The Time of Mute Swans

by Ece Temelkuran

  “Aliye Hanım, you can stay with us until you get a new house. We’ll take turns. Stop worrying. Let the kids finish their meeting…. It won’t take more than a few days to throw up some walls and a roof. Aliye, you should be grateful nothing happened to the children…. How did they know you weren’t at home? … What do you think? The bastards are always watching us from the opposite hill. Aliye Hanım, you didn’t have any valuables in the house, did you?”

  Mom looked up at the women. “There was the picture of my brother Sait. It’s the only one I had.”

  Hüseyin Abi is tall and he keeps looking over at the hill across from us as we walk.

  “Never mind, Ali! Don’t let those fascists see you looking sad. They’ll be watching us from the hilltop. They burned down your house, but we’ll get our revenge. Do you understand that they were getting even with us for capturing their hill last week? Well, what else could we do? It was the only way we could get water. We’ll decide what action to take at this meeting. And now that Gün Sazak’s been killed, they’ll really go wild. We’ll stand strong, and we won’t be intimidated. All right? Now cheer up. We’ll all stick together.”

  Dad is looking at the black ashes of the house. There are some socks in the ashes. The men clasp their hands behind their backs. That’s what grown-ups do. Dad doesn’t say anything, but the other uncles keep talking to him.

  “I’d never have expected it of Laz the Muslim. Turns out he’s not such a bad guy after all. He hauled out the fridge on his back, all by himself, didn’t he, Hasan Efendi? Good for him! He’s a real hero.”

  “We’ve got to teach those fascists a lesson, Hasan Efendi. Those bastards will burn all our houses down if we don’t do something. The boys will decide how to deal with them.”

  Hüseyin Abi looks at one of the girls passing by, watches her dancing and singing.

  Hüseyin Abi laughs.

  “They must be so fed up at having to sing and dance. It’s a good smokescreen for the fascists, but the police are going to realize something is up. I mean, who holds an engagement party at a burned down house? Right, Ali? Anyway, don’t worry. The police wouldn’t dare come here. They’re a bunch of boneheads. Boneheads! Come on, Ali. Laugh!”

  I never know when I’m supposed to laugh or not.

  “Ali, I’m going to tell you something important. I know the other kids make fun of you for not talking much. Don’t let them get you down. You’re smarter than them, you know that? You’ll be going to Technical University one day. Ali, pay attention when I’m— Shit!”

  The power came back on and the streetlights started burning. They could see us now. Mom stood up. The uncles and my dad started clapping their hands to the music. I pulled all my strings out of my pockets.

  My Name Is Ali Akgün

  “Ali, what will you do if they cut yours all crooked? Or snip it right off?”

  “Ali, you’ll end up like Bülent Ersoy.”

  Hamit started yelling at the other boys in the bed of the truck. But why is he trying to sound like a woman?

  “Poor little Ali swallowed his tongue again. That’s how scared he is.”

  They’re all laughing now. But like they’re crying, too. Everyone’s wearing the capes and the sashes and the fancy hats with the feathers that the municipality gave us. Hamit yells at Gökhan.

  “Gökhan! Your buddy’s scared.”

  “Get off him and leave him alone,” Gökhan says. That’s what Gökhan always does. Because he’s big and I’m skinny. He gives Hamit a shove. The truck bed is rocking, but Gökhan makes his way through the boys, comes up and throws his arm around my shoulder.

  “Ali, don’t cry! You hear me? Are you getting all weird again? They won’t cut off very much. Just the skin at the tip. Don’t cry, okay?”

  I’m not going to cry. It’s just that everyone is shouting so much. They’re probably thinking about the times their pee-pees got caught in their zippers. That’s why they’re talking so much and so loud.

  “Ali! If you’re scared, just think about going to the fun park afterwards. The mayor closed the park today just for us. There will be hundreds of boys, all the ones whose parents can’t pay to get their kids circumcised. They even have bumper cars!”

  The boys are all laughing and talking about their pee-pees. So is Gökhan, but then Hüseyin Abi sticks an 8-track into the player. He turns it up so loud! He always plays Cem Karaca.

  Here in prison everyone is full of advice.

  It’s so noisy. It’s happening again. The weirdness. Gökhan takes off his hat and pulls off some silver braid.

