The Time of Mute Swans

by Ece Temelkuran

  “Don’t worry about it, Nejla Hanım. My apprentice will clean it up. Let me splash some of my cologne on your hand. I made it just today. It’s tobacco-scented.”

  The pharmacist wiped Nejla Hanım’s hand with a cloth.

  Ayşe’s still looking at me.

  “How?”

  “I’ll tell you. Later.”

  “Cavit Bey, your cologne is so wonderfully fragrant,” Ayşe’s grandma says.

  —

  We left the pharmacy to go to the museum. It’s being renovated, so we sit in the garden. Grandma keeps looking at her hand. She’s even happier than she was this morning. She keeps humming to herself. Ali and I chase each other around the rosebushes. Then he picked a daisy. I took it from him. But he gave it to me.

  —

  In the shared taxi, Ayşe put the daisy in her buttonhole. That’s what her grandmother told her to do. The taxi stopped near Liberation Park. It couldn’t go any farther because there was fighting. Nejla Hanım was shaking, and Ayşe got scared too. “They’re playing games,” Nejla said to Ayşe. “Like I always tell you, they’re playing games.” Ayşe looked at me instead of listening to her grandmother. How could I tell her it wasn’t a game?

  —

  Grandma got all sweaty.

  “Children! Don’t be scared. We’ll cross the park. Come along. Stay together!”

  She took Ali’s hand and my hand. It was so exciting. It was like we were rescuing Grandma, because she couldn’t run as fast as us. We pulled her along. Ali pulled harder than me.

  Men were shouting: “You’ll pay for the İnciraltı Massacre!”

  The other men didn’t shout. They had big guns. Rat-a-tat! “This way!” Ali said. Grandma listened to him. We ran along the edge of the park until we reached the street to our apartment.

  —

  I need to protect them. They don’t understand. Even when we were safe, Nejla Hanım’s hands kept shaking. She got a cigarette out of her handbag, but she couldn’t light the match. We sat on the stairs in front of the apartment, with Ayşe’s grandma in the middle. I lit a match for her. Grandma puffed and puffed behind a big cloud of smoke. Her hair was messed up. Ayşe fixed her hair, then sat down next to me. “You’re really smart,” she said to me. Later, I’ll tell Hüseyin Abi what I did today. It isn’t a game!

  —

  When we got home, me and Ali looked up the swans in the Wonderland of Knowledge. There were pictures of the swans in Swan Park. They’re called “mute” swans, and they can’t make any sounds. Poor things. I can’t wait for Ali to tell me how to get the butterflies into Parliament. He’s so smart. Grandma asked Ali’s mother if he could stay overnight at our place on Saturday and go to the concert Sunday morning. Auntie Aliye looked at the cloth she was holding in her hand and said, “Okay.”

  UNIT 7

  Moral Values

  Industriousness

  When night came, Hüseyin Abi went onto the rooftop of Gökhan’s house with beautiful Birgül Abla. I was going to ask him about the swans. And I wanted to know if it would be opportunist to get mulberry leaves from the police station. But I couldn’t ask him anything. He’s on duty tonight. He sounded sad when he was talking to my mom.

  “Aliye Abla, something’s happened to our neighborhood. People aren’t as willing to volunteer for guard duty. Have you noticed that, Hasan Abi?”

  When my dad and my mom said nothing, he turned to Birgül and said, “Come on, you and I will stand guard tonight.”

  “Hüseyin, that’s not right,” Mom said. She raised her eyebrows at Birgül. “You’ve got to sort something out. It’s time you two got married. There’s talk in the neighborhood.”

  I followed Hüseyin and Birgül. They couldn’t see me in the dark. They hung their rifles over their shoulders and went up onto the rooftop. I followed them a little way up the stairs, but stopped and sat on a step. I can hear them talking, and when I poke my head up, I can see their hands cupped around their cigarettes.

  “You’ve lost weight, Birgül. Are you on a diet?”

  “I’ve been fighting and running around every bit as much as you, Hüseyin. Could that be why?”

  “You get mad so easily! Anyway, we need to discuss something. It’s important.”

  “Go on, Hüseyin.”

  “Birgül, these are—”

  “Troubled times. That’s what you were going to say. Weren’t you, Hüseyin?”

