I didn’t even feel like lamenting as I stared and stared at the ashes. There was a folk song … back in the village, Bercuhi would sing it. The only thing I can remember is: “Its rose inside a glass.” Poor Bercuhi was the only Armenian left, and nobody spoke her mother tongue. Hasan remembers that song, I’m sure, but he’d get cross if I asked him for the words now. “What on earth made you think of that at a time like this?” he’d say.
If only Ali would grow up fast and go to the university. I’ll give him his uncle’s green parka, still stained with blood. Now he doesn’t even have a photograph of his uncle. It burned up in the fire. All that’s left of Sait is a few drops of dried blood. I’m glad I hid the parka in the coal cellar. These youngsters can get their guns from the coal cellar, too, and do what they want with them. It’s different now. Death doesn’t mean anything. The newspapers don’t bother to list the names of the dead. Two revolutionary students were killed, three revolutionary teachers were murdered, five lawyers were slaughtered. I can understand their newspapers not writing any names, but our newspapers don’t do it either anymore! We Alevis raise our kids to be fearless; the front lines are full of them. And they’re the ones gunned down the most, too. My Ali is a weakly boy. He wouldn’t be able to take it. He needs to grow up quick. Him and that damn bowtie of his.
Ahooga!
“Aliye! Aliye!”
“Teslim, is that you? You scared me!”
“How do you like my new horn? If you’re on your way home, I can give you a ride. Don’t climb up this hill on foot. What’s the matter? Didn’t they let you return that bowtie?”
“No, that heartless bigot wouldn’t take it. Now where will I get the money to feed the young people coming over to build us a new house?”
“My brother’s getting married soon. Give me that thing and I’ll give you 100 lira.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Hand it over! Here, take this. I don’t need it. It’s only enough to buy a couple packs of cigarettes.”
“Here, take the bowtie. It’s a wedding gift from me. And put your money back in your pocket. There, I stuck it in your pocket myself.”
“Don’t worry about feeding everyone. Most of their families have plenty of money. They’ll get themselves something to eat. Besides, they’re revolutionaries.”
“I can’t do that. They’ll get weak and hungry. Drop me off here, would you? I’m going to stop by the corner grocer’s.”
“Sorry about trying to give you money….”
I can see I’ve hurt Teslim’s feeling. Two packs of cigarettes! Doesn’t he know we never talk about money?
Grocer Mustafa never manages to air out his store. It always smells sour from the open tins of sheep’s cheese.
“Come right in, sister. Welcome. I’m sorry about your house. I heard it burned down, but I haven’t had a chance to come and see you. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Hüseyin and his friends are going to come over and build a new house—”
“Shall I wrap up some bread and olives for you? Wait, I’ll send your groceries with my errand boy. Don’t wear yourself out. You’re going through a tough time as it is. You know what, sister? It’ll all work out for the best. Right? Don’t let it get you down. Your old toilet was out in the yard anyway. Now they’ll put one inside your house. You’ll have the fanciest toilet in the whole neighborhood!”
I couldn’t help laughing along with him. It did me good.
That song Bercuhi used to sing is still stuck in my head. Its rose inside a glass. Now what was the next line? Hasan would remember.
Meet My Dad, Hasan Akgün
“Is he breathing? Tell me, Hüseyin! Is he alive?”
As I shouted down into the bottom of the well to find out if my boy was alive, I felt something collapse in my chest. I’ve never been the same since.
“He’s breathing, Hasan! Ali! Don’t be scared. We’ll get you out of there. Keep pulling, Hasan. Keep pulling!”
The boy’s been all funny ever since that day. He was too scared to cry. If Aliye had found out that our son fell into the well, I swear she would have divorced me. She’d always said not to dig a well near the house, that the water would be dirty.
“Let’s not tell your mother about this. Okay, son? I’m begging you, too, Hüseyin. Don’t you go and tell her either.”
“Okay. Hey, hang on a second. Ali? Did you swallow too much water? Hasan, we need to make him throw up. Open your mouth, Ali. I’m going to stick my finger down your throat. Don’t be scared.”
The boy coughed up black water, but he still didn’t tell his mother anything. That was the day he changed. Ever since that day he doesn’t talk.
The other day, as I was serving tea in the office, I was listening to the story Aydın Bey was telling, not really paying attention. It’s funny how the mind works. I was thinking about how Ali was trapped in the bottom of the well while Aydın Bey was telling his story:
“The whole family feasted on that big jug of mulberry molasses all winter long. It was the sweetest molasses ever. So sweet that when it was almost gone they turned the jug upside down to get the last drops. And what did they find?”
He widened his eyes and waited for a second.
“A mouse, in the bottom of the jug!”
Everyone was completely grossed out. Aydın Bey was laughing.
“Just imagine. They’d been eating that molasses all winter long. What a story!”
Aydın Bey turned to me.
“Did you like that story, Hasan Efendi?”
So I took off my cap and sat down. That was the day after the house burned down, and I needed to sit down for a minute anyway.
“If your fascist boss isn’t around, I have a story to tell, too,” I said.
“He’s not around, Hasan Efendi. He’s gone off to the mosque with the other prayer bead swingers.”
