The Time of Mute Swans

by Ece Temelkuran

  “You’re kidding!”

  “It’s a terrible disgrace for our neighborhood. You should go and talk to the municipality. People are having trouble getting to work.”

  “We’ll see what we can do. So, you’re saying there are no buses today?”

  “You’ll have to walk.”

  Birgül Abla looked at me.

  “Can you walk that far, Ali?”

  I nodded my head.

  “Okay. But if you get tired on the way I haven’t got any money for a shared taxi. Are you sure?”

  I nodded my head again.

  “All right then.”

  I looked at her.

  “Ali, do you have to carry that sack all the way? Shall we leave it at home?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Ali, aren’t you going to talk? All you’re doing is shaking your head.”

  “Nope! I won’t talk.”

  Birgül Abla smiled. After we get to Kızılay, we’re going to Liberation. Birgül Abla is taking me to Ayşe’s. I’m going to tell her my mom’s sick and can’t come. Maybe I’ll stay the night there “if they’re willing.” Dad’s taking Mom to the hospital. Her belly got all swollen. And last night she was bleeding “down there.” Everyone in the neighborhood is going to the metro groundbreaking today. They want to support the mayor. Nobody knows what’s going to happen. It might even be like September 9th in the War of Liberation. That’s the day we drove the Greeks into the sea and freed İzmir. It’s the reason the mayor’s holding the groundbreaking on September 9th. He says either the prime minister and the fascists are going to bury us in the excavation site, or we’re going to bury them. So, everyone is going there today. Even the kids. We sent Mom and Dad to the hospital, and then we left home.

  —

  Grandma whispered into my ear, waking me up, pulling back the cover with her fingertips.

  “Time to get up, sweetie. You and I are going out this morning.”

  I wasn’t awake, not yet. I tried to remember.

  It’s morning. This isn’t a nap. I went to bed last night, sad, because Mom and Dad were saying terrible things. I’m still sad. In the morning, we were going to go out. The metro. Going to the groundbreaking for the metro. There were butterflies in my dream, butterflies I couldn’t catch. And swans, of course. But we couldn’t save them. The dream ended too soon. Like always.

  Grandma is talking with the tips of her lips, slowly lifting the cover with the tips of her fingers, coming closer with the tip of her nose. Everything is tiny, just the tip. Like a cat’s nose. Grandma is wearing trousers, and that means fun. She has me wear overalls, too, the ones I love. When we both wear trousers, it’s like we’re both happy. If I wear a skirt and shirt, bad things can happen. But now, like this, it feels like we’re going out to the countryside. Like nobody will look at us, so we don’t care. Like everything’s comfortable and easy.

  Grandma’s holding my hand inside the house. You’re not supposed to hold hands at home! Why are we walking in secret? Then I hear Mom and Dad in the kitchen, whispering. Smoking a lot and making a big cloud. The smoke curls and bends, like it has a bellyache. Because they’re talking about serious things. Not politics serious. No, it’s the other kind of serious. That’s why me and Grandma put on our shoes so quiet, so sneaky, so full of adventure. Mom saw us in the doorway of the kitchen. She didn’t say anything. I was going to say, “Good morning,” but I wasn’t supposed to, I think. Something’s going to happen. And it’s serious. But they don’t know what it is. Not yet.

  When they came home the night before, Mom and Grandma had red eyes. They’d both been crying. They didn’t ask me, or Dad, how we were. They smelled like beer. Mom put on her nightgown right away, and that made things better, that meant nobody was going anywhere. We were all home, together. So then Dad and I watched TV. Dad didn’t look at Mom once. Grandma called me to her room, but I didn’t go. I watched Mom and Dad. Mom sat on the edge of the armchair, looking now at the TV, now at Dad. Dad played a little with the cigarette resting in the ashtray. His eyes on the TV, he talked to Mom.

  “It’s best we don’t see Samim and Ayla for a while.”

  “Why? What’s happened, Aydın? Is something wrong? Is there really a reason not to see them?”

  Mom was doing it again. Talking too much. But Dad kept his eyes on the TV.