  “Birgül, soon we’re going to be living under a fascist dictatorship. That much is obvious. And it’ll happen sooner rather than later. Our central committee is talking about registering as a political party and running an independent candidate in Ankara or Adana. As if they’d ever let any of us into Parliament! They’re as naïve as little Ali and his talk of getting butterflies into Parliament. I’m worried our leadership isn’t up to the task anymore. The rank and file wants more. The people are expecting a revolution, and our leaders are busy calculating how many deputies to run. We’re letting the people down. We’re not recruiting enough members. There’s so much to do, Birgül. Funds are needed for the striking miners in Yeni Çeltek, so we have to start raising money from the tea kitchen at the Chamber of Architects. Then rush off to Çorum after the attacks on the Alevi there so it won’t turn into another Maraş Massacre. When I get back, we’ll organize a strike among bread sector workers. We need to protect leading writers and intellectuals, and that means arranging pairs of bodyguards for dozens of people. Revolutionary high schoolers are getting beaten up in Gazi, so we have to go there. Fighting has broken out in Cebeci, and we’ve got to pitch in there, too. Sleepless night after sleepless night. Writing up manifesto after manifesto. Ammo’s arriving from the Aegean hidden in crates of mandarin oranges, so somebody has to go and organize wholesalers at the market hall. We’re collecting cartons of cigarettes from the state monopoly workers and recruiting vendors to sell them on the black market. We’re sending a shipment of weapons to revolutionary teachers in central Anatolia, and we’ve persuaded Yeni Karamürsel to donate boots to our cadre in Kars. It’s impossible to keep up, Birgül. It’s like a pool of water is collecting, and it’s growing much bigger than we ever expected, and we have no idea where it’s going to flow or how to stop it. We’re trying to create a new country out of nothing, but the only thing our leadership can focus on right now is the elections. Will the people be satisfied with seating a couple of deputies? After all we’ve gone through? We were promised a revolution! We were promised paradise on earth! Birgül … I’m going to Çorum tomorrow. Perhaps never to return.”

  Birgül Abla stood up.

  “Hüseyin, weren’t you going to ask me something?”

  Hüseyin Abi stood up, too.

  “I wanted to ask … if you’ll marry me.”

  They heard me hiccup. I was caught.

  “Come here!” Hüseyin said. “You can be our witness. I just proposed to Birgül.”

  Hüseyin Abi was smiling. He hugged me, pulling me tight against his leg. But his fingernails dug into my cheek. He was too excited to notice.

  “So, what’s your answer, Birgül?”

  The next morning, Mom said, “Why put it off? Let’s hold the ceremony right away.” When Hüseyin Abi came home with a ring in the afternoon, they got married in our garden. They put two rifles on the wedding table. Hüseyin Abi thought it was funny. He laughed when he was talking to my mom.

  “Well why not, Aliye Abla? We need to swear on something, and our rifles are as good as anything. This is a revolutionary wedding, after all.”

  Hüseyin Abi laughed a lot. Birgül Abla turned pink that day.

  Then Hüseyin Abi went to Çorum. Perhaps never to return.

  When the aunties came to their lesson that night, one of them said Birgül should have a henna party. Birgül Abla got even pinker. The women began singing folk songs to her.

  “Bring the henna, Mother. Dip in your finger, Mother.

  From afar he comes, his kisses hot and sweaty.”

  Birgül wa
s smiling, but she turned to my mom and said, “It doesn’t feel right. We don’t know what will happen to Hüseyin in Çorum, yet here we are—”

  “My girl,” Mom said, “you’re one of us now. Listen to me. You’re married now. You’ve got a man. Live it up. Every moment, every touch.”

  The aunties danced in a circle around beautiful Birgül Abla. None of them studied their ABCs that night.

  Hüseyin Abi is too busy now to help me with the butterflies. I’ll do it myself. That’s what revolutionaries do. They take action. I know that because I’m a revolutionary too.

  Philanthropy

  I knew I shouldn’t kick him. Girls, especially, shouldn’t kick. His name was Önder. I knew that name. I never forget. Mom’s voice tinkled like a cymbal when she was talking to him. It made me mad that Mom sounded so happy. But he was handsome. When Uncle Önder put his hands on his hips, the collar of his shirt opened wide. The hair on his chest was shining in the sunlight. That’s why Mom was so happy. I could tell. And I didn’t like it one bit.

