“Birgül, you always call me ‘abla’ even though we’re the same age.”
Birgül Abla laughed.
“That’s because you’re … well, you’ve got Ali and all.”
“I don’t mind. Call me whatever you want. Anyway, with all the fighting I haven’t had a chance to talk to you. You know about Çorum. Now they’re clamping down in Fatsa. What are your chiefs telling you? What are we facing?”
“They’re discussing a response.”
“Discussing isn’t enough. We had the bread boycott today, there’s a funeral coming up tomorrow, we’ve got a water protest to do. It never ends and everyone’s getting worn out.”
“When Hüseyin comes back—”
“Don’t get me wrong, Birgül. I worship the ground you young revolutionaries walk on. You know, don’t you, that my brother fell on your path. I’ve still got his bloody parka. You know best, but I wish we’d do more than just protest and boycott. It’s time the people rise up. And I don’t give a damn what happens if we do!”
“I understand. Okay.”
“You’re a wonderful girl and a wonderful new bride! You’ve got the weight of the people on your shoulders. I know you must be tired out too.”
“Never. As long as we’re united, as long as we’re standing shoulder to shoulder, nothing’s a burden and I’ll never get tired!”
Mom was stroking Birgül Abla’s hair when Aunt Seher shouted, “If we are united …”
Uncle Dürüst went and squatted a little further along. With his rounded back and his hands on his knees, he looked like a bird. I squatted next to him. He patted me on the head.
“When it’s your turn, you’ll do better.”
He said it in a whisper. That’s how he talks. Then someone led him away. I just sat there.
The Coca-Cola is tickling my nose. Maybe it’s my turn now. I’ll have to figure out those papers about the swans tomorrow.
—
Mom and Ayla Abla put their arms around Süheyla Abla’s shoulders. Is she crying? Her hair’s fallen over her face. Samim Abi and Dad went to the kitchen. Men always leave when women cry. They get embarrassed. Now Mom, Ayla Abla, and Süheyla Abla are all laughing. But they’re crying, too, I think. Grown-ups sometimes do that. They can laugh and cry at the same time. Süheyla Abla lifts her head. Her nose is red. She brushes back her hair. She doesn’t look like Sue Ellen anymore. Now she’s more like Pamela. She laugh-cries.
“I feel like a pane of glass. On one side of the glass, it’s yesterday. And on the other, tomorrow. But today is see-through, completely transparent. We’re in this transparent moment in time, and reflected onto us are mixed-up images of both the past and the future…. I’m not making any sense, am I?”
Sometimes Süheyla Abla doesn’t make any sense because she’s from Istanbul. She picked up a bottle of rakı and looked at Ayla Abla.
“Have you got a pen?
Ayla Abla gave her a pen.
“I doubt any of you Ankarans have heard of the ‘(Not) Dying Day.’ Turgut Uyar and Edip Cansever started it in Istanbul a few years ago. They were gathered at a meyhane in Rumeli Hisarı with a bunch of their fellow poets when the conversation turned to fear of death. Turgut Uyar asked the waiter to bring a bottle of rakı. Then he asked everyone present to sign their names on the bottle and pledge to meet exactly one year later, on the 26th of March, to drink that bottle of rakı. And they did meet the next year, and the year after that. They still meet every year. It’s become a tradition. Now, I’m going to write today’s date on this bottle, and I want everyone to sign it and to promise that nobody will die before we meet again in a year. I’m writing it right here: July 30, 1980!”
Mom laughed a laugh without tears this time and lit a cigarette. Smoke came out of her mouth when she said, “And under that, write: ‘In the people we trust.’”
I remember that!
When Samim Abi came out of the kitchen, he looked at me and Ali. Then he yelled out to the women on the terrace.
“You know what? When I look at these two kids it makes me realize something. The real truth is the shortest distance between two kids.”
—
Ayşe’s dad smiled at Samim Abi as he came up to us.
“Aren’t you two sleepy yet?”
He’s got an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He needs a match or a lighter. He looked inside a bowl on the coffee table.
“Samim, that’s some lighter you got yourself. No wonder you’re hiding it in here.”
It’s an Ibelo. It’s Hüseyin Abi’s! I put it in my pocket when nobody was looking. I’ll give it back to Hüseyin Abi.