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  After that, it was different. Mom and Dad were on the same side now. They weren’t like that before. Now they had new enemies, enemies they were against, together. They didn’t talk, though. Dad won’t talk to Mom. I watch TV, but I listen to them as they wait for me to leave.

  “Aydın? Something important has happened. I’m under investigation.”

  “Why?”

  “You know, Ayşe hid those silkworms in the archives. How she managed, I have no idea!”

  “So?”

  “Because of that.”

  “Nothing will happen.”

  “Well, what if it does?”

  She wasn’t going to tell Dad! I didn’t tell him, but now Mom told him everything. But Mom’s acting like a child. As if my dad is her dad, too. He nods and strokes his chin. He’s a giant.

  “I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”

  Mom’s getting smaller on the edge of the chair. It’s not fair what she’s doing. It wasn’t the butterflies, it was the yellow envelopes. I got the butterflies into Parliament for her. It’s not fair. It’s not at all fair. Then I felt sleepy, all at once.

  While Grandma was putting on her shoes, I listened to Mom and Dad again. In secret. Mom had a cigarette in one hand, and with the other hand she was slowly scraping the edges of a jam plate with a teaspoon.

  “It’s not just me. They’re investigating Muzaffer, too.”

  “Who’s Muzaffer?”

  “That young guy who works in Microfilm. He’s an Islamist, a bit unusual. He writes poetry and so on.”

  “If he’s an Islamist, it’s strange they’d investigate him.”

  “Perhaps he hid something in the archives, too.”

  “Like what? Surely not love letters! So what would he hide?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “I see. Perhaps it’s best you don’t go in to the office for a few days. I mean, best if you stay away while the investigation is under way.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes. We need to go and see my father, anyway. The incidents in Fatsa have terrified him. He can’t come here. We need to see how he is.”

  “When shall we go?”

  “I don’t know. If we left Friday morning, we’d get there by evening. That detective friend of mine said I could borrow his car on Thursday. It’s an old rust-bucket, but it’s a Renault station wagon. There’s plenty of room for Ayşe in back. We could make up a bed. Your mother would be comfortable, too … Sevgi, if you truly want our relationship—”

  “All right. I’ll speak to the director. I’ll ask for one and a half days. We’re leaving Friday afternoon and coming back on Monday, right?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “And Ayşe and Mother are coming, too?

  “It’s up to you, Sevgi. Whatever you say.”

  That’s when I ran into the living room. I got my things from under the carpet, on the windowsill, in the corner of the shelf. They were all dusty. I blew on the bobby pin and the button. I blew on the pin, too, and stuck it in my collar. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you find a pin. The button and the bobby pin I put in my pocket. I want to tell them all my secrets. If only they understood. If we leave Ankara, nobody’ll save the swans!

  When Grandma and I left home, we still didn’t talk in normal voices. “Grandma, we’re going to visit Grandpa. All the way up in Ordu. Did you hear that?” I whispered.

  “Yes, sweetie. Your mom and dad need to talk a little more. May it all work out in the end.”

  “Are we going too, Grandma?”

  “We’ll wait and see. Let them decide fo
r certain first.”

  We were walking down the stairs past Jale Hanım’s door. Grandma whispered, “Don’t touch that filthy thing,” but I picked it up anyway. It was sitting on the doormat: Weekend. There was a big picture of Bülent Ersoy on the cover again. At first, they all loved Bülent Ersoy, but then, when he grew breasts, everybody got mad at him. Now, they rip his posters off the wall, but they laugh when they do it. Even famous people, like other singers, rip up his posters and have their photos taken with the torn pieces. People are weird.

  “As though we’re living in a lunatic asylum and they’re looking for a witch to burn.” That’s what Grandma said.

  “Look, Grandma!” I said. Jale Hanım used to have a welcome mat knitted out of old socks, but it’s gone now. The new one says, HOME SWEET HOME. I ask Grandma what it means. “I don’t know, Ayşe,” she says, “but you can be sure it’s common.” I threw Weekend back down on the mat.

  —

  Birgül Abla isn’t like Hüseyin. When she walks with me, she always looks ahead of us and around us. Birgül Abla always looks at me and where I’m walking. “Be careful!” she says. She tells me there’s a hole or a rut before we get there, like I’m a child. And it makes me feel like maybe I don’t want to grow up.