  Mom had taken me to Parliament again that day. She was giving me “a tour.”

  “Ayşe, this is the general assembly hall. The deputies debate weighty matters here in this hall. Or so they claim!”

  There’s a strong smell. Like the seats of a bus or a teacher’s big wooden desk.

  “Listen, Ayşe, Ecevit is about to address the assembly.”

  We used to love Ecevit for being a social democrat. Now we don’t really like him. He didn’t keep his promises, or something bad like that. When Ecevit begins speaking in the hall, the men with fat bellies laugh at him and the skinny men keep clapping.

  “Çorum is not the first massacre to occur, nor will it be the last unless your government embraces a new approach. The number of so-called ‘liberated’ provinces has increased from twenty to forty. These provinces are under the control of the paramilitary organization calling itself the Grey Wolves. The mass murders committed by this organization, which enjoys the protection of the government, are spreading across the country. The governing coalition is being held hostage by its junior partner, a fringe party.”

  Men in dark suits started shouting at Ecevit.

  “The Nationalist Action Party is not a fringe party! The real fringe party is the party that gets its marching orders from Moscow.”

  I can see Demirel. He’s laughing. Ecevit gets mad at him.

  “The prime minister is laughing when he should be hanging his head in shame!”

  Mom points to a different man not far from us.

  “Do you see that tall uncle right there, Ayşe? He’s a writer. Your father and I like him a lot.”

  The writer is talking to the woman next to him. We move a little closer.

  “It’s all a diabolical game. The massacres, the murders … They’ll do anything to foist economic liberalization and the Decisions of January 24 on us. So much death and destruction just so we abandon Keynesian policy for Friedman’s monetarism.”

  I didn’t understand a word the tall uncle said, but Mom kept nodding her head, so it must have been true.

  Next, we visited Muzaffer Abi in what they call the “microfilm department.” Mom gave Muzaffer Abi a book by Nazım Hikmet. He’s our greatest poet. That’s what Mom says.

  “I think you’ll enjoy this, Muzaffer. It’s an old edition published in Bulgaria. My favorite line is—”

  “Sevgi Hanım, I’ve read Nazım. Of course, I did it in secret…. As you know, my circle doesn’t think much of him.”

  “This, right here, is my favorite line.”

  Muzaffer Abi read it aloud.

  “In the people we trust.”

  Mom’s been acting strange all day. She’s even smiling at Muzaffer Abi as she talks to him.

  “It’s a simple sentiment and it doesn’t rhyme.”

  “In real life, there’s no rhyme or reason when it comes to believing in people, is there, Sevgi Hanım?”

  “Beautifully put, Muzaffer. And like you said before, any number of people might be hiding a lot of things somewhere in this Parliament building.”

  They both laughed.

  “You know what, Sevgi Hanım? I think you’re right. I think we should believe in people.”

  “But believing in people can lead to even greater disappointment than believing in God. Wouldn’t you agree, Muzaffer?”

  Mom laughed, but Muzaffer didn’t. We left.

  Mom’s spreading some glue on a run in her stocking, secretly, with her leg under her desk where nobody can see.

  “Mom, what’s an opportunist?”

  “Where did you learn that word?”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Well … It’s someone who thinks only about herself and what’s best for her. Someone who believes the end always justifies the means. It means you’ll do anything to get what you want.”

  “It’s a bad thing to say about someone, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is. Was it Ali who taught you that word?”

  I start kicking at my mom’s desk, little kicks with the tip of my shoe. I don’t want to answer her. Maybe she’ll get mad at Ali.

  “What other words has Ali taught you?”

  “Mom, are we rich?”

  “Oh dear! No, we’re not at all rich. What made you ask that?”

  “Ali gave me a daisy. And he can read small letters.”

  “Hmmm! You don’t say. What else can he do?”

  I better not tell her about the butterflies. Ali’s my friend, and I don’t want to be a snitch.

  “You’re very fond of Ali, aren’t you?”

  I ran away, escaping into the other room where aunties sit at their desks. Mom followed me. The aunties were laughing and gossiping, like always.

  “And that song, ‘Petrol.’ It’s Arab music, and we made such fools of ourselves singing it at Eurovision. Even so, they still play it everywhere.”