UNIT 8
Music Is Food for the Soul
Classical Western Music
Everyone was whispering.
“The chief of staff is here…. Evren is coming.”
Ali and I were walking into CSO Concert Hall with Grandma when two giant men cleared the way for a smaller, older man, the one everyone calls “chief of staff.” As he passed, people pressed their lips together into a smile. He nodded to the left and to the right. Grandma let go of our hands and tried to find something in her handbag. She didn’t even look at the chief of staff. I think that’s because we’re waiting for Pharmacist Cavit Bey.
—
This place is nothing like the Gardens. Nobody shouts. Everyone whispers.
“Kenan Pasha is coming…. You know, it’s so refreshing to have a military chief who appreciates the arts, unlike those peasants in the government…. They say our pasha never misses a concert or a ballet performance…. I’d read in the newspaper that he was touring the country. After the Çorum Incident, he visited Fatsa.”
The Çorum Incident? Is that the same as the Çorum Massacre? I wonder if Hüseyin Abi’s come back from Çorum yet. Ayşe’s grandma keeps looking inside her handbag and at the door. She’s probably afraid that man from the pharmacy won’t come.
—
At the CSO and the State Theater, everyone dresses like they’re going to a Republican Ball. The men have shiny shoes, and the women wear lots of perfume. Men in white bowties and black jackets show us to our seat. We’re supposed to say, “Thank you, sir.”
—
Were we against the chief of staff? I think we were. He’s making a dictatorship, or he’s letting the fascists in Almond Stream make one. Something like that. I’ll have to ask Hüseyin Abi. Ayşe’s grandmother wouldn’t know. When she heard me say “dictatorship” to Ayşe, she said, “That’s an inappropriate word for children.” In Liberation, kids get to eat hazelnut cocoa spread on their bread, but they’re not allowed to use certain words.
—
Ali’s in a bad mood because he didn’t eat any bread this morning. Mom spread hazelnut cocoa on our bread because it was a Sunday morning. She never leaves empty spaces on the edges and the top is always smooth. But when Grandma spreads it, it’s so thin you can see the holes in the bread and it never reaches the edges. Ali picked up his bread and licked the top. I told him you’re not supposed to do that. Then he didn’t eat any of it. I was embarrassed. When my mom wiped the dirt off Ali’s shoes this morning, I was embarrassed too.
—
Ayşe’s grandma said, “Where could he be?” But she was talking to herself, not me. Her lips are painted red. When she talks, she tries not to move her lips and keeps her mouth in an “o” shape.
“Cavit Bey will never find us if we take our seats in the third row. Ah! There he is over there. Cavit Bey! For a moment, I thought you weren’t coming.”
“Nejla Hanım, I wouldn’t miss the concert or the chance to see you for anything in the world. Here’s a program. I picked up an extra one.”
“Ever the gentleman! You needn’t have troubled yourself—”
“Oh, there’s my wife. Zeliha! We’re over here. Let me introduce you to Nejla Hanım. I was just telling you about her.”
—
Grandma’s mouth was open, but she didn’t say anything. Then she bowed her head. She d
idn’t say, “Pleased to meet you.” She didn’t shake the lady’s hand. We walked off to our seats without a word. When we sat down, Grandma pulled her handkerchief out of her handbag. She wiped the lipstick off her lips, sitting low, like she didn’t want anyone to see her, especially Bala Hanım, who always gets a seat next to Grandma at concerts. There was a still a speck of red in the corner of her mouth, but I didn’t tell her. Grandma tossed the program onto my lap. If we hadn’t been at the CSO I would have kicked Cavit Bey.
—
I grabbed the program from Ayşe’s lap. She can’t read as good as me. Under “Program,” in big black letters, it says “Selection of Waltzes” in smaller letters. Not another waltz! I hope they don’t make me wear a bowtie … or make me dance with Ayşe. I want to leave. I want to go home.
“Ali, put that string back in your pocket! And give me back that program. Grandma gave it to me, not you.”
—
Ali’s no fun when he’s in a bad mood. I asked him to help me read the program, but I get to hold it, because Grandma handed it to me.
