Poor kid? Is that me? Is she saying that because all I have left of the car is the red string to pull it? There’s nothing fascists won’t do. They break into prisons, they take your car, they stop you from getting water. But we’re going to win, that’s what they all say. Mom’s not sleeping. She’s not here. I’m here, but if I say it, it won’t come out. They won’t hear me. I want to see Birgül Abla. But I can’t come out, can’t leave my strings. I need my strings. Maybe I’ll stay under the cushions until I die. Or not talk until I die.
“Oh, come on! What’s this doing in one of our newspapers?”
“What is it?”
“Bülent Ersoy! The revolutionaries in the left-wing press just had to cover the dramas of a singer. ‘Are you a man, or a woman?’ the headline asks. The article itself focuses on alleged tax evasion at the İzmir Fair. You know, as befits a ‘serious’ newspaper. Well, I’m not falling for it.”
“People lap that kind of thing up. They won’t leave Bülent Ersoy alone until they’ve picked his bones clean.”
“Birgül!”
“What is it now?”
“What was the name of that Black Sea woman who just joined us?”
“Do you mean Nuran?”
“That’s it. She asks why they don’t take the money we raised for arms and give it to Kastelli. I can’t help feeling we’ve lost our way.”
Maybe everyone feels like I do, even Birgül Abla. Like none of this is happening. Here, under the cushions. Even Bülent Ersoy. When I wrap the silver braid from my circumcision hat around my finger, it comes apart down the middle, like it’s two strings, not one. But then it becomes one again. We became men that day. We cried. We were scared. Then we were men, not kids. There’s no going back. The string comes apart. I’m a man now. I have to act like a man. Or they’ll pick my bones clean.
“Birgül, are we going to go to the groundbreaking for the metro? Has the municipality invited us?”
“We’re going.”
“Have you heard about the minister of public works? He said the metro’s no different from a shanty house and that they’ll tear it down. The mayor’s trying to build a metro all on his own, but the government is determined to block him. What’s wrong with these people?”
“I think we should check in on Aliye Abla. She’s always up by this time. Did you see her yesterday? They didn’t come to the reservoir with us.”
“She said she was going to take Ali to the theater yesterday.”
“I’m going to check. Maybe something’s wrong.”
I mustn’t be scared, mustn’t cry, mustn’t make a sound. Birgül Abla doesn’t know I’m here. Maybe something’s wrong. Why did Samim Abi have Hüseyin Abi’s Ibelo? Why was his “Wanted” photo so ugly? If I told them where he was, would they have let Mom stay home? Maybe they wouldn’t find him. Does Birgül Abla know what to do? I need a wheelbarrow. For the swans. And for Mom. But I can’t make a sound. I’m sorry, Birgül Abla. I can’t. Will she find me? I want her to. Find me.
“The door isn’t closed all the way. What’s going on?”
I’m yelling to Birgül Abla but inside. I can’t make a sound.
“Someone’s been here! Look! Everything’s scattered all over the place.”
Can you hear me, Birgül Abla? Click, click. Don’t yell. You won’t hear me. Click, click.
“Do you hear that? What’s that sound?”
“What sound, Birgül?”
“It’s coming from over there. From under all those cushions. Shhh! A lighter! Ali! Ali! What are you doing in there? Are you okay? Ali, come out of there. What happened? Who put you in that sack?”
Birgül Abla asked lots of questions. So many questions. I can’t open my mouth. They can’t hear me. She’s asking and asking and asking. And I’m telling her, but not with my mouth. I can’t, I can’t. And then I can, but my mouth’s stuck together. It’s dry and it’s cracking. But the words come out, in pieces.
“Birgül Abla. A wheelbarrow. How?”
She hugs me. If she hugs me, maybe. Not now, but maybe, I can tell her. I want to come back. I want to be here, all of me. I want to talk, to tell her. She’s hugging me, nice and warm. Warm and nice, but not soft like Mom. The swans. I want to save them. With Ayşe.
“15 Million Youths in Ten Years”
“How many people have died, Aydın Abi? And that’s without factoring in all those who have been terrorized, alienated, enraged, and disillusioned by all the killing. If you mow down plants year after year, for ten years, right from the root, do they ever grow back? Sometimes I wonder if people are going to give up and stop having children. Aydın Abi, aren’t you listening to me? Not you, too!”