  She wears shoes with rubber bottoms, but one of them has a hole. And the other one has a short lace that only goes halfway, so she flap-flaps when she walks. We were running across the street and the shoe almost came right off. A car nearly hit us. I reached in my pocket and pulled out the short shoelace Mom gave me. I looked at her shoe. “Thanks, Ali!” she said. She tied my lace onto hers, and it reached. She laughed. When she stood up, she smoothed my hair. She stopped smiling.

  “It’s better messy.”

  She took my hand and we walked down the hill, clop clop, the two of us. There’s a dry cleaner’s on the corner. They hung up a big Bülent Ersoy poster but with a mustache drawn on it. A Grey Wolf mustache. Birgül Abla looked at it.

  “Ali, what do you think about Mustafa the Grocer?”

  I didn’t say anything because I was looking at Birgül Abla’s shoes. Maybe she’ll step on a stone or her foot will land in a hole. She kept talking, though.

  “It seems we’ve become as heartless as our enemies. Ali, I think we were too hasty with Mustafa. We shamed him in front of the whole neighborhood, and then it turned out that some of his relatives were policemen. But when we found out … Nobody could come out and say he was innocent, that we’d made a mistake. That’s what’s wrong with this country, Ali. We stone someone in front of everyone, but then, when we apologize, we do it in secret. The women have been taking food to Mustafa for the last two days. He won’t accept it. He’s not talking to anyone. He won’t answer his phone. He won’t tell anyone when a call comes to his store for them. He’s heartbroken. And he’s right to be. They’re doing the same thing now with Bülent Ersoy. Later, though, they’ll all whisper about how they sorry they are. That’s how it is, Ali. People are too ashamed even to apologize. But the people who make you most ashamed are the ones who never get ashamed themselves. Look what’s going on with the CHP. We need unity on the left, they say. Everyone went to their metro event … but they’ve been leading the left all my life. Going back to the CHP makes you feel like you’re going back to your parent’s house. It’s like admitting you failed in life, and it’s embarrassing to do that. And it’s not as though you get welcomed back to the party with open arms. No, they make you kneel and plead…. Never mind me, Ali. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “I need a wheelbarrow, Birgül Abla.”

  “You keep saying that, but you won’t say why.”

  “It’s a surprise, for Ayşe.”

  “What’s in that sack, Ali?”

  “My dead uncle’s parka. Do you want to see it?”

  “No … No, that’s okay.”

  “I need a wheelbarrow, Birgül Abla.”

  “What kind of surprise, Ali?”

  “Hüseyin Abi surprised you with a sandwich wafer. Remember? It’s kind of like that.”

  She smiled and took my hand.

  “Where on earth can I find you a wheelbarrow right now?”

  “We’re revolutionaries, Birgül Abla. You’ll think of something. Right?”

  She laughed for a long time.

  “You bet we are! We’re revolutionaries. If we put our minds to it, we can fly through the sky. Right, Ali?”

  “That’s right. We’ll fly.”

  Birgül Abla laughed so hard I decided to tell her about the swans. That they’ll fly, too, I mean. That we’ll all fly, and soon. But if I tell her we might come back as swans, maybe she’ll say what Ayşe did: “No, we’re all going to heaven.”

  —

  We’re having fun because we’re both wearing pants and we’re walking to Kızılay Square. It’s going to be great. I’ve got the button and bobby pin in my pocket and the pin in my collar. We’re taking big steps, and I have everything with me. It’s like Ali said, that your chest gets real big, right here, when you take a breath. A giant revolutionary, that’s what you become. Grandma’s a giant revolutionary, too. Her shoes are dusty, and so are mine. Just like Ali’s.

  So many people are walking to Kızılay Square. And they’re all happy to see each other. We’re going there for the train, that’s why. Everyone here loves trains. Grandma greets everyone. “Good morning, sir,” she says and, “Hello, my boy.” Grandma is “a real lady,” just like Jale Hanım said that one time. But now they’re not talking. Jale Hanım “took advantage,” you see, and that’s wrong. The walking people are talking about politics, but they’re happy, so they don’t get mad about it.