“All right then … There are these mystics who go from village to village, kind of like wandering minstrels. Back where I’m from we called them çîrokvan. When they spend the night in someone’s house, they tell stories and recite poems. They say that the world doesn’t have a beginning, that the world has been here for all time. One day, one of them turned up in our village and stayed in the house of yours truly. One of his blue eyes was clouded and blind. I was still a little kid at the time. He scared me. My mother asked him to tell her fortune. She wanted to know if our sheep would have lots of lambs in the spring, and if she would give birth to another son. As if she needed another mouth to feed! We were dirt poor as it was. Mother kept asking questions, and the çîrokvan kept fixing his good eye on the ceiling. Last of all, he said, ‘Don’t drink the water from your well. Fill it in.’ We had a well out in our garden. It was such a blessing. Mother was spooked something terrible. The çîrokvan lowered his blue eye and said to Mother:
‘There’s a body in that well. They threw one of the Armenians driven out of Elaziz into that well. Don’t drink the water.’
My late mother lit candles and mourned for forty days next to that well. We’d been drinking its water for years. Ever since that day my mother would keep vomiting. The poor thing vomited herself to death. Her last words were, ‘The well, the well …’”
Everybody lit up a cigarette. The sun came out, and the cloud of smoke swirling in the room glowed gray. Aydın Bey offered me a cigarette. I wasn’t going to, but that’s when I told him what happened.
“They burned down our house, Aydın Bey.”
He asked me a lot of questions, whether the house was built of sun-dried bricks or concrete blocks, and then he started talking about how he’d just spent all his money on a light or a lamp or something.
“I’m not asking for money, Aydın Bey! I just wanted to tell you, as a friend. We’ll find a way out of this, thanks to our friends.”
I’d made Aydın Bey feel a little ashamed, and regretted it. Wanting to change the subject, I brought up politics. There’s always something to chew over in this country.<
br />
“How’s the court case against the labor union going, Aydın Bey? Do you think they’ll lose?”
Aydın Bey was still thinking about my house.
“You really shouldn’t have come to work today.”
“How could I not come? If I miss so much as a day of work, those right-wing bastards will fire me on the spot. I’m lucky I had friends who helped me get this job, but you wouldn’t believe the problems I’ve had because of the union. Have you heard about Alaaddin?”
“Alaaddin? Who’s that? Which department is he in?”
“He doesn’t work here. You know the State Milk Industry building over by Kızılay Square.”
“The nationalists have taken it over from what I’ve heard. Is that right?”
“That’s right, Aydın Bey. One of the nationalist leaders over there—I don’t know how they decide this—points out people they don’t like as they pass by the building. That bastard Alaaddin is in charge. He pointed to me the other day. I wouldn’t care if Ali wasn’t so young. And if his mother had a job.”
The other guys in the room were talking among themselves:
“I heard they’ve killed Gün Sazak. Things are going to get even messier.”
“How could things get any worse? They’re killing ten or fifteen revolutionaries every single day. Just yesterday they shot and killed a leftist municipal policeman and put a bullet through his twelve-year-old son’s head. Those damn right-wingers are murdering our young people every day of the week. How could things get any worse?”
Aydın Bey leaned closer and said:
“You were talking about how your wife doesn’t have a job.”
“She wants to work but …” I started saying, but I lost my train of thought.
“Aydın Bey, I don’t think we can hold back our kids anymore. Our Hüseyin …”
I stopped myself. I was about to say we needed more guns. I’d better watch my mouth, even among friends.
“Shall I bring some more tea? Does anyone want another tea?
As I walked off with a tray of dirty tea glasses, a song started running through my head. It’s funny how people’s minds work. What made me think of that old Armenian song at a time like this?
I can’t remember the first line of that song. I bet Aliye knows it, but if I asked her she’d say, “Why are you thinking about that song now of all times?” I hope the meeting and the engagement party go off without a hitch tonight.
UNIT 3
Early to Bed, Early to Rise
Early to Bed
LIBERATION NEIGHBORHOOD
“Samim, ask your Aydın Abi who he’s bringing to the house.”
We’re sitting on Samim Abi and Ayla Abla’s terrace. Everything is so nice. They don’t have any armchairs because they just moved and, of course, “When you’re in love you don’t need chairs.” That’s what they say. They both work at Turkish Radio & Television, but they call it TRT for short. Ayla Abla is going to introduce me to the kids from the radio show Children’s Garden. But right now everyone is talking about politics. On the floor below, “We’re Cheerful Kids” is playing in Jale Hanım’s apartment. Mom doesn’t like that song, but I do. Because I get bored sometimes when everyone is talking about politics.
Dad says, “Things are going to get much worse. The Gün Sazak murder was done for a reason.”
Samim Abi says, “You’re right, brother.”
Ayla Abla says, “And Parliament is paralyzed. How many rounds of voting have been held to choose a president?”
Mom says, “Nobody can even remember! Today, someone sent eight hundred cucumbers to Parliament. The CHP deputies distributed them in the general assembly. Not a single person refused to take one. They really are a bunch of cucumber heads.”
