The Time of Mute Swans

by Ece Temelkuran

“Oh, all right then. Don’t be Bülent Ersoy. You can be … Cem Karaca!”

  —

  That boy doesn’t even want to play with me. I wish he’d go home. I knew I wouldn’t like him.

  “Want to look out at the police station? Sometimes they play games there.”

  —

  The girl scoots over to the window by the bed and puts her face up against the glass. They don’t play games at police stations. What’s she talking about?

  “Come here. You can’t see anything from way over there! You have to look from this spot. See! There they are. They put the big brothers and sisters inside. Then they try to get out. I throw them dried chickpeas. But we can’t do it right now. Nobody’s there today.”

  —

  Ali always looks like he’s about to cry. It makes you want to be nice to him. To make him laugh somehow.

  —

  “They’re not playing a game,” I told the girl. I think I scared her. She shuts up when she’s scared.

  —

  “Ayşe! Come into the living room for a while. Auntie Aliye is going to start her cleaning in your room.”

  What does he mean? They’re not playing games? What are they doing then? He’s just saying that because we can’t throw any chickpeas at the windows over there right now. Of course they play games. It’s a game!

  “Ayşe, I’m putting these pastries on the coffee table. You and Ali can help yourselves. Okay?”

  —

  She stopped talking. It’s so quiet. Oh! A shelf full of books. An encyclopedia set!

  —

  “Like I told you, they’re playing. You just don’t know it.”

  How could he know? He’s a boy. And I think he’s not very smart.

  —

  “Have you got The Wonderland of Knowledge?”

  “So what if we do? You can’t read tiny letters, can you?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Not the tiniest ones!”

  She put her hands on her hips. She looks like she wants to hit me.

  “Yes, I can.”

  “I’m talking about the really tiny ones. This big.”

  She’s holding the tip of her thumb and her finger together. Yes, she must be a little crazy.

  “Well then, let’s see you read! Here it is! The Wonderland of Knowledge. But give it back when you’re done. What shall we look at? What about—”

  “Ankara!”

  “Hey!”

  I took the encyclopedia out of her hand. She’s still talking. She never shuts up.

  “You know what? I was going to say ‘Ankara’ too. I swear it. Because … Because …”

  Now she’s talking like me. She keeps saying the same word. I wonder why she wants to look at Ankara. I know why I do. Because of Hüseyin Abi …

  —

  Mom and I stayed at Nuran Abla’s for two nights. Until Dad said, “Okay then, work. Aydın Bey needs a cleaner. You can go there.” Hüseyin Abi really laughed.

  “If at first you don’t succeed … Right, Aliye Abla?”

  It turned out that Hüseyin Abi was going to Liberation, too. That’s what he told Mom.

  “Let’s go together. I’ve got some business over there today. The local shared taxi takes that route. And you can learn how to get there in the future.”

  The people in the shared taxi were so tired. I kept looking at the prayer beads hanging from the driver’s wrist. They shook every time he changed gears. At first it was noisy. Music was playing and people were talking the whole way.

  “… can’t go the normal route. There’s a demonstration…. Are they still out on Sakarya Avenue? Those nine guys have been on strike for two years now…. No, Dikimevi Hospital isn’t in Hacettepe. But where is it, exactly? … That’s not why. They’re going to start building a metro. They’ll be digging for years…. Driver, I didn’t get my change!”

  I can’t look at my strings right now. Hüseyin Abi would ask me about them. I like being in a moving cab. I can look out the window. When I see the apartments for rich people, I feel like we’re in a different city. I’m looking at them now. I’m also looking at the graffiti saying, DOWN WITH FASCISM! and the posters of big brothers stuck on all the walls. Hüseyin Abi is holding a magazine called Gong. There’s a different magazine inside it, though. I saw it. It’s his real magazine. They better not see it. They better not see it. Hüseyin Abi starts clicking his Ibelo lighter again.

  “Ali, try to do a lot of reading this summer. You’ll forget how to read unless you practice. Okay, little lion? Ali, can you read the fine print, too?”

  I can’t read when the cab is shaking back and forth, but I don’t tell Hüseyin Abi. He’ll think I can’t read. I can’t tell him my stomach feels all funny.

