“Don’t say that, Abla. Nothing will happen! And if something did happen to you, don’t you think it would happen to us, too? Let’s not talk about this in front of the boy.”
“You think he doesn’t know, Birgül? My little lamb knows everything. I’m not scaring you, am I, Ali? Don’t be scared.”
“Just tell me what you want me to do.”
“You know that house I clean, in Liberation. They’re good people. If anything happens here in our neighborhood, take Ali to them. He knows how to get there. Will you do that?”
“Yes, but—”
“No, not like that. Swear to it. Promise me.”
“All right. You can entrust Ali to me. I swear it.”
Mom scratched the ground a little more. Then she smiled.
“I didn’t think much of Seher’s wheat and chicken stew. It should melt in your mouth. Right, Ali?”
Mom’s trying to make us laugh. Some women came up and asked Mom to go and dance with them. She did, just a bit. Then she laughed a little, got embarrassed, and ran home.
“Ali, what should we do now?” Birgül Abla asked. I told her I needed a sack. I knew she’d ask me why, so I was ready.
“Me and the other kids are having a sack race tomorrow.”
“I’ll find you one. Whatever Ernő wants, Ernő gets.”
Birgül knows Ernő Nemecsek from the Paul Street Boys! I liked her even better after that.
“And I’ll get you a wafer sandwich, Birgül Abla.”
She laughed a lot, the first real laugh since Hüseyin Abi left.
Me and Birgül Abla sat there together watching the dance. Everybody got happy, a little. Nobody knew what we’ll do when the fascists come. I banged my heel against the ground Mom was scratching earlier. The dirt is hard as rock. We’ll never get to underground Turkey. We can get there only with lots of Revolutionary Youth. Only if Hüseyin Abi and the others come back. If we get things started, that’s when they’ll come back. But first we need to do revolutionary things. Like saving the swans. But nobody else understands. They just keep dancing. They keep lifting their arms like their wings were never broken. Only Birgül Abla knows about broken wings.
I kissed Birgül Abla, right on her wing. She laughed again. She doesn’t understand, either.
Beware the Enemy Within
Grandma’s whole face is crying. When she sits on the edge of the hot marble stone, her boobs fall to her knees. We have cloths wrapped around our waists; Grandma, me, Jale Hanım, and Feride Abla. Sometimes a drop of water lands on Grandma’s head, but she doesn’t know. The ceiling is so high and round, and it drips water on Grandma.
There’s a lady, real skinny, with black hair and brown skin. She has a special cloth for scrubbing. She gets the women all foamy, gets them to scream: “Ohhh! Ohhh!” When they’re washed and scrubbed clean, she wraps them in cloth and has them sit on the edge of a white bench made of stone, so they’re all lined up in a row, like dolls. When the dark lady walks, her wooden clogs go takka da takka da. She has a cloth wrapped around her head, and it’s tied in a butterfly on the tippy top. Her skin hangs off her legs, that’s how skinny she is. Her face is hiding behind her wrinkles. That’s because she works in a hamam and “sweats buckets.”
When you go “ooh” and “ahhh” in the hamam, the wet walls and the high dome and the slippy slidey floor all talk to each other. Maybe that’s why Grandma is so quiet. She doesn’t want noise. Her eyes are dry, but water comes running out of all the tiny lines on her face. Everyone’s talking and laughing, but Grandma sits there, her head to one side, like a quiet bird. I’m playing with the water. I scoop it out of a basin with a copper bowl and pour it over my toes, a little at a time. Now my feet are as white as the stone Grandma’s sitting on. And wrinkly, too. I think my big toenail looks like a TV.
Jale Hanım brought stuffed vine leaves and baskets of fruit and other “goodies.” They’re eating and laughing. The dark lady turns Jale Hanım over and over, scrubbing her head to toe with a cloth.
“They kidnapped Bobby last week. I wonder who did it?”
“Jale Hanım, our whole country has turned into Dallas. Never mind what’s happening in Texas!”
“You’re right. Our country’s become a regular Çıfıt market.”
“Do you know what ‘Çıfıt’ means, Jale Hanım?”
“How am I supposed to know? It’s just an expression.”
