The Time of Mute Swans

by Ece Temelkuran

  Mom and I reach the gate. She lights a cigarette.

  “Go on, Ayşe. Go in and ask them.”

  In a little bit, after I get the leaves, I’m going to go to Parliament with Mom. I cried a lot so I could go. Anyway, Grandma didn’t wake up this morning. When Mom and I listened at her door, we could hear tsss tsss. She does that when she’s sleeping. Grandma hasn’t left her room since the concert. She hid a bottle of banana liqueur in her room, and all she does is listen to the radio all the time. Mom lifted her eyebrows and looked at Dad.

  “Mother’s a little out of sorts. Will you take Ayşe to work, or shall I?

  “You take her. I’m already taking Ali to his dad.”

  My dad’s “a little out of sorts” too. He called Ordu last night and talked to my granddpa. There’s “trouble” in Ordu, Grandpa said. Dad told Grandpa not to go outside. He talked about it to Mom after he hung up.

  “What shall we do, Sevgi? He says he’s having spasms again. I wonder if we should bring him here?”

  Mom didn’t answer. Grandpa has “a bad heart.”

  I brought my lunchbox with me. Me and Ali put the silkworms in it last night. I didn’t tell my mom, though. I had to cry a lot before she let me bring my lunchbox. Mom’s wearing her new shoes again. She put Band-Aids on her heels. We all left home together, but Ali and Dad walked off real fast. Ali turned and looked at me. I waved to him. We were going to go together, but he mustn’t go to the police station. I know that now. Last night, when Ali was reading the swan papers, we looked out the window together. I heard what they could do to Ali. That’s why I told him I’d get the leaves without him. Mom took another puff on her cigarette.

  “Go on, Ayşe. Go inside and ask them. Get your leaves and let’s go!”

  Mom wouldn’t go into the garden with me. A policeman came outside. “May I pick some leaves from your mulberry tree?” I asked him. He held me up in the air. I grabbed a branch. Why isn’t Mom looking at us?

  Just then, that shout came from inside the police station.

  “You be a star and I’ll be a fist / We’ll meet in Fatsa.”

  Then there was an “Ow!” and an “Ouch!” Other men started shouting. The policeman holding me in his arms laughed.

  “Sounds like they’re having fun in there,” he said.

  “Come on, Ayşe! Hurry up!”

  Mom started walking away. I picked and picked. The police won’t get any leaves, not from this branch. Our silkworms are going to eat them all up. I didn’t say “Thank you very much” to the policeman. I just ran away.

  When I caught up to Mom, we walked real fast for a while. Then she stopped, threw her cigarette on the sidewalk, and waved her finger at me.

  “Listen, Ayşe. Don’t you ever, ever …”

  Mom’s too mad to talk. But she’s mad at everything, not just me. I know that.

  She didn’t talk to me again until we got to Parliament.

  But she sang that song, under her breath, the one about prison and the bridge, and she sounded mad. When we got to the gates of Parliament, she stopped, because the song is about rifles, too.

  It’ll be terrible if Mom doesn’t go down to the archives today. I won’t be able to hide the silkworms and Ali will be sad. We’ll both be sad, I mean. Please God, let Mom go down to the archives today. Lunchtime came, and still she didn’t go. Please!

  We went to lunch together. To the big restaurant with the old men like the ones at the concert hall. We sat down at a table next to theirs. They have shiny faces, and they walk with their heads high. That’s because they’re senators. When I hear that word—“senator”—I think of the merry-go-round at the amusement park. To get there, you have to go through a turnstile. And it goes “tor tor tor” as it turns. Ali would understand what I mean, but nobody else would.

  In front of each of the senators is a plate with a big artichoke bottom. It’s like an artichoke cup, and it holds little squares of carrot and some peas. One of them cuts off a little slice and eats it. Then he turns the artichoke on his plate, like a wheel, and cuts off another slice.

  “How many rounds of voting has that been?”

  “That was the 112th. And we’re still no closer to electing the next president.”

  “Frankly, I sometimes wonder why we trouble ourselves to vote at all. Even if our party leaders were to agree on a compromise candidate, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest. Brace yourself. A coup is coming.”