  “Can you? Here, try to read this. But do it in a whisper. Just loud enough for me to hear. Read this part, the bit that’s underlined.”

  Hüseyin Abi stops clicking his lighter.

  “In this battle for surv—”

  “Survival. Right?”

  “… for survival, do whatever it takes to stay alive and always remember that there is no other path. Everyone must comp—”

  “Comprehend. Continue.”

  “Comprehend this reality, and act accordingly.”

  “That was great! You really do know how to read. Like I said, though, you need to keep reading a lot so you don’t forget how.”

  Hüseyin Abi puts his lighter in his pocket. The silver Ibelo. I try to understand what I just read.

  “But are we … are we …”

  “Yes, Ali?”

  “Are we fighting for our survival?”

  He pats me on the head and gives my shoulder a squeeze. He points, touching his fingertip to the window.

  “Look at that, Ali. They’re going to build a metro in Ankara. They’ve already started digging and they’ll dig deep down into the ground. What do you think is underneath Ankara, Ali? What do you think they’ll find when they clear away the earth and the stones?”

  I don’t know! Hüseyin Abi is getting a funny look in his eyes. He looks like how I feel when I’m having one of my dreams.

  “Ali, I think they’ll find a lot of things under Ankara. Like a clay pot belonging to the man and woman who reached this steppe thousands of years ago in search of food and shelter, interpreted the winds ushering in the spring rain as a fortuitous sign, and erected their tent poles. Or the jug of a Roman aristocrat who, having fallen into imperial disfavor, arrived on this steppe, threw up a couple of columns for appearance’s sake, and indulged in some wine as his throne was being toppled. Ali, did you know that Ankara is the first and only place where an Ottoman sultan was held captive? They’ll find the ashes of the opium Timur smoked to celebrate the capture of Sultan Yıldırım Beyazit.”

  Hüseyin Abi stares out the window. He’s talking to himself, not me.

  “And there are the shoes worn to tatters by youths stuck somewhere between the stars and the fly-covered cheeks of the kids back in their villages, the youths who trudge to university with dreams of becoming nuclear physicists. There are World War II bread ration coupons belonging to the scores of doctors and teachers and accountants who poured their hearts into poetry to save their country. The thousands of typewriters, mimeos, and lead types churning out essays on ‘How to Save the Homeland’ have mingled with the shells of pumpkin seeds cracked open during blue movies shown in the Yeni Maltepe Cinema. Ink pots and sealing wax, prayers written with reed pens and nibbing implements, and hidden away, amulets are jumbled in with plastic pen cases scrawled with ‘Revolution Is the Only Way.’ The T-squares snapped in street protests, the remains of barricades built of constitutional and administrative law books, the unsent letters written by provincials to cheer up the intellectuals gloomily contemplating the Bosphorus in Istanbul, the drumsticks of the band girls who marched in thousands of official parades, the mandolin picks that dropped to the ground as children from the Village Institute played Turkish tangos. Ankara comes from the word ánk
ura, the ancient Greek for ‘anchor.’ The anchor cast from a ship on an imaginary journey. And Ankara is also the city of King Midas, who knew that all kings had donkey ears and who feared wells because he believed they would shout out his secret. We shout out our own version of ‘the king has donkey ears,’ and as we run away from the police, falling from our pockets are telephone numbers, photos, fake ID cards…. It’s dangerous to dig too deep, Ali.”

  Hüseyin is back from his dream. He pats me on the head again. That’s when I ask him:

  “Are we fighting a war, Hüseyin Abi?”

  He gives me a weird look. Mom hasn’t been listening to us, but now she asks Hüseyin what business is taking him to Independence.

  “I’m meeting with someone.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s nothing important. It’s about the pieces.”

  “Hüseyin, the stuff in our coal cellar—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  Mom gives Hüseyin Abi a hard look. A long, hard look. He looks right back at her. They don’t say anything after that.

  —

  “I think Ankara is beautiful!”

  I get up on the end table and yell it really loud. Jale Hanım and the lady who comes to sell all kinds of cloth make me so cross! Why are they laughing at me?

