The Time of Mute Swans

by Ece Temelkuran

  There is no reason the procedure outlined above cannot be performed on the remaining swans in the park, thus preventing their escape without compromising their utility as an ornamental display for the public’s enjoyment.

  We looked at the drawings of a swan. I wanted to cry. They were doing terrible, terrible things to it.

  They opened its wing all the way and then they cut a hole, right in the wing. And out of the hole, they pulled something—a bone, or a muscle—and they cut that too. With scissors. It hurt. It hurt so bad! And Ali said they’re going to do it to all the swans. Because of the dictatorship.

  Fascists are so awful. When I looked at the drawings, my arm hurt. Like I had wings and like they were cutting into me.

  “Don’t cry, Ayşe.”

  “My wings hurt.”

  “Stop crying!”

  “Ali, what are we going to do? Ali? … So you don’t know either!”

  “We’re going to save the swans.”

  “But how?”

  “We have to be smart. We have to take action.”

  “Maybe we should tell Mom?”

  “No. We’re strong enough to do it on our own. That’s how to do it.”

  “The two of us, together?”

  “Yes. Let’s take an oath.”

  “Like at school?”

  “No, not that one. The other one.”

  “I don’t know any other ones.”

  “Just repeat after me. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Have you got the Wonderland of Knowledge with the swans?”

  “Here it is.”

  “Put it between us. Okay, now put your hand on top. Like that. And I’ll put my hand there too. Now we’ll say it. But I’m going to change it. We’re taking action so we need different words. We … as Ali and Ayşe … swear to fight fascism to the last drop … until the swans are saved.”

  “Don’t forget the silkworms!”

  “Okay. Until the swans are saved … and the butterflies get into Parliament … Even if we get really tired, even if we get sleepy … we will resist…. I swear it! Okay, we’re done.”

  We kept our hands on the book for a little bit. The lamp was our only light. And that’s when I said it.

  “Ali, is it okay if we look at the police station?”

  We opened the window and looked outside. We saw lots of shadows in the police station. All the lights were on. People were yelling. Because of torture, Ali said. Then we looked out of the window, at faraway places.

  —

  Something happened to me. Like I was talking for the first time. Like there was something in my throat. And out it came:

  “Ayşe, after the revolution everyone will have bread. And even Şokella. We’ll have electricity in my house, too, and Mom will grow roses in the garden. We won’t eat flour soup anymore. And the things that used to be at one end of my strings—the kite, the red car—they’ll all come back. Because the fascists in Almond Stream will finally understand. They won’t want to be fascists anymore. It’ll be quiet everywhere. And everybody will have The Wonderland of Knowledge, too. And, and … And then Turgay Abi, and everybody’s who dead, all the revolutionaries, all the big brothers and the big sisters, I mean, will come back. But as swans. They’ll be flying. That’s why we need to save the swans, Ayşe. They’re swans, but they’re dead revolutionaries. We can’t let them do anything to the swans. They need to fly when the revolution happens. Do you see, Ayşe?”

  “You can’t save dead people.”

  “If we save the swans, we can.”

  “Ali?”

  “What?”

  “My arms hurt when I looked at that drawing. That’s why we have to save the swans, Ali. Because our arms will hurt if they do that to all the swans. Right?”

  —

  The night we looked at the police station, we fell asleep, together. And that’s how I knew, when Ali came today, that he didn’t really forget. So I held his hand.

  —

  Ayşe talked so much. Her mom did something to Muzaffer Abi. What though, I didn’t understand. And something happened to her grandma, like she’s a little sick, but all the time. Her father got red eyes and acted like he lost at something. And she told me how she got the silkworms into Parliament. “Wow!” I said. It was the first time ever I said that.

  —

  I asked Ali if he had started “taking action.” He said he had.

  —

  I told Ayşe that I’d got started too, but then her grandma came.

  —

  Grandma made us Şokella bread. She spread it all the way to the edges this time.

  —

  Ayşe was laughing and eating her Şokella bread. We were jiggling our feet under the table. That’s how they touched. I think Ayşe is beautiful. I mean, because she’s a revolutionary.