Detective Nahit yelled it. Everyone looked at us. They’re all policemen, but they have mustaches like Dad’s, so there’s nothing to be scared of. They’re all from the Law Enforcement Association. That means they’re good cops. Dad told me about it on the way to the meeting. It hasn’t started yet, so everyone’s standing. Dad’s going to give them a sociology lesson. It’s called the social sciences, or something, but we won’t do it until fourth grade. Dad doesn’t want to be here. I can tell. He’s jiggling his leg.
“Detective, it must be that Mustafa Pehlivanoğlu business that’s bugging you. I guess you feel sorry for him, and now … Just forget about it. It’s not your fault.”
Detective Nahit banged his fist on the table.
“It’s never anyone’s fault, is it? That’s the problem with this country.”
Two policemen came over. They’ve got walkie-talkies that go khhh khhh. They want Detective Nahit to get up. His fingers are bleeding. There’s no more fingernail left for him to chew. The tall one with the bushy mustache is mad.
“Nahit, are you drunk or what?”
“He’s not drunk, Chief. He’s just cracking up a little.”
“Take him to the bathroom. Get him to wash his face. And get him a strong cup of coffee. What’s the matter with him?”
Dad talked to the chief while Detective Nahit was in the bathroom.
“Sir, I think Nahit’s kind of shook up by this Mustafa Pehlivanoğlu–”
“No, that’s not it. It’s more than that. Nahit told me something about a friend of his. This friend asked to have his wife followed. And his neighbors, too. And the guy’s supposedly a leftist, one of us. Everyone’s going out of their minds these days. By the way, I didn’t catch you name.”
“Aydın. I’m speaking at the seminar.”
“Welcome, Aydın Bey. Let me thank you on behalf of the association. Anyway, that’s what’s bugging Nahit. What’s worse is that he saw the guy’s wife with another man. And the neighbors are up to something, too. It’s weird. Nahit’s been totally unfazed by all the fascist massacres and the psychos he’s had to deal with, but when it comes to this friend of his … It’s different when you can’t trust your own friends. At this rate, none of us are going to have friends left.”
Dad lifted his eyebrows, blinked, and played with his mustache. The chief played with his mustache, too. They all did. All around me were twirled mustaches and the khhh khhh of the walkie talkies. Dad was right. This is no place for a child.
After lunch, Grandma had said, “Come on, we’re going. I need to do something. If I don’t, your mother and father are going to end it. Come on, Ayşe, put on your shoes.”
We surprised Dad at his workplace.
“Is anything wrong, Nejla Hanım? What are you doing here?”
“Aydın, I wonder if I could leave Ayşe with you. I need to talk to my daughter alone. This has to stop.”
“Is Sevgi expecting you?”
“No. I’m going to surprise her. I’ll take her out for a beer. Ayşe has to stay here.”
“Nejla Hanım, perhaps it’s best you stay out of this?”
“Is that so, Aydın? You’re doing such a good job, you’re afraid I’ll make things worse, is that it? It’s not fair to the child, Aydın. Anyway, Sevgi’s got issues with me, not you. Because … neve
r mind! Look after Ayşe, would you? See you at home this evening.”
“I’ve got a seminar with the police this evening, Nejla Hanım. It’s no place for a child.”
“Right now, your home’s no place for a child, Aydın!”
They turned down the sound on their walkie-talkies, pulled up chairs, and sat down with their arms crossed. Dad got up and stood in front of them. “Sociology,” he said, “is a hybrid word formed from the Latin socius and the Greek-derived -logy.”
He stopped. I thought he wouldn’t be able to talk anymore. Then he laughed.
“This may be one of my last lectures. With twenty or thirty people getting killed every single day, we sociologists won’t have a society left to study!”
Nobody laughed. Then Dad talked to the policemen for a long time. I was bored, so I watched them. Some of them wrote things in their notebooks. All of them smoked. Only Detective Nahit slept with his chin on his chest. When noise came out of his nose, he woke up. Then he fell asleep again.