  “Stop laughing!”

  When Grandma asked how much to pay the cleaning lady, Mom said she didn’t know. Dad didn’t know either, so we went to Jale Hanım’s house to ask her.

  “Jale Hanım, what’s the daily rate for a cleaning lady?”

  “Come on in, Nejla Hanım. The cloth peddler is here. I’m looking at things for Feride’s trousseau. You too, you crazy little munchkin!”

  Jale Hanım’s house smells like fruity chewing gum and giggles. Jale Hanım laughs all the time because she has really big, jiggly boobs. And when she walks in her high-heeled house slippers her bottom goes up and down and all around. That’s because she’s always laughing. Feride Abla has hair down to her waist. She always chews gum. Mom won’t let me chew gum because she doesn’t like the sound. She says the “popping and smacking” gets on her nerves. The hope chest is open. It smells like soap, like it’s saying, “Don’t touch me or I’ll get dirty.” I remember the cloth lady from before. She walks through the street with a big bag yelling, “Cloth! Linen! Lady’s clothes. The cloth peddler is here!” There’s always a lot of lace and cloth in her bag. Cloth peddlers always sit cross-legged on the floor. They can tell your fortune using beans and beads. Sometimes it scares me. There’s a shiny bead, or maybe a button, right in the middle of the beans, and the cloth peddler makes her eyes get really, really big while she’s looking at it and talking. She does it when she brings out her lace, too.

  “Jale Hanım, let me show you some petit point. Sister, you’ll love it. It’s just the thing for any bride. There’s a set of five, and the biggest one is the perfect size for the middle end table or the coffee table. I’ve got it in pink, too. Here, have a look. Touch it.”

  When the cloth peddler pulls out her lace the living room smells like roses.

  “Why don’t you have a look too, Auntie? I’ve got a beautiful memorial service coverlet right here. Look at that fine stitching. Silver embroidery. I’m letting it go for a song. This is the last one. The young ladies don’t appreciate workmanship. But then again, memorial services aren’t what they used to be. Do you know, there’s a group of young women who go from service to service, not taking any money, but saying all kinds of things in between prayers. They tell the other women that they’ll burn in hell if they don’t cover their heads. That retired teacher in the building opposite yours gave them such a tongue-lashing the other day! Anyway, why don’t you get something for the little miss? There won’t be any lacework this fine when she’s grown up. I always say it’s never too early to start putting together a trousseau. I’ve got a nice set of bed linen here, and I’ll throw in four pillow cases. Auntie, I’ll tell you what: I’ll let you have the bed skirt for free if you buy the set.”

  Jale Hanım keeps lace on her bookshelf. A whole set. Everything has to match. We don’t have any matching sets in my house. I like them, though. It’s like playing house. Jale Hanım’s got books on her bookshelves, too. There’s one called Prayer Hodja. The cover shows a girl doing her prayers on a carpet. Next to the Golden Plate recipe book is Our Reproductive Life, and next to that a Romance Series. Those books are about love, and Feride Abla reads them all the time. Jale Hanım and Feride save coupons, too, enough maybe to get a free holiday in Cyprus. “Moderno detergent is sending you to Cyprus!” On a shelf below the coupons is a set of coffee cups from Germany. They’re orange, but the edges are gold. Some of the cups lie sideways, and they smell like dust even though I can’t see any.

  “Nejla Hanım, the groom-to-be is from Istanbul, and I thought I’d bring his family something when we go to visit. What about this quilt? It looks tasteful to me.”

  Now Grandma’s asking something about Istanbul. Grandma is different when we go to Jale Hanım’s. She laughs different. I don’t like it.

  “Even the air and the water is something else in Istanbul, Jale Hanım. And it’s not all gray, like here in Ankara.”

  “But … but …”

  Nobody’s listening to me. When Grandma gets like this I feel lonely.

  “And you can see famous people walking down the street. There aren’t any stars in Ankara.”

  “But … but …”

  I look at Weekend when I get bored:

  Is Bülent Ersoy getting a boob job? In an exclusive interview conducted by phone, Ersoy said she will consider a sex change “when the time comes.” The famous singer plans to return from overseas with costumes that will “astonish” concert goers at the İzmir Fair.