  “Here, take it.”

  I hold the braid between my fingers, hunching over it. I bring it right up to my face. I’ll hold it just so, between my two fingers, and stare at it. That’s what I’ll do. At least until it passes. The weirdness.

  “Ali! Don’t let them see you doing that. You know what they’re like.”

  I turn my head from side to side. I hold on to the string, tight. It helps me, makes it all stop. When I look at the string, I don’t see any of them. Everything is still. The string doesn’t move. Not unless I make it move. But when the others look at me, I put the braid into my pocket. Right away. I keep it in my pocket, along with all my other strings.

  “Ali, look at me. Look at me! Okay. That’s better. Are you listening to me? Was it the fascist boys down the hill who took your red car? If it was, tell me. You said Hüseyin Abi made it out of tin. Did he really? Or were you having one of your dreams again?”

  I shake my head. That’s all I do. I don’t need to speak.

  “Why didn’t you ever show your car to me? If it was a dream, just tell me.”

  I shake my head. That’s what I’m supposed to do.

  “Hüseyin Abi is nice to you, isn’t he?”

  I open my eyes and look at Gökhan. But I keep my mouth shut.

  “He’s a revolutionary, just like us. They captured the hill across from us the other day. Did you see Hüseyin Abi that day?

  Of course I saw him. I even helped Gökhan gather up the bullet casings. We can’t let the police find any casings, that’s what Hüseyin Abi said. They mustn’t see. They mustn’t see. We went to the stream that smells like shit and threw the casings into it. Gökhan always wants to talk about what we’ve done. I remember everything. Maybe my head will explode one day because I never forget anything.

  “What do you mean you want water? Are you an Alevi? What’s your name?”

  I don’t say a word. I don’t talk to fascists.

  “Speak up. Are you a rightist or a leftist?”

  I don’t say a word. I don’t talk to fascists or the police.

  “Leave him alone. He’s a retard. He can’t even talk, the Alevi bastard.”

  How am I supposed to know if they are fascists or not? It’s better not to talk. Ever.

  “We beat this kid up the other day. He was too stupid to yell. We took his toy car, but we let him keep his string.”

  They’re making fun of me, because they’re fascists. When I grabbed the string, it cut my hand. It even bled. That string’s in my pocket now.

  I never forget anything.

  “Children, forget all about your old teacher. I’ll be your new teacher from now on. Your former teacher was involved in anarchistic activities and is now gone. He was a terrorist. I understand he distributed some subversive materials in the classroom. Please hand in everything he gave you.”

  I’m not giving her The Paul Street Boys. I haven’t even finished reading it yet! And besides, Teacher Ruşen had a mustache just like Hüseyin Abi’s.

  “Children, at our special year-end show we’re going to do ballroom dancing. Now what are we going to do?”

  “Ballroom dancing!”

  I kept my mouth shut. The only ones shouting were those from the other neighborhood.

  “Now, I want all the boys to tell their mothers that they’ll need white shirts, black trousers and a bowtie.”

  A bowtie? Is that something fascists we
ar?

  “What is that? That’s a terrorist symbol, isn’t it?”

  The new teacher with the shiny red lips pulled my eraser so hard that the string dug into the back of my neck. Gökhan was the one who made an eraser with a fist and a star on it. It was his eraser, not mine. But I didn’t say anything. The teacher might be a fascist. I don’t have any money to get a new eraser. All I have is the string the eraser was hanging from. I put the string in my pocket.

  I will never forget.

  “Where will we get a bowtie?”

  How would I know?

  “How much does a bowtie cost?”

  How would I know?

  “We haven’t got any money, son. Your father gave half of his wages to the union. We’ll find a way. We’ll get one. We still haven’t got you shoelaces, but we’ll find a way to get a bowtie. Here, take this and use it to tie your shoes.”

  The string is short. Way too short. I put it in my pocket.

  I can’t forget. My head’s going to blow up. I wonder if the boys in the back of the truck ever feel that way? Maybe they do, but they feel better when they talk. Maybe that’s how they forget. That’s why everyone talks so fast all the time. Sometimes, when Mom says something is wrong with me and they should take me to a doctor, when she is really, really upset, I try hard to make long sentences and to finish them fast.