When Dad was done, he said, “I’ll try to answer any questions you might have.” One of the cops raised his hand, kind of, partway, but then he put it down again. They all turned up their walkie-talkies. Maybe they didn’t want to talk. They wanted their walkies-talkies to talk for them.
Afterwards, Detective Nahit walked down the stairs with us. His eyes were all red. Dad put his hand on his shoulder.
“Nahit, have you been able to find anything out about Samim?”
“Aydın Abi, it’s kind of complicated. Oh, screw it!”
“What are you talking about, Nahit Abi?”
“Everyone’s doing what they can. That’s the best way to look at it. And nothing’s a crime, because nothing is anyone’s fault. Think of it that way, Aydın Abi.”
“I’ll decide for myself what I think. But you haven’t really told me anything, Nahit.”
“Well, Samim and … now what was his wife’s name? Ah, Ayla. The two of them … we’ve got everything under control. You can rest easy. We’re on top of things.”
“For God’s sake, Nahit! Tell me what’s going on.”
“I will, but on one condition: Never ask me to do this again, Aydın Abi. So, here’s what we learned …”
I don’t want to hear. Dad’s listening and playing with his mustache again. I don’t hear a word. It’s awful. It’s shameful. I’m ashamed of myself. I don’t want to give back Mischa the Bear. If we don’t like them anymore, I’ll have to, though. It would be wrong not to.
“Ayşe, hold my hand when we cross the street!”
“No! I’m going to walk alone.”
“What’s got into you, Ayşe?”
I’m ashamed. That’s why I start flapping my arms, like a butterfly.
“I’m a butterfly now, Daddy. I don’t have any hands.”
“In Every Battle for Ten Years”
“Aliye!”
Dad sounds like a mosquito. Mom came through the door. Policemen hold her by the arms, because she can’t step on the ground. Her feet are huge.
“Aliye, what have they done to you?”
When Dad ran over to Mom, one of the policemen punched him. He’s on the floor now.
“Shut your fucking mouth. No talking. Just tell us where the guns are.”
Mom threw herself on the floor and hugged the policeman’s legs.
“I’m begging you. Just let me get a bowl of pickles.”
“What? Pickles! This bitch is talking about pickles.”
“I promised her. She’s going to have a baby soon. They tortured her. She’s craving pickles. I promised.”
“You said you’d show us where the guns where. We didn’t come all this way for your fucking pickles or for anything else. Show us. Now!”
“Don’t kick me. Let me get some pickles first. They’re tasty. I’ll give you some, too. Don’t kick me.”
But they do kick Mom. Dad flies up from the floor and they kick him in the head. They’re both on the floor. Am I here? Is this happening?
After I came out of the sack and Birgül found me, we waited for two days. I slept with Birgül Abla. She flops around in her sleep. I kiss her arms when she moves them around like that. She has a broken wing, that’s what Mom said. I never woke her up. I kissed her soft as a bird. Dad came home two days later. They’d arrested him in Amasya because he looked like one of the “Wanted” men. Dad hugged me. He cried, but I didn’t. Birgül Abla told him what happened. I couldn’t.
Then Dad squatted in the garden. He lit a cigarette and stayed there like that, squatting. For five cigarettes. Birgül Abla sat on the ground next to him. I didn’t move. I stayed on the cushions and watched them from the window. “We’ll have to wait,” Birgül Abla said to Dad. He squeezed the end of the burning cigarette between his fingers.
“They’ll let her go, Hasan Abi. Don’t worry.”
He squeezed the fire between his fingers again. The fire got buried deep inside the cigarette and the paper got black. The cigarette choked on fire. Dad’s throat was like that, too. Choked on fire.
We waited two more days. Dad smoked the butts of his cigarettes. He didn’t go to work. And then it was evening and Mom came home.
They’d beat the bottoms of Mom’s feet with a big stick. That’s why her feet were huge. I knew they did that, from before. She can’t walk. I knew we had pickles, too.
The police got tired of kicking Mom. She crawled to the kitchen. “They’re tasty. I’ll give you some, too.”
One of the cops laughed.
“Go on, then. I love a good homemade pickle.”
