The Time of Mute Swans

by Ece Temelkuran

  “Sevgi Hanım, I need newspaper clippings on the ’78 Alevi Massacre in Maraş. Have them brought up from the archives. I also need to know how many times martial law has been extended since then. Have it added up and written out.”

  At first Mom just said she’d go down herself and do it. Then she got mad.

  “You’d think his majesty was ordering the butler to arrange a cup of tea! What’s the grammatical term for that, Nazlı? The causative verb?”

  Nazlı Abla is new so they call her an “intern.” Mom’s veins stand out on her neck when she gets mad.

  “Have it brought, have it sent, have it done! That’s how they order you to boss someone else around. It’s an Ottoman throwback, but it’s as widespread as ever in our republic today.”

  Mom is holding a big envelope. It’s yellow. She secretly took it out of her handbag, but I saw her. Then she put it back in and took it out again.

  Uncle Abdullah Bey has a bunch of bottles of honey under his desk. He keeps looking at them. I don’t talk to him because we don’t like him.

  Then one of the lady clerks comes in.

  “Sevgi Hanım, we’re all going to Youth Park on our lunch break. They say there’s a new fortune teller there. We’ll have our fortunes told. I don’t know if you’ve got any old nylons with you, but afterwards we’re going to that darner in Ulus who can fix runs and ladders.”

  After that, the director, Uncle Ali Rıza Bey, came in. We like him because he’s one of us.

  “Ladies, if you’re going to the marketplace in Ulus, could you stop by Rasim Kaygusuz’s office on the way and pick up Jinn Ali. I’d like to have the complete set in the archives.”

  Jinn Ali! I clapped my hands as Mom smiled.

  “Why’d you get that look on your face, Sevgi Hanım? Surely you agree that Jinn Ali should be in the national archives? Rasim Kaygusuz has created the most popular stick figure in the land. Do you know how many generations of children have learned to read by following Jinn Ali’s exploits at the circus and in the zoo? Right, Ayşe? Shall we get the whole set of Jinn Ali for our library?”

  “Let’s get it!” I said. Everyone laughed. Even Mom looked a little happy.

  “It’s perfect, and so Turkish. A stick figure hero for the kids of a country with no luxuries of any kind, even fully fleshed out storybook characters.”

  Uncle Abdullah Bey always looks at the floor when everyone else is laughing. He has a belly, but Uncle Ali Rıza Bey doesn’t, because he’s one of us. I think he’s funny.

  “Well, Rasim Kaygusuz did model his stick figure on the thousands of poor, skinny children he taught over the years. Can you imagine Jinn Ali with a belly?”

  He’s being funny again. I was trying to imagine a fat Jinn Ali when Muzaffer Abi came in. He always wears green trousers. And his mustache isn’t like Dad’s. It’s a thin line just above his lip. I think that’s why we don’t like him. I can tell Uncle Ali Rıza Bey doesn’t like him either. He always scolds Muzaffer Abi.

  “Ah, Muzaffer Bey. Come in. I wanted to have a word with you. How do you manage to get your finger on the microfilm of the newspapers you archive?! Why can’t you be more careful?”

  “It won’t happen again, sir. I’m sorry.”

  When Muzaffer Abi said that he kind of looked like Salim, the boy in our class who learned to read last. I saw the look on Mom’s face. She pitied him. That’s why she tried to sound nice.

  “It’s not a big deal, Ali Rıza Bey. What could be more natural than for an archivist to leave his mark on microfilm?”

  Uncle Ali Rıza Bey doesn’t show any pity. He reminds me a bit of the teacher in 1-B, the one who sometimes hits his students.

  “Muzaffer is the only one who can’t keep his finger out of the way.”

  When Muzaffer Abi left, Ali Rıza Bey said something to Mom in a quiet voice.

  “Your Muzaffer must be spending a lot of time on his prayer rug. The other day he asked why we didn’t have a copy of How to Perform Your Prayers in the archives. Are you okay, Sevgi Hanım? You haven’t been looking well for the past few days. How did it go when you took Ayşe to the doctor?”

  I never went to the doctor! Am I sick?

  When we were alone with Abdullah Bey and his jars of honey, Mom pulled out the envelope. She took my hand as we left the room.