  “If it weren’t for the prime minister’s little act of defiance, the Americans would never support a military takeover.”

  “The prime minister? What do you mean?”

  “You can’t have forgotten what Demirel said last January. He put the Americans on notice, told them they would no longer be able use their military bases in Turkey for irregular activities without our permission. And that, I suspect, is when the Americans decided that perhaps they could do without Mr. Demirel. And so the delicate balance of power tilts once again, this time toward the Armed Forces. Now all we can do is hope for the best.”

  “Amen.”

  The senator turning his artichoke around like a wheel looks mad.

  “This artichoke is terribly stringy. How’s yours?”

  None of them talk about swans or butterflies, like I hoped. But this restaurant has such big windows. If only they opened them. Millions of butterflies could get in. Millions!

  Me and Mom went back to her desk after lunch. Something’s bothering her. She goes “Ohhh!” and “Ahhh!” loud enough for me to hear, just like Grandma. They don’t know it, but they make the same noises, Mom and Grandma. Mom stands up.

  “Come on, Ayşe. We’re going to the microfilm department.”

  I grab my lunchbox and follow her.

  “Why are you carrying your lunchbox everywhere?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “How was the concert yesterday?”

  “Mom, did you know that music makes your arms feel longer?”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  We go up to Muzaffer Abi at his desk. I think we kind of like him now. He’s writing something. Mom leans over and reads a bit out loud.

  “Faithful Muslims and true believers have been posing questions peculiar to this era in which we live, the 20th century, delving into certain matters in their quest for answers, while were I to do such a thing, I would tumble headfirst into ruin.”

  Mom laughed.

  “So, asking questions makes you tumble headfirst into ruin. Is that so? What on earth is this, Muzaffer. And why’s it so badly written?”

  “I’m transcribing a sermon by a popular preacher. Fetullah Gülen. One of his followers asked for my help. I was happy to be of service.”

  “Well, I’m relieved you didn’t write it yourself. I hadn’t pegged you for a reactionary.”

  “Reactionary? What do you mean by that, Sevgi Hanım?”

  “I mean our whole country’s going up in flames, and while some of us are racking our brains trying to figure out what to do, or at least taking a stand, there are others who refuse to ask any questions and who even discourage others from doing so. They’re the ones who scurry off and play it safe. They’re smart. Real smart. Pure provincial cunning.”

  “Sevgi Hanım, aren’t you being a little unfair? The hodja’s simply citing the hadith to—”

  “Don’t get me started! I remember what a friend said a long time ago. The Prophet’s teachings, especially in the early days, were truly revolutionary. We know whose side he would be on today. But you wouldn’t know that from listening to these provincial preachers! I’m sorry, Muzaffer. I didn’t come here to argue. In fact, I came to ask you for a favor.”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “Something urgent just came up. Would you mind if Ayşe stayed here with you for an hour or so? I didn’t have a chance to tell the director I’d be leaving work for a bit, and I don’t want him to see Ayşe getting underfoot or playing in the library.”

  Mom didn’t tell me! She did
n’t tell me she was going out. But she did wear her new shoes today. That means she’s meeting with Uncle Önder. I knew it.

  Being alone with Muzaffer Abi got boring right away, so I started kicking at his desk, but not too hard.

  “What would you like to do, little lady?”

  “Let’s go to the archives!”

  “What for?”

  “I love it down there. I want to play hide-and-seek.”

  “Okay. Come on then … but you can leave your lunchbox here.”

  “No!”

  I tricked him. He was counting “one-two-three” when I ran over, took the leaves and silkworms out of my lunchbox, and stuck them behind the stacks of Weekend. I peeked—but really quick—into one of Mom’s yellow envelopes. I couldn’t help it. Oh! So that’s what’s inside. Right when Muzaffer Abi got to “eight-nine-ten” I put the envelope back and whispered to the silkworms, “Now be good and don’t make a peep!” They were all sitting on the mulberry leaves with their heads up, listening. Then I ran out into the open so Muzaffer wouldn’t find my secret spot, and the game was over. Silly Muzaffer Abi was so excited to catch me.

  We went back to the microfilm department after that. Mom came a little bit later. Her face was all pink and sweaty. She must have been running.