“‘Çıfıt’ means ‘Jewish.’”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, really. It’s an old word for Jewish. And did you know that this place, Şengül Hamam, used to be in a Jewish neighborhood?”
“There were Jews in Ankara? I thought that sort of thing only happens in Istanbul: Armenians and Greeks and what have you.”
“There are still Jews here, too. But the Christians are gone. I wonder where they went? Maybe their ghosts still wander around.”
“You’re creeping me out! Don’t talk like that. We’ve got enough dead on our hands as it is. Don’t go and conjure up ghosts.”
“They say the spirits of the dead pile up, layer after layer, right below us, like a big ball of wool.”
“We’re in a hamam, for goodness sake. This isn’t the place for ghost stories. You’re supposed to talk about juicy things. Have you heard about Princess Caroline? Her husband cheated on her. And with a low-class Italian, no less. That tramp’s not even pretty. The only thing she’s got going for her is her big breasts. Poor Caroline is such a beauty and so refined.”
“Speaking of breasts. You know that sports thing, with the gymnastics and all. There’s that girl from a Communist country. I’ve got her name on the tip of my tongue …”
“Nadia Comăneci!”
“That’s it! Anyway, I don’t know if you watched her on TV the other night, but she’s filled out like you wouldn’t believe. I don’t know how she manages to balance on that beam, what with her breasts going one way and her body the other. We laughed our heads off watching it.”
Ferida Abla joined in, squeezing the water out of her hair.
“She was just a kid in the last Olympics, but she’s a grown woman now.”
“Feride, what was the name of that other beautiful princess? You know, the one who became the wife of the shah of Iran.”
“Farah Diba?”
“No, not her. The other one. The shah’s first wife. The one who couldn’t give him any children, so he divorced her … She had a Turkish name.”
“Oh, hang on a sec. You mean Süreyya, but they call her Soraya.”
“Right! Well, they had a photo-roman in Hürriyet about her life. It ran for ever so many days. How she met and married the shah of Iran. And that gorgeous wedding gown she wore. Feride, I was going to tell you about that. You wouldn’t believe how elegant it was. Do you think we could have one just like it made for your wedding?”
Jale Hanım’s skin turned bright red and then the dark lady started foaming her up. She’s lying in the middle of the white stone, like a big balloon. It looks funny. Grandma doesn’t laugh. Fifteen drops of water have fallen on Grandma’s head, but she hasn’t wiped her face. She doesn’t even know.
Feride Abla sat next to Grandma. “Nejla Hanım, is anything wrong? You’ve gone all funny today.”
Grandma just sat there with her hands in her lap, huffing and puffing. She looked at her hands.
“My dear girl, I’ve been feeling rather … faded these days. Insubstantial as the flickering flame in one of those old lanterns. I’ve never enjoyed a particularly vigorous constitution, but this, this sense of being so insubstantial, and yet so heavy. There are mornings I wake up with an ox on my chest. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Yes, I’m getting on in years. Perhaps, I say to myself, this is what is meant by ‘having one’s foot in the grave.’ And yet, my body is strong enough. It’s my mind that flickers. It appears that God will call me only when He is ready and perhaps not while I’m in full command of my senses. There is nothing to be done. It’s kismet.
But there is the fear—”
When Feride Abla laughed, the ceiling and the walls and the floor laughed, too.
“I don’t believe it, Nejla Hanım! You’re depressed. It’s your nerves, I mean. That’s so interesting. I didn’t know old people got like that.”
Grandma lifted her hand. Almost like she was going to hit Feride Abla. Jale Hanım came over and grabbed Feride Abla by the arm.
“Get up. Go get another scrub or something. I’m sorry, Nejla Hanım. Young people are so clueless these days. They blurt out whatever comes to mind. She’s about to get married and set up her own home, but she’s as ill-mannered as a child. Sometimes I blame myself for not raising her right. Perhaps her mother-in-law in Istanbul will have better luck with her. You can talk to me, Nejla Hanım. Tell me what’s on your mind. Go on, I’m listening.”
Jale Hanım is treating Grandma like a child. And Grandma is acting like a child. She’s holding Jale Hanım’s hand.
