’s pushing back my hair. She doesn’t know she’s doing it, but I wish she would always do it. If I say, “Keep doing that, Mom,” she’ll say, “Doing what?” and take her hand away. But if I don’t say anything, she’ll forget to do it again.
“Aydın, we’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning. There’s no helping it.”
“You’re right. Is Ali’s fever really that bad?”
—
I need to sleep. When my head hurts and I’m burning up, I need to sleep. A lot. If I don’t sleep, it all gets mixed up. Real things and dream things. If I don’t sleep, it all becomes a dream. But will Ayşe’s parents throw out the swan while I’m sleeping?
“Sevgi, we’ve got to figure out what to do with this swan.”
“Leave it alone for now. We’ll come up with something later.”
“We could always wring its neck. Then we could make some swan soup. What do you say, Miss Ayşe? Master Ali?”
“Aydın, please. Don’t tease them like that.”
I fell. Right on the ground. Just flowed to the ground like water. My eyes closed. The last thing I saw was Ayşe.
—
Ali fainted like those ladies in movies. The swan flapped its wings. Grandma made some vinegar water for Ali. We stayed by his bed. When the towel soaked with vinegar water slid off his feet, I put it back. The swan stayed, too. It didn’t flap its wings when Ali was asleep. The phone rang again. Dad put his hands on his hips while Mom was talking. When she hung up, he asked lots of questions.
“Who was that?”
The Time of Mute Swans Page 35