  When she asked what me and Muzaffer Ai did, and I said, “We played hide-and-seek in the archives,” Mom made her eyes big and grabbed both my arms.

  “Did he do anything to you? Did he touch you?”

  “We played hide-and-seek,” I said. I already told her! Mom didn’t see Muzaffer Abi standing near the doorway, didn’t see him shake his head and walk away. “Goddamn it, Muzaffer!” Mom said. But Muzaffer wasn’t even there. Mom took me by the hand, and we went to the library. “Did he do anything to you?” she asked again. I screamed, “What are you talking about?” Mom said, “Okay, it’s okay.”

  I was going to tell Mom about the silkworms, but I didn’t. Not after that. She’s acting weird. Like she’s somebody else’s mom, not my mom. On the way home, after we got out to the street, she walked on the backs of her shoes and she didn’t talk to me, not once. It made me kind of sad. I wonder what Ali’s doing? He’s going to be so happy about the butterflies. I bet he’s going to love me even more than before.

  A Nation Shares a Common Language

  “You and I are going on a little walk. Okay, Ali?”

  Hüseyin Abi was standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips, when he said that. He sounded a little mean. I pulled out my strings and looked at them. I didn’t answer. Mom said, “Ali, Hüseyin Abi’s talking to you. He’s going to take you out.”

  “Ali!” Hüseyin Abi said again. I put the strings in my pocket without looking. I went over to him without looking at him. He squeezed me against his leg, like before, and I shook him off and went out into the garden. “Me and Ali are going on a little trip,” Hüseyin Abi said to my mom. “Don’t worry. We’ll be back soon.” Mom said it in a quiet voice, but I heard her:

  “Hüseyin, please. Don’t be too rough on the boy.”

  Hüseyin Abi was standing in the doorway again, the sunlight hitting his face this time. And I got a funny feeling. Like I was taking his picture with my eyes. I don’t have the words for it, but it was like I suddenly grew up a lot and it was much later, and I was remembering the way Hüseyin Abi stood in that doorway. Then the funny feeling passed.

  Me and Hüseyin Abi went down to the bottom of the hill, clop clop clop. We both stuck our hands in our pockets. Hüseyin Abi didn’t talk all the way there. I’d already made up my mind not to say a word. Why did he smack Gökhan like that?

  When the road got flat, we stopped.

  “Where do you want to go, little lion?”

  I didn’t look, and I didn’t speak.

  “Ali, shall we go to Swan Park? All right then, we’ll go to Swan Park.”

  Hüseyin Abi walked slowly. Even when he doesn’t talk, even when he doesn’t make a sound, it’s like his chest is talking, like something is always moving deep inside him. But right now, nothing’s moving inside Hüseyin Abi, nothing I can hear. He’s not even talking to himself without saying anything. Maybe something happened to him in Çorum. Maybe he wants to hide it, and he’s ashamed for wanting that. Maybe it got too noisy there and his head hurts. I took hold of Hüseyin Abi’s hand. I’m here, Hüseyin Abi! Don’t go it alone! He patted me on the head and squeezed me against his leg a little. Then he let me go. We kept walking. Clop clop clop.

  “Whatever happened to that kite, Ali? Did you find it later, see where it got tangled?”

  I went “I don’t know” with my shoulders.

  “I guess that kite must have flown up and away until it was free. That was one clever kite.”

  Hüseyin Abi thinks he can make me talk.

  “What about that little red car I got you? Did it fly away too?”

  I waved my hand; “Who cares?” He laughed. I played with the strings in my pocket, but Hüseyin Abi didn’t see me.

  We stopped in front of a patisserie. Hüseyin Abi pulled his money out of his pocket and looked at it.

  “Come on! Let me get you an Ankara Sarması.”

  It smells awfully nice inside. Forks and knives are clicking, and ladies are talking. Nobody there is like us, but when you’re with Hüseyin Abi you don’t care, because it always feels like we’re the strongest and we have the nicest clothes.

  “I’ll have a tea, brother. And an Ankara Sarması for the little guy. Do you want a lemonade, too, Ali?” Lemonade is for kids!

  “I want tea, too!”

  “Okay then. Make that two teas.”