  “Mom, am I sick?”

  “Ayşe, I’m going to take you down to the archives. We’ve got a little job to do. But don’t make any noise, daughter. Okay?”

  She called me “daughter.” That means we’re about to do something secret. Maybe we’ll have an adventure! I love the archives. Mom always says the same thing when we go into it: “It’s all here, Ayşe!”

  It’s huge with high shelves so they can fit everything in. Even Mom looks tiny standing next to them. Mom always talks in a quiet voice here, like there’s a sleeping monster and we mustn’t wake it up.

  “Ayşe, we’re storing everything that’s been published here so that when you and all the other children grow up you’ll find out what we did. So you remember. So you don’t forget.”

  I’ll tell Ali about the archives. He can’t come here!

  “Mom, isn’t not forgetting and remembering the same thing?”

  She looks surprised. It’s the look she gets when I ask a hard question.

  “Well … actually … they’re not the same. I’ll tell you later what I mean.”

  She reached down and grabbed my chin.

  “Let’s see what you’ll remember and what you won’t forget.”

  She let go of my chin. I start touching the books on the shelves. Books for grown-ups don’t smell like books for kids. They smell black. They smell serious. I can only read the names on their covers. Maybe Ali can read what’s inside them too.

  Ali is super smart when he’s reading. He’s a regular Jinn Ali! He gave me that ring made of cord. Well, I made the ring. But he still gave it to me.

  Now Mom’s over by Weekend … Hey, that’s the newspaper Jale Hanım reads. Mom’s sticking the yellow envelope back behind Weekend. But we don’t like Weekend, so why’s she putting it there? I can see another newspaper. Hürriyet. We don’t like that one, either. There it is! Cumhuriyet. That’s our newspaper. Or is Mom secretly reading Weekend too?

  Mom was going to open the envelope, but she changed her mind. There’s another envelope back there. I know that envelope! It was in our house, in Mom’s underwear drawer. I saw it there. So that means my mom brought it here. It was full of letters, but I couldn’t read the writing. They were in green ink. And there was a black stamp on each envelope: SCREENED. And Grandma looked at those letters too. She doesn’t know I saw her. I also heard what she said to Mom in the kitchen when they were frying vegetables:

  “They’re from that guy, Önder, aren’t they? The one who telephoned the other day. I saw them. Sevgi, don’t keep them here at home. Aydın mustn’t see them.”

  The metal door of the archive room slammed into the wall. Mom got scared.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Sevgi Hanım, it’s me, Muzaffer.”

  “Oh, so it was you, Muzaffer.”

  “Sevgi Hanım, I wanted to tell you something.”

  “I was just looking for some files from 1978. For the deputy.”

  “I wanted to thank you. For what you said to the director. For sticking up for me.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “Sevgi Hanım … I can’t express myself the way you do. But … I do write poetry, Sevgi Hanım.”

  “Of course, you do, Muzaffer Abi. Of course.”

  “Please hear me out. I liked it when I saw the outline of my finger on the microfilm that first time. It was …”

  Muzaffer Abi took off his glasses. It turns out he has huge eyes.

  “It was funny. I’d left an image of the person doing the archiving. Proof of my existence. I even thought to myself, perhaps, years from now, someone will look at my finger and laugh. Making people laugh is a virtue in God’s sight.”
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  “Well, as far as what’s in God’s sight, I can’t really claim—”

  “You performed a good deed for me just now, upstairs. We might be saying the same thing using different words. Mightn’t we?”

  “I’d rather we talk outside, Muzaffer. It’s not appropriate—”

  “Sevgi Hanım, we can’t talk outside. We all play a part outside, but here—”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “You do? 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—”

  “I see. I see.”

  “Don’t be alarmed, Sevgi Hanım. I’ve hidden things here too.”

  “Hidden things?”

  “You know, things that would be lost in the middle of all this fighting. Who knows, there may be others who have hidden things here. You can trust me, Sevgi Hanım. Believe me. You aren’t cut out for this war. Neither am I. Nobody is, actually.”

  That’s when I kicked Muzaffer Abi in the shin. How dare he scare my mom! She acted like she was angry with me, but I could tell she wasn’t.