  UNIT 10

  How We Liberated Our Country from the Enemy

  We Must Never Abandon Our Country

  We’re waiting for Auntie Günseli, the friend my mom loves best. The one she gets to see “only once a year.” Auntie Günseli’s a history teacher in that place where men kill bulls and women twirl in pouffy red skirts. She’s an “academician.” That means she’s a teacher, but at a university. She and Mom used to be students and they always smiled. “Before prison” they smiled, I mean. Now Mom never looks happy. If I want to see her smiling, I get out the old photo album. The one with the empty pages in the back. Black and empty. The other pages are full of photos with four little black ears, so they don’t fall out. They mustn’t fall out. And I mustn’t touch them. In the “Happiest Days of Our Lives” album, Mom closes her eyes a lot. She can’t even keep her eyes open. That’s how big she smiles. In the days before me and Dad.

  I’m here alone with Mom. We sent Grandma to Jale Hanım’s and we sent Dad out, but I don’t know where. I didn’t go with Grandma; Mom couldn’t make me. “Oh, all right, you can stay here then,” she said. “But no snooping.” She got so excited she made breakfast and then she made lunch and then she got out the vodka glasses. Everything’s on the kitchen table, ready for Auntie Günseli. Everything’s “just right,” clean and nice. Like Mom’s playing house. She won’t let me play, though, not with her and Auntie Günseli. I asked if I could help, and she said no. The mixed fried vegetables with yoghurt sauce are on the table, too, shiny and yummy. They’re Auntie Günseli’s favorite. Mom’s happy today. Just like before me and Dad. I wish Auntie Günseli could come every day.

  Mom did her hair in a ponytail. Then she smoked three cigarettes. She set the table with matching plates and glasses, with a cigarette in her hand the whole time. She put it out in the sink and threw it in the trash. Three times, the same thing. So the ashtray doesn’t get dirty. She turned on the TV for me, a cowboy movie on Cinema Sunday. She was humming in the kitchen. Then the doorbell rang. Mom fixed her hair in the mirror. When she opened the door, they screamed:

  “Ohhh! My, oh my. Look at you!”

  They hugged and they laughed and they cried. “It’s so good to see you!” they said. They got tears in their eyes. They coughed and laughed, wiping their eyes with the palms of their hands. I was standing there. Auntie Günseli has big eyes, and I think she always smiles. She looked at me, made her voice high, and said, “Ayşe!” She hugged me, and she smelled like the seashore. But in the morning time. With a breeze blowing. She hugged Mom again. Then they held each other by the arms and looked into each other’s eyes for a long time. “Welcome,” Mom said. Auntie Günseli said, “It’s so good to see you again,” She had a present for me and took it out of her handbag. A box, red. With a button. “Go on, push the button,” she said. And when I did … Oh! Laughter. All kinds of laughter. Hah hah, hee hee, ho ho. It came from inside the box. Mom started laughing, too. They laughed, the two of them, so hard their bellies wobbled and their legs squeezed together like they had to pee.

  Auntie Günseli’s shoes are bright and orange. She didn’t take them off. Mom had slippers ready for her,
but she let Auntie Günseli wear her orange shoes in the house. While they were walking to the kitchen, I pushed the button, again and again. I wanted to count how many people were laughing inside the box. There were a whole lot. Just think if we could be in the box, too. Me and Ali. Laughing our heads off.

  Mom and Auntie Günseli said funny things in loud voices. Then they got serious, and I couldn’t hear them. So I hid just outside the door and listened, because they forgot about me. I want to play, too, but I know Mom won’t let me into the kitchen.

  “Önder? I don’t believe it! Why on earth would he show up after all these years?”

  “How do I know? He said something about my belonging to a time when things meant something, and he’s in search of meaning, I suppose. But there’s something else, too: Every week he gives me an envelope and I hide it in the archives.”

  “What? You hide envelopes in the archives? What’s in them?”

  “I don’t look.”

  “Bravo, Sevgi!”

  I know what’s in the envelope, but I’m not telling. Mom won’t let me play, so I’m not telling. I’ll tell Ali, though.

  “Günseli, you got here in the nick of time. I’m about to burst. I really need to talk.”

  “What’s going on, Sevgi?”