Samim Abi says, “The streets are terrible.”
Samim Abi always smiles, but when they talk about fascists he frowns and says nothing. I think Samim Abi is handsome, really handsome.
They’re all too busy to answer my question.
“Dad! Why does Jale Hanım call Russian salad American salad?”
Mom was cross with Dad for bringing a chandelier home from work. That’s because before he brought home a quilt “covered with big roses and branches.” That’s why she’s talking like this now.
“Samim, why don’t you ask Aydın who he’s planning to bring home. As if that bourgeois chandelier wasn’t bad enough.”
“Look here, Sevgi!”
When there are other people around, my mother and father keep smiling even when they’re mad at each other.
“I’ll tell them, Aydın. M’lord has decided we need a cleaning lady.”
“Mom! Why does Jale Hanım call Russian salad American salad?”
“Sevgi, like I told you, their house burned down. He won’t accept any money. Samim, I’m talking about our tea man at work. His house burned down. So I thought—”
Samim Abi laughed as he cut Dad off.
“You know what they say, Aydın Abi. The road to the petits-bourgeois is paved with decorative tiles. Do you remember what our old grocer used to say, Ayla? ‘It’s the petty part of the bored-was-he that you gotta watch out for.’ Still, I’m glad you got that chandelier. Now you can give us your old ceiling light as you abandon your comrades for middle class respectability!”
Ayla Abla loves Samim Abi because he’s really handsome and he makes everyone laugh when they talk about politics.
“Samim, the bottles are ready for you in the kitchen. You can heat up the alcohol now.”
Samim Abi picked me up. He’s so much fun.
“Come on, little miss! Let’s go make that vodka. Aydın, why don’t you join us?”
Dad likes coming over here, too. Here, Mom only acts like she’s angry, but she doesn’t get angry for real. And when Mom does get mad at Dad, he can always start talking to Samim Abi.
“Samim, what are you going to do with all this vodka?”
Ayla Abla pushes back her hair when she lights a cigarette. I think she’s beautiful. And she smells so different because she and Samim Abi kiss each other a lot. It’s a naughty smell, but it makes you smile. Samim Abi picks me up again. He smells like adventures, like wild horses.
“Samim Abi, why does Jale Hanım call Russian Salad—”
“Because, little miss Ayşe, they root for J.R. on Dallas!”
“Oh!”
“My, what big eyes you have when you open them wide like that.”
“Tell me, then, who do we root for on Dallas?”
“There’s never anyone on TV we can root for, Ayşe. But never mind all that! Come on, I’ll show you all kinds of abracadabra tricks in the kitchen.”
When Mom and Ayla Abla are out on the terrace and Dad and Samim Abi are in the kitchen, I always stand in the doorway of the kitchen. That way I can see everyone and never miss a thing. Right now, I’m listening to Dad and Samim Abi.
“… when the alcohol reaches the boiling point.”
“Aydın Abi, the Soviets put on an amazing opening ceremony for the Olympics. You’ll see. I did my own montage from all the footage that was cut.”
“You’re the king of the cutting room floor, Samim.”
“Have I told you about the censored footage from the Maraş Massacre? So much is never broadcast. TRT even burns some footage.”
“Samim, why haven’t you talked to your landlord about that locked room?”
When Mom and Ayla Abla sit across from each other, they cross their legs and lean across the table. They flick their cigarettes toward the ashtray, their hands like pigeons pecking at feed.
“Ayla, why don’t you open up that locked room of yours? Just tell your landlord that—”
When Ayla Abla gets asked a question, she plays with her hair and leans back:
“Why? What for?”
“Well, you might have a baby one day and need the spare room for a nursery. And it’s not like you have a huge apartment, even for just the two of you.”
“Hmmm …”
<
br /> “What’s in that room, anyway?”
“Oh, nothing. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about. You know the Captain’s Restaurant, in Çankaya…”
Mom sat up straight and took her elbows off the table. Ayla Abla kept talking.
“I thought I should tell you that a lot of people from TRT go there.”
Mom leaned on the table.
“It’s not what you think, Ayla. He’s an old friend. I—”
“I didn’t think anything of it.”
Now neither of them speaks. Ayla Abla bites her lip and finds a way to smile.
“This is no time to talk about babies, Sevgi Abla. Not with so much killing going on.”
Sometimes Mom doesn’t answer. She does it to Dad, too.
“Sevgi Abla, back in your time there was time to think, time to create. Now people are just trying to survive.”
Samim Abi came over to the doorway and patted me on the head.
“Sevgi, is my wife lecturing you about politics? Flee to the kitchen. Your husband is hopeless in there!”
Mom and Ayla Abla are smoking in the kitchen doorway now.
Samim Abi has a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He’s standing on a chair, and he looks even more handsome.
“Look, Ayşe. According to what I’ve learned from the Russian classics, the most important thing in vodka is the water. Oxygenated water is best. Do you know what I mean by that? Remember how when we go to Çubuk Reservoir the water spills down the dam? That’s how the water gets oxygen, how it breathes. So if we pour the water from a high place, like up on this chair, the water will breathe.”
The Time of Mute Swans Page 5