“I’m gripped by fear, Jale Hanım. I don’t dare touch anything. My ears ring, and I worry someone is saying something bad about me. I get a twitch in my eyelid and wait for the news to arrive, but will it be good news or bad news? They say that if you drop your teaspoon on the ground a guest will come. But who will it be? I find an eyelash on my cheek, and try to make a wish, but I can’t think of anything. If I forget, and get out of bed on the left side, my heart starts pounding. I find a slipper backwards on the floor, and we all know what that means. Sevgi leaves her blouse inside out, a sure sign she’ll never come home…. I don’t know what’s come over me. These superstitions have paralyzed me with fear. I see the devil’s work in everything.”
Jale Hanım is holding both of Grandma’s hands now, and rubbing her wrists. “Nothing bad’s going to happen! For God’s sake, Nejla Hanım. Stop bottling everything up, that’s the problem. And that home of yours, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, is always so gloomy. That’s why you’re feeling out of sorts. I’ll tell you what, after the Sugar Bairam is over, but before the wedding, I was going to have some lead poured for Feride. Why don’t you and that saucy little granddaughter of yours join us? We’ll chase away the jinn together.”
Grandma likes what she’s hearing. I can tell. And she likes having her wrists rubbed. Mom never does that. Because Mom takes her to the doctor. Grandma closed her eyes. She looks like a crybaby.
“Let’s do that, Jale Hanım. I can’t go on feeling as though war is about to break out, we’ll all starve, we’ll all die … feeling as though a black string is coiled in my throat.”
“Why don’t you go to that pharmacist, Cavit Bey, and get something to soothe your nerves?”
“Never!”
Grandma yanked back her hands.
“Not on your life!”
Grandma pushed back her hair and lifted her chin.
“He’s clueless. What would he give me? He’d have no idea.”
“Well, your troubles haven’t mysteriously fallen from the skies in a zembil. Once we figure out the root of the problem, we can solve it.”
“Jale Hanım, do you even know what a zembil is?”
“I have no idea. It’s just a turn of phrase, isn’t it?”
“We used to have baskets called zembil, during the war. They’d hide bread and mulberry molasses and other food in it, and hang it from the ceiling so children couldn’t reach it. When it was time to eat, you’d lower the basket on a string. That’s where that expression comes from.”
“Oh, who cares about all that! Olden times and wars and stuff. Listen, you won’t believe what I read in the paper yesterday. As always, Bülent Ersoy is having costume after costume made for the İzmir Fair. You know, he always headlines there. But this time … he’s having women’s dresses made!”
“Forgive me for asking this, Jale Hanım, but has this man-woman …”
Grandma leaned close and continued in a whisper.
“Has he had it cut off?”
Jale Hanım howled and howled.
“No, Nejla Hanım. Not yet. He’s still fully equipped.”
All the women in the hamam started laughing. Copper bowls fell to the floor, waist cloths came undone, boobs and bellies jiggled. The hamam turned into a giant laugh box.
When Grandma looked up at the ceiling, a drop of water fell. Not on her head, in her eye. I laughed. Grandma didn’t, though. I felt ashamed.
Who Saved Our Country from the Enemy?
“If anything happens to my mom and dad, I’m coming to your house.”
That’s what Ali said. We were stretched out on the living room floor together looking at the Memorial Tomb in The Wonderland of Knowledge. We were lying on our bellies and waving our feet in the air. Grandma was sitting by the window in her nightdress, smoking. She stayed there all morning. Puff puff. Ali’s mom was cleaning the bedrooms. I thought it was a good time to tell Ali.
“My mom’s leaving, maybe. Without me. But I didn’t tell Dad.”
“Did your mom tell you not to?”
“No. Me and Dad left his office and then some big brothers started yelling and they did a little anarchy, so Dad stuck me in a pickle shop. But it felt like a pickle prison.”
“That’s called an ‘illegal demonstration.’ They were breaking the law.”
“They didn’t break anything. But they yelled a lot.”
“Did the police come? What happened?”
“No. First they yelled and then they left. Then me and Dad walked away. We were in the pickle shop. I think Dad was scared. So I didn’t tell him about Mom. I didn’t want to make him more scared. I was mad at him, though. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, we saw your dad.”