  Mom took my hand and led me outside really fast. When we got to the parliamentary gardens, she lit a cigarette, her hands shaking. Then the orange butterflies came. Millions of them! People came out of the building for a closer look. There was a cloud of butterflies. A storm of butterflies, beating their wings against the walls of the Parliament.

  “Mom, the butterflies want to go inside!”

  “They can’t.” Mom sounded sad. When Uncle Abdullah Bey came out carrying a jar of honey, he jerked backwards. The jar fell out of his hand and broke.

  The aunties didn’t make it to the darner in Ulus. The one with glasses told Mom why.

  “We were unable to go, Sevgi Hanım. There was trouble in front of the State Milk Enterprises building, so we headed back. Just look at all these butterflies!”

  Another Auntie joined in.

  “Sevgi Hanım, you wouldn’t believe what we saw. Go on, someone tell her.”

  The aunties made their eyes big and talked over each other.

  “The municipal workers were trying to take a swan out of the park. They failed, of course. You should have seen how that swan resisted!”

  Then the one with glasses butted in.

  “Why would they want a swan, anyway? You’d think they had better things to do.”

  “Mom, they’re not going to hurt the swan, are they? Don’t let them hurt it.”

  The aunties had moved on to Dallas. Nobody answered me.

  “Mom, what did they do to the swan? Mom!”

  Muzaffer Abi came out into the garden. Mom looked at him and then looked away. He was trying to talk to Uncle Abdullah Bey, but Uncle Abdullah Bey was watching the pool of honey growing on the ground, and he didn’t listen. I’m sure I didn’t hurt Muzaffer Abi’s shin. My foot isn’t very big.

  On our way home, we got Ulduz and the Crows. Mom said it’s a story about a boy and a girl who rescue a baby crow. A tiny crow. I asked Mom something in the shared taxi.

  “Mom, are you ever scared, too?”

  “Who else is scared, Ayşe? You?”

  I didn’t tell her Dad was scared. He might not want her to know. I wish butterflies could get into Parliament. But they can’t.

  Ali Visits the Office

  “Jump in, Hasan!”

  “Şeref Abi? Is that you?”

  “Jump in!”

  Me and Dad are waiting for the bus. We left the office. I went there with Dad today because Mom was taking one of the neighbors to the doctor. But I was forbidden to leave the little kitchen where my dad makes tea. Ayşe’s dad works on a floor upstairs. I couldn’t let anyone see me, though. I sat in the kitchen without making a sound. After we left the office, Dad started reading Cumhuriyet while we waited for the bus. He read it aloud to me because nobody reads the newspaper alone. And because he gets mad when he reads the newspaper.

  “Civil servants are expected to sign a form pledging to work diligently, and without favoritism or discrimination. People are killing each other over politics and they think they can stop favoritism at the workplace by making civil servants sign a pledge? And they’re also passing new regulations to provide firearms to anyone who feels threatened at work. As if everyone didn’t have a gun already! It says here that the academic year was bloody. Just this year, three hundred ninety-five teachers and students have been killed. Turgut Özal, the undersecretary to the prime minister, is in Paris working out some kind of deal with the IMF. That beady-eyed Özal is up to something, just you wait and see. Ecevit, the leader of the Social Democrats, considers the socialist left to be too radical. He wants to exclude them. Well, what else is new? The trade union DİSK claims that the bourgeoisie is trying to foist a fascist dictatorship on the country. Foist? As if we haven’t been ruled under martial law most all our lives! Parliament keeps meeting to try and give the army more power. The garbage collectors’ strike is over and there are fourteen tons of garbage to be collected. Cats are being let loose in the train compartments to solve the rat infestation. They’re all crazy, the whole lot of them.”

  Dad didn’t see it, but I did. A group of men started marching down the street. They were chanting all together:

  “Ya Allah bismillah Allahu ekber!”

  Dad folded up the newspaper and stuck it inside his jacket. They’d better not see him reading Cumhuriyet!

  “Shit! It’s that fascist Alaaddin and his pack of dogs!”

  He took my hand, but there was nowhere to go. They were getting closer. The man leading them all pointed to my father. At that moment, a van stopped right in front of us.

  “Jump in, Hasan!”