“It says, ‘Selection of Classical Waltzes.’ The first one is ‘Swan Lake Waltz.’”
“Swan Lake? Does that mean everyone knows about the swans?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, what if they do?”
“If they knew, they’d call it Swan Park. And our swans swim in a pond, not a lake.”
The chief of staff sat down in the very front row, and the giant men sat down in the row behind him, right in front of us. Ali put the string back in his pocket.
“Ayşe,” Ali whispered. I think those men in front of us want to hurt the swans.”
“But why?”
“Because they’re fascists!”
The two men turned around and looked right at Ali. Grandma said, “Shhh!” Then she smiled at the two men and said, “Enjoy the concert, gentlemen.” When they turned back around, she looked at us. But mostly she looked at Ali, and her eyes got small and scary. Then she started going through her handbag again.
Ali held his head in his hands, like he had a terrible headache.
“Ayşe, first we have to get the butterflies into Parliament. Then we can save the swans. Okay?”
—
Men and women in black clothing came onto the stage. Everybody clapped. Then it was quieter than quiet. Like everyone was holding their breath and waiting for something wonderful to happen. I wanted it to last forever. It’s never like this in the Gardens. It’s always noisy, and when there’s a lot of people together, it’s even noisier, and we wait for terrible things to happen. Maybe you need to be rich to be this quiet. Maybe after the revolution it will be quiet everywhere, even in Rambling Gardens. Then the music started. When I closed my eyes, pictures started moving in my head.
First, I saw Uncle Dürüst, his white hair getting longer and longer. He took my hand and we jumped. Up into the air, higher and higher. Down below, the houses got smaller and smaller. Then something like giant horns started playing and fighting broke out. I could see Hüseyin Abi running from the fascists. He fired his gun, but he’d run out of bullets. Birgül fired her gun, but she’d run out of bullets. They held hands and jumped, up into the air. Mom grabbed two loaves of bread and jumped. Then Dad jumped. Everyone was floating through the air. Nobody was talking. They were laughing. And then we saw a whole bunch of swans flying toward us. When we saw the swans, we knew we’d won. One of the swans waved and smiled at me. It’s Turgay Abi. The revolution happened. I was so happy I wanted to cry.
—
When I saw Ali close his eyes, I closed mine too. I could feel the music, not just inside me, but on the outside too. I could feel it on my face and on my neck. I could feel the drums in my belly. Like a giant butterfly was in my belly, and it opened its wings. Everything smelled nice too, sweet as flowers. When the flute played, a butterfly came and flapped its wings right in front of my face. It’s peeking at me, at my cheek, my nose, my ear. Then I saw myself running and running, and behind me there were rabbits and cats and baby horses, and they were running too. There’s a swan, flying high over my head. A lot of swans, dozens. And I’m growing bigger and bigger, until I can put my arms around my mom and my dad and Ali, all at the same time.
The music stops and I rub my eyes. Grandma says it’s the intermission, and she wants to “stretch her legs.” Me and Ali follow her and Bala Hanım up the aisle.
“How have you been, Nejla Hanım?”
Grandma and Bala Hanım always talk during the intermission. She’s fat, so she has big legs, and they help her stand up extra straight when she walks. She has elastic bands that help keep her stockings up. You can see them when she’s sitting. Grandma said she’s one of the founders of the teachers’ union, but even if Grandma hadn’t told me, I’d know she was a teacher. Her shoes are clunky and old. She doesn’t wear makeup, just like my mom. We usually sit next to Bala Hanım when we go to a concert. This one time, I saw inside her purse. She had a handkerchief that was white, but brown with dust on the fold, a hand mirror with a crack, a little book with “Constitution” on the front, and a cellophane packet full of tiny white mints.
“Fine, thank you, Bala Hanım. I hope you’re well?”
“How could I be well? With the state of our country …”
Grandma likes Bala Hanım, but not a lot. Bala Hanım always asks questions, but she never listens to the answer. She starts looking around when Grandma is speaking, and it’s “irritating.” I think Bala Hanım does that because she’s so big. When people look at her, she wants to look somewhere else. She’s always looking at something. Once, in the middle of a concert, I saw her pull out her cracked mirror and look at her face. She eats her mints in secret, one by one, without making a sound. And she never gives me one.