  “Nejla Hanım, some of the plane trees in Istanbul are so tall you can’t see the top branches. They were planted back in Ottoman times. And the mulberry trees aren’t all stunted like in Ankara. They’re full of fruit.”

  “But … but …”

  Grandma has forgotten all about me. I think she’s forgotten about our house, too. She’s starting to look like Jale Hanım. That’s when I shout:

  “Ankara is beautiful!”

  I wish they wouldn’t laugh, though! Why do they keep laughing at me?

  I don’t like the way they laugh. When Dad laughs, it’s like he’s drinking water. Mom laughs like a flock of birds. Grandma normally laughs like a tray of pastry. Samim Abi laughs like racing horses. Ayla Abla laughs like little Heidi running down the mountain. But Jale Hanım laughs like a schoolmistress just slapped everyone’s hands with a ruler, except hers.

  Stop laughing!

  —

  The girl talks and talks. She won’t let me look at The Wonderland of Knowledge.

  “I think Ankara is beautiful. What about you?”

  If I don’t answer her, will she shut up? She doesn’t.

  “It’s like in 1001 Peaches, isn’t it? You know, when the tree grows up it belongs to the children, because even though the field isn’t theirs, they’re the ones who watered the tree and made it grow, so it belongs to them. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Ankara belongs to us because we love it. It’s better than Istanbul. Only rich people live there. Ankara is just like the peach tree, isn’t it? Ankara is ours.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you want to go out on the balcony and look at the street?”

  Now we’re leaning against the balcony railing.

  She puts her mouth next to my ear.

  “Do you want to be friends?”

  Hüseyin Abi! That’s Hüseyin Abi down there in the street. He’s running, looking right and left. He ran away. I can’t see him anymore. I couldn’t yell down to Hüseyin Abi. Come back, Hüseyin Abi! The girl’s still looking at me. Still talking.

  “Your hands smell like iron after you hold an iron railing. See?”

  I give her one of my strings. Maybe she’ll be quiet
. The list almost came out of my pocket. But it didn’t. I gave her the silver cord. It made her happy. She wrapped it around her finger to make a ring. Girls are weird.

  —

  Grandma made macaroni with meat sauce for lunch. I gave Ali the plate with the most macaroni. I need to explain again about the game at the police station. He didn’t understand.

  —

  She gave me the plate with the biggest portion. But I put some meat from the sauce on her plate when nobody was looking. It’s only fair.

  —

  When Jale Hanım opened her windows, music came out.

  “We are a pair of roses blooming on the same branch …”

  Ali knows some songs, but he won’t sing. He says he only knows “anthems.”

  —

  The girl looked a little sad when I took my silver cord back. Me and mom got out at Gima on our way home. They have meat there like in the TV shows. We got a little of it. And we got some chicken necks, too. Mom cried. She said it was because she’s happy. She made some money. I didn’t tell her I’d seen Hüseyin Abi from the balcony. He was running, maybe because he was scared. He tries hard to protect us. He loves us and he doesn’t want any of us to die. If I told that girl about Hüseyin Abi and our neighborhood, she wouldn’t understand. Her name is Ayşe.

  UNIT 5

  Our Friends the Animals

  Ayşe Visits Parliament

  “Sevgi Hanım … How should I put this? I’m not very good with words. Unlike you. But … I toss rose petals even to my enemies. I mean …”

  That’s what Muzaffer Abi said. His eyes tiny as fleas behind brownish glasses, and he’s a little scary. When Mom brings me to Parliament, I don’t like Abdullah Amca and Muzaffer Abi most of all. Not one bit. Their trousers are too short because they’re always washing their feet in the mosque courtyard before prayers. We don’t like them, and it makes me mad when Mom smiles at them. When we were down in the archives, I got so mad I kicked Muzaffer Abi in the shin. He was scaring Mom. I could tell.

  First, we were upstairs in the library. Then Mom yelled, “I’ll go down to the archive myself.” She did that because a “pompous” deputy from the Republican People’s Party came in and bossed her around.