  Dad knew the driver. It was Uncle Şeref.

  “Şeref Abi! Is that you? Talk about arriving in the nick of time!”

  Dad was surprised but happy. It’s good when something happens “in the nick of time.”

  Uncle Şeref didn’t look at us when we got in. Dad leaned forward and looked right at his face, but he didn’t look at us. That’s when Dad talked to me.

  “Look, Ali. It’s your Uncle Sait’s old comrade, Şeref. Let me get a good look at you, Şeref Abi!”

  Uncle Şeref was acting like he didn’t know us. There were two men in the back of the van. A van belonging to the municipality. Şeref Amca said a few words. But he still didn’t look at us.

  “We’re going to the park. We’re supposed to get one of the swans.”

  Dad looked a little hurt. One of the guys in the back tried to explain.

  “Şeref never talks. Don’t take is personally, brother. Just be glad we saved you from those fascists.”

  Uncle Şeref wasn’t listening. He’s older than the guys in the back, but they don’t call him “abi.” Dad gave them a dirty look. Uncle Şeref is tilting to one side, like he’s weak. Or maybe he’s tired. Dad grabbed his arm, like he was trying to wake him up. But Uncle Şeref kept driving without looking at Dad. Even so, Dad didn’t give up. He kept talking.

  “Şeref Abi, they said you’d gone to Istanbul and stayed there. So you came back?”

  “Yeah. I’m working for the municipality.”

  “Are you doing all right?”

  “I’m okay.”

  One of the guys in the back laughed.

  “Like I told you, he doesn’t talk much. Don’t waste your breath.”

  Dad looked at the guys in the back and bit the end of his mustache. Then he kept talking to Uncle Şeref.

  “How’s Istanbul? They say it’s even worse than here. Is that true?”

  “There’s a lot of bad blood … infighting.”

  Dad looked at Uncle Şeref’s shoes.

  “So, you’re still wearing those rubber galoshes. The strikes today aren’t like the old days, Şeref Abi. I remember the strike at the galosh factory. Then you and Sait went off to Istanbul.”

  Şeref Amca’s head sank so low it looked like it was going to touch the steering wheel.
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br />   “We had some good laughs back then. There was that time you and Sait were talking about Raziye Abla. It was the fourth or fifth month of the strike and you were thinking of agreeing to the boss’s terms. Raziye Abla—if I remember right, she was a widow with two kids—reached under her skirt and pulled off her long underwear. She told you to wear her underwear if you were going to settle with the boss. Sait cracked us up by saying, ‘Raziye Abla’s underwear with the pink roses had a more powerful effect on the working class than Lenin ever did!’”

  The less Şeref said the more Dad talked. Like he was a kid.

  “Do you remember that ironworker? Now what was his name? Remember how Sabri Ülker, the big industrialist, came and asked that ironworker to have a look at his industrial oven because the cookies were getting nice and crispy on top but the bottoms were still uncooked? And the ironworker—don’t you remember his name?—found a way to bake the biscuits standing on end, with the heating element on the side. Sabri Ülker gave him money even though he didn’t want any, and he donated the whole amount to the party. I remember how that guy said it was important that everyone found out that communists are the best workers. Was that guy an ironworker or a carpenter? Do you remember?”

  “Osman the Ironworker,” Uncle Şeref said. And that’s all he said. After that, Dad kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut. It was Uncle Şeref who broke the silence.

  “How’s Aliye doing?”

  “Our house burned down. We’re building a new one.”

  Uncle Şeref looked at Dad for the first time.

  “Sait’s parka?”

  “It didn’t burn up in the fire. Aliye wants to give it to Ali when he grows up. You remember that photo, though? The one of Sait wearing that parka? Burned to ashes. Aliye kept it on the wall right near her climbing rose. She kept moving that photo so it was always near a rosebud. Anyway, she was really upset when we lost it in the fire. Şeref Abi, have you got any other photos of Sait?”

  Şeref Amca rubbed his face, smiled, and pointed to his forehead.

  “They’re all in here.”

  Şeref Amca sat up straight. The guys in the back were talking about Bülent Ersoy.

  “Zeki Müren is still a man, but that Bülent Ersoy is a real queen.”