“… and the military of today is nothing like it was back in 1960. Back in the day, they knew how to stage a proper coup. The elite of Ankara applaud Evren Pasha whenever they see him at the opera house and the ballet, foolishly hoping he’ll save us from this descent into anarchy and lawlessness, but, mark my words, Nejla Hanım, this isn’t going to turn out well. I mean, just look at them toadying up to him over there in the corner!”
Grandma isn’t listening to Bala Hanım, and she isn’t looking at Evren Pasha and his toads. Grandma can’t take her eyes off Uncle Cavit Bey’s wife. Bala Hanım looks over where Grandma is looking. They watch as Uncle Cavit Bey puts his arm around his wife’s waist and leads her back into the hall. Then Bala Hanım leans close to Grandma.
“That pharmacist has been foisting his worthless creams and potions on the women of Ankara for as long as I can remember.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth, Bala Hanım!”
At the end of the concert, we left while Bala Hanım was still clapping. We were going to get a shared taxi, but Grandma said, “Let’s walk. Some fresh air would do me good.” Grandma starts walking extra fast, and she doesn’t slow down until she is huffing and puffing. Grandma says we should wait until she catches her breath, and she tells us not to let go of her hand.
That’s when I ask Ali: “Did the music make you feel like you were getting bigger and bigger?” He says, “No. I was flying.”
A group of people came around the corner. They’re holding signs and shouting on the other side of the street.
“You’ll pay for Fatsa!”
Ali tugs Grandma by the hand and tries to cross the street.
“Stop it!” Grandma says. She yanks him so hard. I hope she didn’t hurt Ali.
I think Grandma feels bad. She says she’s going to get me and Ali sesame bread rings from the vendor on the corner. She pays the man, and then I say it.
“Grandma, why can’t we go over there? Aren’t we revolutionaries? Or are we like Uncle Cavit Bey? Or J.R.?”
Grandma laughs.
“Ayşe, sometimes you say the most extraordinary things! All right. We’ll go over there. But only for a few minutes and only if you promise not to
let go of my hand.”
We go up to the people with the signs. Me and Ali give them our sesame bread rings. They’re so excited and happy. We shout along with them. “You’ll drown in your blood! …” “Shoulder to shoulder against fascism!” They pick us up and put us their shoulders. Even Grandma shouts along.
I feel like I’m getting bigger and bigger. Or even flying, like Ali.
—
Ayşe danced and skipped all the way home from the protest. When Ayşe dances, it’s much better than at the school recitals. She was happy, like she’s forgotten what we talked about last night. Then we ran into that neighbor, Jale Hanım, in the hall. She started talking to Ayşe’s grandma.
“Things are going from bad to worse, Nejla Hanım. I blame it all on Bülent Ersoy and his new breasts. One thing leads to another, and the next thing you know everything’s spun out of control. Everybody thinks they can do whatever they want. Everywhere you go, the streets are full of queers. Why, I even saw a demonstration in Kavaklıdere, of all places. They stood up on top of a red convertible. And it was brand new! It’s gotten so bad families are afraid to go outside.”
—
Auntie Jale Hanım is wearing lipstick because she’s coming back from her Children’s Welfare Meeting. The more she talks, the darker red the tiny cracks in her lips get. She says they had chicken salad with walnuts, palace halvah, and rice pilaf at their meeting luncheon. Hürriyet newspaper came and took pictures, because they’re going to build a “children’s village” to help poor people. I don’t think it’s for children like Ali, though. He’s poor, but he never looks like he’s about to cry. Auntie Jale Hanım patted Ali on the head and talked to him like he was one of the sad poor kids.
“What do you have for dinner? Do you ever get any meat? Do you drink a glass of milk in the morning? Growing boys should eat a piece of cheese about the size of a matchbox at breakfast. Do you do that?”
Ali jerked his head away. Later, he told me why he got mad.
“She’s just like the teacher with the yellow hair. They always ask what we eat. What difference does it make!”
Ali doesn’t like to talk about food. When he talks, he always talks about exciting things. He has a list, and he showed it to me last night. We were in bed, and I asked him if he could hear his heart beating in his ear when he lies on the side of his head.
The Time of Mute Swans Page 14