“What was my dad doing?”
“He was breaking the law. But we didn’t.”
“Of course you didn’t!”
“Why do you say that?”
—
Ayşe’s grandma is taking us to the Memorial Tomb tomorrow, in “the morning coolness.” That’s why I’m spending the night. It’s what Ayşe wants. And it’s her grandmother who wants to take us out. But my mom wants me to stay here, too. Maybe nobody will come and get me ever again. I asked Mom, and she said, “Of course you’re coming home.” Then she hugged me.
The photo in The Wonderland of Knowledge is a little scary. Me and Ayşe are reading about it together.
The Mausoleum of the Memorial Tomb complex, the final resting place of the Great Leader Atatürk, is reached via an 860-foot-long walkway called the Road of Lions. It is flanked by 24 lions representing the 24 Oghuz Turkic tribes. The lions are in pairs to symbolize “togetherness and unity,” and are seated to symbolize “peaceableness.” The gap of just under two inches separating the paving stones on the Road of Lions ensures that visitors maintain an appropriately deliberate pace and keep their heads solemnly bowed as they approach the Mausoleum of the Father of the Turks.
I’m trying to read all about the Memorial Tomb before we go there tomorrow. Ayşe might ask me lots of questions. She’s twirling her feet and she keeps poking her nose into the encyclopedia so I can’t see. Then she whispers to me.
“Ali.”
“What?”
“I got some string. Did you do what we agreed? There’s only one more thing for me to do.”
“I couldn’t. Some things happened in the neighborhood. A kind of transfer.”
“Well, what are we going to do now?”
“I need to do a little organizing. Birgül Abla, and maybe some others. But she’s got a broken wing, too. I need a little more time.”
—
I looked in Ali’s eyes, but really close, to see if he was scared.
“Ali, you aren’t scared, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Ali, if your mom leaves you here, we can open up the laugh box and see what’s inside. Don’t be scared.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“Why is it laughing all the time? All it does is laugh.”
“Because funny thin
gs always happen in Spain. And in other countries, too. Ali? Can you look up ‘silkworm’ again? Maybe they turned into butterflies.”
“Not yet. I know how long it takes. Not for another two or three days.”
“But what if you’re wrong and they don’t have any food and they die?”
“I know how to count.”
“Okay.”
“Look, this is ‘O! Turkish Youth!’”
“That’s too hard. That’s for fourth grade, isn’t it, Ali?”
“But what if they ask us to say it at the Memorial Tomb?”
“They won’t do that, smarty. I went there before. They don’t make you take a test.”
—
Ayşe’s grandma made some lemonade and börek. We sat in the kitchen and ate, but Mom stood in the doorway and gobbled hers down. Ayşe’s grandmother told Mom to have a seat at the table, but she wouldn’t. She looked at me and smiled. She looked at me like I lived in this house. Like it’s okay for me to sit, but not her. She took big swallows of her lemonade, too. I was embarrassed, so I didn’t drink mine. A little after she left, I got up and followed her. She was in the bathroom, scrubbing the toilet. I stood in the doorway, so she’d see me. So she’d know I wasn’t sitting at the table. She smiled at me and whispered.
“Go on, little lamb. Go and play in the living room.”
I kept standing there. She stopped smiling. That’s when I understood. In Ayşe’s house, my mom isn’t supposed to talk or sit or eat slow or drink lemonade slow. I ran back to the kitchen. Ayşe and her grandma were still sitting at the table. I stood in the doorway and waited for Ayşe to finish her lemonade. When she didn’t, I said, “Come on! Let’s go out on the balcony!”
—
Ali doesn’t like lemonade, but he loves tea. We’re looking out at the police station. They brought in a whole bunch of big brothers and sisters today. But we can’t hear anything. They yell more at night. Ali counted as they went into the police station.
“That’s seventeen. Twelve guys and—”
“Wait, I’ll tell you how many girls. Seventeen take away twelve is …”
“Is?”
“Wait, I’ll tell you. I’m doing it in my head.”
The Time of Mute Swans Page 21