  “Aydın’s turned into a … I don’t know how to put it. An air bubble? I’m barely aware of him these days. He doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t wonder about me, doesn’t even make his presence known, not really. When Önder reappeared … I don’t know if we have a future together, me and Aydın. Mother’s not doing well, either. I know she’s getting on in years, but she’s become so forgetful lately. She seems a little disoriented. It’s gotten so bad I’m afraid to leave Ayşe with her. And as for Ayşe …”

  Mom’s whispering so I don’t hear, but I do. Every word.

  “Ayşe’s growing up in an unhappy home, and I don’t need to tell you how bad things are getting in Turkey. Günseli, sometimes I just want to get away. And Önder …”

  “And Önder, what?”

  “It’s stupid.”

  “What is?”

  “He’s leaving. Going abroad. He asked me to go with him.”

  They’ve stopped talking. A curl of smoke noses out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Somebody gets up. Heels click click on the kitchen floor. It must be Auntie Günseli. She’s getting something out of the fridge. Ice cubes land in glasses, tink tink. Then the cupboard door opens and closes. Vodka? But it’s still morning. Glasses clink clink. Mom goes, “Ahhh.” Is Mom leaving us?

  This time, Auntie Günseli doesn’t laugh when she talks.

  “I want you to know that I’m behind you all the way, no matter what you decide. But this ‘getting away’ business is more complicated than you think, Sevgi. Take it from me. And you’re not even fleeing for your life.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got Ayşe. And my mother.”

  “Listen to me. You wouldn’t have brought it up unless you were considering it. But there’s something you need to know. When you do ‘get away’ and try to settle in a strange country, at first you feel like … well, like a child. Like an orphan, in the beginning, and then like a child. You expect your country to call you back, you wait for its call like a devoted dog. Or like a child who’s rebelled, but come to regret it. You wouldn’t be able to cope, Sevgi. You have no—”

  “Look, I get it. I see what you’re saying.”

  “Do you know where I live, Sevgi? Where I really live?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I reside in Spain, but that’s not really where I live. I live in the airwaves. In the waves of sound bringing news from Turkey. I spend the whole day listening to the radio. It’s the only thing I truly listen to, the only thing I truly hear. It’s awful, Sevgi!”

  They went quiet for a while. Then Mom said, “Look, I’ve made your favorite, fried vegetables with garlicky tomato sauce.” Auntie Günseli snuffled and sniffed and laughed.

  “You’re the best friend ever!”

  They got serious again.

  “Sevgi, sometimes you act as though everything just happens to you. Don’t forget that you chose Aydın precisely because he was insubstantial. He’s always been a bit of an air bubble. You chose him because he doesn’t ask any questions, because he isn’t curious. And now, you say that’s the reason you’re—”

  “Günseli, I’m not doing anything. I’m not going anywhere. I was trying to explain how I felt, that’s all.”

  “All I’m saying is that the act of remembering is a tricky business. We all play games and rewrite the past. You can play those little tricks on yourself, but don’t mess with history. It’s dangerous!”

  They fell quiet again. Mom sounded bright and loud when she talked again.

  “Look here, Günseli. Are you going to have some of those fried vegetables, or not?”

  “I can’t wait to have some. I miss those spicy green peppers most of all. You’re such a dear, Sevgi. There was something else I was going to tell you …”

  After that, they talked about funny things. The things that make them laugh. They didn’t call me for lunch. I went to the living room and pushed the laugh button over and over. Mom didn’t even look at me again until her “best friend” left. Auntie Günseli wanted to kiss me good-bye, of course, but I ran away to the kitchen. Then I went back and sat in front of the TV.

  When Auntie Günseli was gone, Mom came over to me. She sat next to me, on the floor. Mom never sits on the floor. “What are you up to?” she said. I didn’t answer. I’m mad at her. She hugged me real tight.

  “I love you so much.”

  I love Mom, too, but I’m mad at her. Mom might leave me. I need to tell on her, to Dad.

  The phone rang.

  “Önder? …Okay, this week … actually, no, let’s make that next week…. All right. I need to talk to you, too…. All right.”

  Mom looked at me. She wanted to know if I heard what she said. I looked at the TV. It’s Sunday, so there’s TV all day long. I’ll know which day Mom is meeting Önder. She’ll wear the nice shoes, the ones that hurt. I’ll know.