  “That Özal … I wonder who dug him up? Demirel? That bastard’s a true enemy of the working class.”

  “Özal’s nothing more than an undersecretary, he’s not even a civil servant. Yet there he is with an opinion on everything. Who is he to demand an end to the strikes? And have you heard the latest?”

  “No, what did he say now?”

  “Something about Turkey making great strides despite those who would sabotage our progress. And he’s warned that there will be a terrible economic crisis unless, basically, the government gets to enact all of its reforms unopposed.”

  “Well, it’s nice to know we’re making great strides!”

  “He said it, not me.”

  Özal doesn’t like trains, and we’re walking to the new train, so we don’t like him. We don’t like Ecevit very much, either, but we don’t get so mad at him. Ecevit’s going to understand one day and then we’ll all join together and everything will be great. That’s what they say, or something like it. Aunties my mother’s age are talking, too.

  “Let’s say early elections were called. What difference would it make? The fascists would keep murdering all the leaders of the Republican People’s Party. That’s what he wants.”

  “Demirel, you mean?”

  “Yes. Have you seen? It’s in all the papers, not just Cumhuriyet. They’re keeping a running tally of all the CHP leaders killed since Demirel took office. And it hasn’t even been a year yet.”

  “How many have there been? Ten?”

  “Worse. Twenty-nine!”

  “That many!”

  The more people that are walking, the closer we get to Kızılay Square. That’s how it feels. Grandma’s getting happier and happier.

  “Sweetie, look at all these people! When you spend too much time alone, you end up thinking sad thoughts. Buses, shared taxis, trains, ferryboats … they’re all for people. How can I put it? There’s a vanity in misery, Ayşe. An arrogance. You think you’re the only one who’s unhappy, and you forget how to make others happy. You’ll understand once you’ve grown up. Ferryboats and trains … they make everything possible. They make it possible to meet, to fall in love, even.”

  Grandma looks at me. She doesn’t feel the heat. She feels a breeze that isn’t there. I pull the pin out of my collar and hold it out. Her eyes can’t see it unle
ss I put it right under her nose.

  “What’s that, sweetie?”

  “The fox whiskers pin.”

  “The fox whiskers pin?”

  “The one that titters.”

  “Oh, you are a goose and an angel! Now give me that before you prick yourself.”

  Grandma sticks the pin in her collar. Pins don’t get thrown away. Nothing gets thrown away. I still have the button and the bobby pin left.

  —

  “Hüseyin Abi’s in Ankara, isn’t he, Birgül Abla?”

  Birgül Abla lets go of my hand, stops and looks at me.

  “How do you …”

  She goes quiet. She takes my hand, and we start walking again. She didn’t answer me, so I don’t tell her about the rice restaurant. I don’t tell her about Hüseyin’s beard, either. We’re walking along when somebody shouts behind us.

  “Birgül Abla! Birgül Abla!”

  It’s one of the big brothers in high school. The one who got out of prison.

  “Hello, İsmail. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m going to the square to hand out pamphlets with some classmates.”

  “What kind of pamphlets, İsmail?”

  “They won’t let the high schoolers in prison take any of the exams. We’re trying to do something about it.”

  “Let me see. Hmmm. Nice job. Did you write it yourself?”

  “Of course, I did. Thanks, Birgül Abla.”

  İsmail Abi is old, at least fifteen. That’s why he writes the pamphlets himself now. But he gets red when he sees Birgül Abla. And he’s got more teeth than anyone I know. They all show when he smiles.

  “All right then, İsmail. Off you go. Why are you standing there and grinning like that?”

  “Nothing. It’s just, when I see you …”

  “Never mind, İsmail. See you later.”

  “Okay, then. Bye, then.”

  “Bye, İsmail.”

  Birgül Abla smiled at me when İsmail Abi left.

  “He’s a strange boy, Ali.”

  “He’s in love with you, Birgül Abla.”

  “Oh! You don’t say. Who else is in love with me?”

  “All the high schoolers. And—”

  “And who?”