Blood was dripping out of Mom’s nose. She got to the kitchen. Grabbed the door. Pulled herself up. I followed her. She smiled at me.
“Don’t be scared, my little lamb. Never be scared.”
She put pickles in two bowls. One of them, she set in front of the policemen. So slow, everything was so slow.
“Please, let me take the other bowl to that girl. Then you can do whatever you want. I don’t care.”
“Yeah, okay,” one of the cops said. They were crunching pickles, picking them up with their hands. They took Mom by the arms again. A little juice splashed out of the bowl she was holding, crooked.
Dad stayed on the floor until nighttime. Birgül Abla came, and so did the other big sisters. We waited two more days. Then, early one morning, her salwar torn, Mom came through the door. It opened—the door—and banged against the wall. Mom was hanging on to the door. Barefoot. Dad jumped up and grabbed her. He lay her down on the cushions. She breathed and talked, breathed and talked.
“They left me somewhere in Ulus, the bastards. I didn’t have any money. A taxi driver brought me home.”
Mom smells like pee. She laughs.
“They punched me in the car, but I kept my promise. And she got her pickles.”
Dad’s laugh was snotty, because he was crying. They hugged for the first time. The first time in front of me.
Mom kissed my arm. Because it’s broken. It’s badly broken, though. It won’t get better with a kiss. I need a new wing.
“The Breadth and Width of the Motherland”
At night, Mom got up, slowly, because of hurting so bad. To my Dad, she said, “Hasan, take me outside. I’ve got something to say.” I watched from the window as Mom showed the place where the guns were buried. Mom and Dad stood there like they were praying beside a grave. Then they went to the coal cellar. Dad didn’t want to go, but he had to, to hold up Mom. They stayed there for a moment. When they came out, Dad was holding something. They came inside the house and looked at me. “Give it to me,” Mom said. She lay down on the cushions. “Come here, my little lamb,” she said. “This parka was your uncle’s.” She pulled it out of the sack. It smelled nasty. Like coal. Dad said, “Don’t, Aliye. We’ll be coming straight back from the hospital. Don’t act like you’re going to your grave—” Mom didn’t let him finish. “Hush,” she said. Then she looked at me and smiled.
“Ali, me and your Dad are going to the
hospital tomorrow. I want you to have this parka. It’s yours now. You’ll keep it.”
I put on the parka. It was huge. I sat down on the edge of a cushion, next to Mom. She rolled up the sleeves. My head was buried, that’s how big the parka was. I looked at the bloodstain on the collar. It was black, because it was so old. Dad lit a cigarette. He squatted in front of the door with his back to us. Because I was wearing the parka, Mom hugged me. She sniffed me. For her, there was no stink of coal. “Oh!” she said.
In the morning, when I was leaving with Birgül Abla, I had the parka in its sack. “What are you going to do with that?” she asked. “What’s in it?” Mom was getting into Teslim Abi’s taxi to go to the hospital. She yelled to Birgül Abla.
“Leave him be, Birgül Abla. Let him take it with him.”
Me and Birgül Abla waited for the bus to take us to Kızılay Square. The men waiting for a shared taxi were talking.
“They’ve finally arrested Bülent Ersoy.”
“You’re kidding. Because of his breasts?”
“No, an inspector came to his house over a rent dispute, and he started carrying on, or something, so he got arrested.”
“Where will they jail him? With the men or with the women?”
“They gave him his own private cell.”
“Really?”
“And his own TV.”
“Really?”
“He’s been crying in his cell the whole time. That’s what it says in the paper.”
“Let him cry! We’ve been getting tortured to death while he cries in front of his TV.”
The men looked at us.
“If you’re waiting for the bus, don’t bother. There’s no more service.”
“What do you mean?”
“Somebody tipped over a bus the other day. They set up a barricade and lit it on fire. They say it was the fascists from Almond Stream, but I’m not so sure. Haven’t you heard about it?”
Birgül Abla gave my hand a squeeze.
“Yes, I have. I heard it was an accident, though.”
“Well, the mayor’s cancelled service to Rambling Gardens. He wants to teach us a lesson.”
The Time of Mute Swans Page 29