  When the Nation Mobilizes, Soldiers Report for Duty

  The water flooded Almond Stream. Not yesterday, the day before yesterday. “They killed Kemal Türkler, that’s why,” Mom said. He was the leader of the Confederation of Progressive Trade Unions. They shot him, right in front of his house. It was the fascists, of course. Mom said it can flood even in the middle of summer if someone good dies. The houses of the fascists in Almond Stream were all underwater. Our house was dry, but the streets got muddy. All the kids in the neighborhood got the runs and had burning fevers. I looked at Kemal Türkler in the newspaper. He was a worker. Birgül Abla told the other women about him.

  “He called on the workers to rise up, so he was murdered by the dark forces who want to establish a fascist dictatorship.”

  Birgül Abla doesn’t smile now. Not after yesterday.

  I got up early in the morning. I looked out the window. Nuran Abla and Auntie Seher had already got water from the fountain. The clean sheets were hanging on the line. They do the wash early because later, after everyone gets up, only a string of water comes out of the tap. The sheets in the garden were flapping in the wind. Some were flowery, others white. There were a lot of them. They looked so nice, I watched them for a while. Flap, flap, flap. I could hear them, too. It was then that I saw Hüseyin Abi. Wearing his jacket, slowly walking through the mud. Now and then, one of his feet getting stuck in the mud. He’d take a step back with his unstuck foot, and push his foot and toes way down into the stuck shoe, so he could lift it out of the mud. Then he’d take another step forward. Then his foot would get stuck again, so he’d take a step back and a step forward, again and again…. Hüseyin Abi didn’t want to keep walking, that’s how it looked.

  He stood in the mud in the middle of the flapping sheets. I’d see him for a moment, then he’d disappear. And it happened again, that feelin
g. Like I was grown-up and I was remembering, but it was happening now. The feeling passed. Hüseyin Abi was still standing there. He pulled out a cigarette. He stood in the middle of the sheets, turned around, all the way, slowly, looking at the neighborhood. He lit a match and held it to his cigarette. Nobody else was around. I was the only one looking at him. He looked at our house, but he didn’t see me. And I felt like I was having a dream, the kind where you shout but no sound comes out. I wanted to yell, “Hüseyin Abi, I’ve got your Ibelo lighter,” but no sound came out. Hüseyin Abi smoked half a cigarette. He threw it in the mud. Since he’s wearing a jacket, and smoking like that, and looking at the neighborhood, Hüseyin Abi must be leaving. He stopped, just as he was about to go. He scraped the bottom of his muddy shoe on a rock. The mud came off. He’s cleaning the mud off his shoes. We never clean mud off our shoes! Hüseyin Abi’s doing it, though. Because he’s not one of us. We take off our shoes at the front door. They’re muddy, all of them. Hüseyin Abi wants to get away from us. And the mud. The sheets flapped again, and Hüseyin Abi was gone. My head hurt just then, real bad.

  I’d fallen asleep. It was noon and everyone was up. But I’d had a fever and stayed in bed. Mom was next to my bed. “My little lamb,” she said. Then she yelled, “Hasan, he’s come back to life. He opened his eyes. Thank God!”

  Did I die?

  “Mom, I had a dream about Hüseyin Abi and sheets.”

  Mom started crying. She hugged me.

  “Darling. My little lamb.”

  I woke up again, later. I thought the whole thing was a dream. I felt fine, got out of bed. The sun was setting. The other kids were out in the field. I walked over to them, but slowly. I couldn’t walk fast. I was too tired from that dream. When I went back to the house, I walked over to the garden and saw the footprints. Hüseyin Abi’s footprints. He was gone. He was really gone.

  I sat down. Just stayed there. The sunlight hit my face, the red light of the sinking sun. I touched a footprint. Then I leaned over and kissed it. Because Mom always says, “I could kiss the ground you walk on.” Because I had to kiss something. Then I lay down on the ground, in the mud. It was cool on my back. And I wanted to stay there. I felt like I couldn’t do anything. Like I was dead. What would life be like without Hüseyin Abi? It still felt like a dream. But I knew it wasn’t, none of it.