  “Never mind that. Have you heard the latest about Bülent Ersoy? The crowd started chanting, ‘Bülent’s a spinster!’ while he—or she, or whatever it is—was singing up on stage. He started crying and drank two glasses of rakı, right on the stage.”

  “The whole thing was staged! It’s not funny anymore. If our country’s going down the drain, it’s because of this kind of indecency!”

  I was playing with the auntie’s paper puncher when Mom came in. They acted like my class does when the teacher comes in. Everybody stopped talking.

  Then my mom took me to Sakarya Avenue. She said she needed to meet with an old friend. And she promised to get me a hot dog. A hot dog!

  That’s when Uncle Önder came. I think my dad’s mustache is bigger than his. I’m sure of it!

  They drank beer. It was a hot day, so the outside of mom’s glass kept getting wet and she kept wiping it with a napkin, until there was a pile of soggy napkins on the table. They didn’t talk much. Uncle Önder gave Mom a big yellow envelope.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me what’s in these envelopes, Önder?”

  “Look inside if you want to know.”

  “If it’s anything about me—”

  “What? Of course not, Sevgi. You didn’t think it was full of our correspondence, did you?”

  Mom is giving the leg of the table little kicks, just like me. She can’t run away, though. She goes quiet. He starts talking about politics. That’s what grown-ups do when they don’t know what to say.

  “Have you heard what Demirel just said? That bastard of a prime minister said we should be worried about the leftists in Fatsa, not the fascists in Çorum. They’re cutting down leftists in Çorum, but he couldn’t care less. The columnists at Tercüman and Hürriyet seem hell, bent on provoking people. They claim the revolutionaries are trying to set up a state within a state in Fatsa, that they’ve set up checkpoints and won’t let anybody into the city. The state will be targeting Fatsa next, that much is clear.”

  Mom kept wiping her glass, so Uncle Önder kept talking.

  “I don’t know
if you’ve been following the news. The chairman of the joint chiefs of staff has extended his tour again. He’s been traveling around the country for weeks now. He was just in Çorum, and he’ll be visiting Fatsa. It’s obvious what he’s up to. The army is inspecting conditions on the ground before they stage a coup. They got the green light from America. There’s going to be a coup.”

  Mom turns to me and says, “Ayşe, shall we order some fried lamb’s brains?” She’s not really looking at me, though. So I don’t answer.

  “Önder, shall we order some fried lamb’s brains?”

  Uncle Önder waves to a waiter, and that’s when the blue veins come out on his arm. Mom’s looking at his arm too.

  Önder keeps talking about “the working class” and “labor unions” and “the Decisions of January 24,” but Mom isn’t really listening to him. Finally, she puts down her glass of beer and speaks.

  “Önder, say whatever it is you have to say— Just a moment.”

  Why is she looking at me like that? I didn’t do anything!

  “Ayşe, look over there. There’s a little girl about your age. Why don’t you go and play with her?”

  I shake my head. No! Mom doesn’t want me to sit with her and Uncle Önder. The only reason I get up and go is that I’m mad. I don’t even talk to that girl. She’s just a baby.

  I can see Mom moving her hands in the air and talking, talking. Uncle Önder rubs his face. Mom leans back and crosses her arms. He leans back and chews on his mustache. Mom waves to me. I go back to the table. We’re about to leave, but Uncle Önder grabs my mom by the arm. She stares at him, like she stares at my dad when she’s mad. He lets go. I was going to kick him, but I knew I shouldn’t.

  “Sevgi, you and I happened back before all of this madness. Back when life had meaning. Maybe that’s what I miss. Maybe—”

  “Önder. This isn’t a good time.”

  Mom didn’t talk to me at all the whole time we were walking. I asked her if we could go to Uncle Selahattin’s shop and she said no. So I said, “But I went with you to meet your friend.” I kicked the ground. She looked at me and said, “That’s what it means to be an opportunist, little miss Ayşe.” I think my mom was scared of me at that moment. I shrugged my shoulders. Then we went to Uncle Selahattin’s shop. I had to get something there for Ali. It’s about swans, and it’s some pieces of paper. I remembered my dad talking about it. Uncle Selahattin ordered Mom a tea. He showed her a green parrot in a cage by the door. That’s when I went to the back of the shop and pretended to look at the birds.