  My arms are sticking to the tabletop. It’s “formica,” and formica is brown. I know that because of the tables at Dad’s workplace and because of the teachers’ tables. Oh good! Ankara Sarması means cake!

  Hüseyin Abi presses his cigarette between his lips and narrows his eyes against the smoke as he cuts the cake in half.

  “Dig in, little lion!”

  They brought us both a napkin. I put mine in my pocket for Mom. The cake’s really different. There’s a soft part, and it’s like yoghurt, and then there’s a bready part, and it’s yellow. And the whole thing is rolled up. It’s better to get both parts on your fork, the exact same amount. I’m lifting the fork to my mouth, and it smells so good. I bet Ayşe knows this smell. It smells as good as when you’re about to fall asleep with your head in your mom’s lap, but she’s talking to someone so she forgets she has her hand on your back, and she leaves it there, her hand on your back, nice and warm. I wonder if Ayşe ever tasted Ankara Sarması? It’s so, so good. I keep the soft, sweet, yoghurty stuff in my mouth, between my teeth, on the insides of my cheeks.

  “Ali, we’re going to have a man-to-man talk today. Because you’ve grown up now. That’s right! Today, I announce to the world that little Ali has become a young man.”

  I swallow with a loud gulp. Why did I grow up today? Hüseyin Abi is trying to smile, but he can’t, not really. He’s making a serious face, and he’s making a funny face. So his face gets all mixed up, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

  “Ali, first things first. I want to talk about what happened the other day. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  I put down my fork and look straight ahead. I need my strings!

  “Listen to me, little lion. Being a revolutionary …”

  He lowers his voice, because we’re in a patisserie.

  “Being a revolutionary isn’t the same as causing trouble. And it’s never about making a bus roll over. What if there had been kids like you inside that bus? That was wrong! Revolutionaries try to make the world a better place, a more beautiful place. Do you understand, Ali? You see us walking around with pieces in our hands and you imagine … It’s not like that. Don’t believe anyone who says, ‘The revolution is written in blood.’ That’s not true. The revolution is written in patience, in love, in hope. In conviction. And if the day comes when you have no choice but to … Nev
er mind!”

  Hüseyin Abi got mad at himself. He’s smoking really fast now.

  “You stopped eating. Don’t you like it? Go on, have some more.”

  I start eating again. Now I’m taking big forkfuls and swallowing fast, because I want it to be over.

  “Ali, remember when I first came to the neighborhood? You were what, four years old? Do you remember those days? Never forget them. It was a wonderful time. We marched for water, all together, and you learned when to stop and run, when to keep marching, when and how to chant a slogan. We got back to the neighborhood from a demonstration that one time and you were running back and forth with a rolling pin in your hand, so excited.”

  I don’t remember, but I nod “yes” because Hüseyin Abi’s head is hurting something awful. I smile a little. To make him happy. The sweet yoghurty stuff gets all over the inside of my mouth. If I finish it, maybe then we can go. Because Hüseyin Abi’s going to tell me sad, sad things. I know it.

  “Ali, we were born into troubled times, you and me. That’s just the way it is. But to make it through these times, we have to swallow our fair share of the grit kicked up by these times. And if we don’t make it, who gives a shit! I’d rather die fighting than live like rabbit shit … too timid to make a stink, too timid to make a mess. Good for absolutely nothing. You know, nothing is as glorified in this land of ours as the ability to make it through life. Deception, cunning, hypocrisy … Do whatever it takes. Survive at any cost. Some, a very few, are prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice. The others watch, waiting for the danger to pass, waiting for the others to fall by the wayside, waiting for the chance to take over, to make our country theirs alone. Time after time, all through history.”

  Hüseyin Abi looked at me and stopped. Because I couldn’t swallow, my mouth was so full my cheeks got puffed out.

  “Ali! What are you doing? You’re going to choke. Quick, drink some tea. I can’t believe you!”

  I got it all down. No more cake. Hüseyin made his hands into fists, one on top of the other, and rested his chin on them. He looked into my eyes and smiled, like we were best friends.

  “Ali, never mind what I was just saying. I’m about to tell you something I’ve never told anyone. Do you understand?”