  “I’ve got so many things in my head, Mom. I feel better when I read, when I look through the encyclopedia. I don’t just look at the pictures. I read the whole page. Don’t tell my teacher, though. She doesn’t like me. She likes the boys from the other neighborhood and she doesn’t like Teacher Ruşen. He would let me run the flag up the pole and hold the string. He would teach me the words to folk songs. The red-lipped teacher wouldn’t like Hüseyin Abi either. She makes us sing: Walk the path of honor, the path of victory. Awaiting you is the dawn. She doesn’t like us because we live in Rambling Gardens. Hüseyin Abi lives in the Gardens, too, but he’s going to be a civil engineer. Mom! Do you know what that is? It says in the encyclopedia that it’s ‘the branch of engineering concerned with the design and construction of such public works as dams and bridges.’ Civil engineers know how to make little red cars, too. But the fascist boys stand guard at the fountain and beat up anyone who comes with a water container. And they steal our cars, too. That’s because we’re proletarians: ‘a social class comprising those who do manual labor or work for wages.’ Fascists hate proletarians. Fascism is ‘a political theory advocating an authoritarian hierarchical government.’ Fascists make fun of boys scared of getting circumcised. Mom, don’t worry about me. Workers of the world unite! When the revolution comes, my strings won’t get mixed up anymore.”

  When I do that, talk fast and long, sometimes my mother looks scared. She gives me a bunch of string. I stop talking and I stare at the string. When I don’t talk, Mom gets sad. But when I do talk, she gets scared.

  The truck is rocking back and forth, the music is loud, and Gökhan won’t stop talking.

  “You know, that day when Hüseyin Abi and the others planted a flag with a star and fist on the top of the hill. Remember how he shouted? What was he shouting?”

  I say it to the silver braid in my hand.

  “Workers of the world unite!”

  “What? Speak up.”

  “Workers of the world unite!”

  I shout it out. The music stopped. Everyone is looking at me. Gökhan yells at the other boys.

  “Didn’t you guys hear that slogan? Say it again!”

  “Workers of the world unite!”

  Slogans should be said three times.

  “Workers of the world unite!”

  I hold tight to the silver braid. Gökhan slaps me on the back.

  “Good one, Ali. You made everyone say it!”

  Then everyone starts laughing. Their hats get all crooked from laughing so hard. Their capes get wrinkled. They make so much noise I hold my strings tighter, the ones in my pocket too.

  Meet My Mom, Aliye Akgün

  “Is he breathing? Doctor, is my baby boy breathing?”

  If only the doctor cruel as a gendarme hadn’t slapped him so hard, maybe he wouldn’t have turned out that way. Oh, the way that doctor smacked my little lamb on his bottom, the way he jerked and shook the poor little thing. Nobody’s lifted a finger against Ali since that day, the day he was born. And Hasan wouldn’t dare hit him, not with me around!

  Ah, Hasan. Ah. He told me the shantytown would have a view of the presidential palace in Çankaya. Ah! Way back when we were married, I should have come right out and asked him why he thought that mattered. Did he think we’d get our water from the president’s well?

  “Let’s have another baby,” he says now. “One child isn’t enough.” Does he think our children will grow up playing in the president’s garden? I mean, when has the state ever done right by us? It’s true we were barely making ends meet in the village, but here they’re trying to kill us. We nearly got burnt alive. We lost everything we had … everything except for that damn bowtie! The whole house burned down, but not that bowtie. Why couldn’t the shopkeeper have let me return it? Would his shop have gone under if I had got my 100 lira back? No! But he knew what I was. If I hadn’t been there at the same time as those two women in their showy head scarves, maybe he’d have taken it back. But he’d figured me out. So no way!

  “Peace be with you, Hadji. Have you got any red nylon thread?”

  “Have a blessed day, Hadji. I wanted to ask you something, too. Have you got any 50-weight ivory thread for lacemaking? Fifty-weight would be about right for that cushion cover, wouldn’t it, girl?”

  “Peace be upon you, ladies. Let me check and see if I have any.”

  “Hadji, you wouldn’t believe how hot it is out there. And to go without water in this heat!”

  “Hadji, it’s those shameless anarchists who are to blame. Well, when the mayor is a closet communist you can expect water cuts and power cuts.”

  “Isn’t it the truth, sisters? They keep collecting the neighborhood kids to take them to those anarchistic theaters. Instead of putting on plays for children, why don’t they collect the garbage? The stink and the filth is everywhere. And they call this the capital city!”

  “Some play about peaches, probably? Like anyone would want to see that!”

  “Ma’am, what are you using the red thread for? I’ve got all different sizes.”

  “Well, Hadji, we’re signing up for a contest for housewives. I’m going to make a heart-shaped cushion, in red. Just give me whatever’s cheapest.”

  “Speaking of red, have you heard the news? They torched the house of one of those communist Alevi families living up in the Gardens. The whole house went up in flames!”

  “Those people have got bombs and rifles and even submachine guns. May they burn, may their houses crash down on their heads.”

  The bearded shopkeeper in the prayer cap turned his attention away from the two head-scarved women and gave me such a dirty look!

  “Yes? What do you want?”

  I’ve got a bare head and I wear baggy pants under my skirt. He’d figured me out.

  As I pulled the bowtie out of my handbag the two women looked me up and down. They’d figured me out, too. They don’t know much, but they know an Alevi when they see one. If only I hadn’t needed to return that damn bowtie! It’s all that teacher’s fault!

  “No, something hand-sewn or fashioned out of ribbon won’t do. The students must wear matching costumes. That’s how it’s done. If you’re unable to get Ali a real bowtie, I’m afraid I’ll have to pull him out of the dance performance.”

  And then that teacher with the yellow hair got all high and mighty. That cruel woman was threatening my boy’s pride! She’s the daughter of an army officer, she says, and wanted a position in the shantytown so she could do good, and the children here all have dry, peeling hands, so she’ll get them lotion, and they should eat more fruit and get more protein or they’ll grow up retard
ed. Oh, the way she looked at me when she said the word “retarded.” I couldn’t ask her if she was mocking us, or what good all that protein had done her. And then there was the way she said I needed to take my boy to the doctor. Supposedly in a whisper, but everyone heard her. Everyone! I know she’s the type to report young revolutionaries, but I’ll still try to be the bigger person. What would she do if she saw her name written on the wall: FASCIST TEACHER NALAN, GET OUT OF OUR NEIGHBORHOOD! She’d run around saying, “They’re trying to kill me!” Her officer of a father wouldn’t be able to help her then. This is our neighborhood!

  The shopkeeper hadn’t yet had a chance to open his mouth when one of the women said, “Look, the edge is scorched”—as if it were any of her business. But I held my tongue. Then the other woman whispered: “That’s what they wear at their Alevi candle rituals.” That’s when the shopkeeper snickered and I said:

  “You know an awful lot, lady!”

  I don’t know why, but that’s what came out. I said it again, without meaning to:

  “You know an awful lot.”

  Then the words came rushing out:

  “All our problems come from bigots like you. Here’s something else you don’t know. Well, listen and learn. This is called a bowtie. A bowtie! It’s what modern people wear!”

  The shopkeeper started shouting.

  “No talking politics in my shop! Move along, lady. It’s burned anyway. I won’t take it back. Get going! Godspeed!”

  I’d surprised myself and felt a little embarrassed. I stepped outside. Why on earth was I sticking up for bowties, anyway? You’d think I wore one myself. I felt like laughing, or crying, and put it down to nerves from all that had happened since yesterday.

  We stared at the ashes of the house. The flames had finally died out. The neighbors kept yelling and screaming. Something inside me was gone. When my beloved little brother, my Sait, was tortured to death in prison, the same thing happened. But the first time it happened was long ago, when I was still little, and the gendarmes took my father away. I don’t know if it’s the heart trying to protect itself, or what, but when someone goes, when someone dies, when the house burns down, even, it can feel like nothing has happened. My heart doesn’t ache. I’m not crushed. I just feel empty. Now it’s happened again. It’s as though I never had that house. If you asked me where the kitchen used to be, or asked me when my father brought me a bobby pin from the city, or asked me how much I laughed when he flapped his arms and crowed as he gave me a rooster-shaped lollipop, or asked me what my brother’s voice was like, what his hands were like: I don’t know if I’d be able to answer. My memory’s been wiped clean. My heart’s full of holes. Empty. And I don’t even know if another hole has opened up now. I don’t even wonder if all the things that have flown from my mind ever existed in the first place.