“And Hüseyin Abi.”
Birgül Abla let go of my hand again. She lifted her hair up off her neck and said, “Whew, it’s hot. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have so much hair.”
I gave Birgül Abla another string from my pocket. When she was tying up her hair, she tossed it around, up and down, left and right, like a horse’s tail. She’s beautiful.
“You gave me that string in just the nick of time. Thank you, Ali.”
“It’s from the kite. Hüseyin Abi made it for me.”
Birgül Abla took my hand and we walked for a while. She forgot me, because she was thinking of Hüseyin Abi. Then she remembered me.
“Is that sack heavy, Ali? I can carry it for you.”
“No, Birgül Abla. It’s not heavy at all. But my hands are too small for it.”
“We should have tied it shut before we left.”
I pulled out the string from the car. Birgül tied it around the mouth of the sack. My hand wasn’t too small anymore.
—
“The square has been beautifully organized, Nejla Hanım. Wait until you see it. We couldn’t stay, though. My granddaughter was getting all fidgety.”
Grandma ran into an old friend from school. She has a granddaughter, too, but much littler than me.
“What all have they done, Özden Hanım?”
“Well, you know the picture of Atatürk looking out of a train window. They’ve used that image on a huge banner hanging in the square. It’s a pointed message to the Demirel administration.”
“Clever. Why did this little lady get so fidgety? Sweetie, didn’t you like it in the square? Was it too crowded?”
Grandma patted that girl on the head. She tossed her head to get away from Grandma’s hand. I talked to her a little, because I was the big sister.
“There’s no need to be scared of crowds. Everyone’s a revolutionary, so there’s no need.”
Grandma and her friend laughed at me. But not like I was being funny. I took out the bobby pin and put it in the girl’s hair. Now that I’m old, I should take care of the little ones.
I gave the auntie my button. I don’t know why. Maybe because her boobs were showing. She looked like the ladies who visit Uncle Cavit. The line between Grandma’s boobs was showing when we went to the pharmacy, too. I didn’t want the auntie to get sad like Grandma did.
“Ayşe! Are you giving everyone little gifts?”
The auntie laughed. Nobody knew, but all my things were gone. I had nothing left. Because I was all grown up now.
—
“What do you think is going happen, Ali? Over the next year or so?”
When Birgül Abla pulled up her hair, she didn’t talk for a bit. Then she asked me that question in a loud voice, out of nowhere. It’s like that sometimes. When people talk to themselves a lot, they can suddenly ask a question out loud. I didn’t answer, so she answered herself.
“I’ll tell you what I think, Ali. We’ll soon take over all of Ankara. That’s what’ll happen, one way or another. How much is left, anyway? Just a few neighborhoods. Once Ankara is ours, the rest will be easy. General Evren just issued another statement. He said martial law should be lifted, but then he went and said that the armed forces have embraced their enforcement of martial law and will strive day and night to safeguard the peace and happiness of the people of our nation. And on and on. Which means they’re going to keep torturing people. Either they break us, or we overturn them. There’s no middle way. It’ll all be over soon. Ali, I’m telling you this to help you understand. Yes, your mother got tortured—and that was terrible for you, too, dear—but don’t let it get to you. Never be scared. Why? Because we’re at war. Your mother resisted to the end, a true hero. When the time comes, we’re all prepared to resist just like your mother.”
“Birgül Abla, do you think we can find a wheelbarrow at the metro place?”
I don’t want to hear sad things. I have a job to do. Birgül Abla’s talking so I don’t get sad, but she’s making herself sad. I found the silver cord from my circumcision and made a ring for her. When I put it on her finger, she laughed again.
She’s not wearing the ring Hüseyin Abi gave her. I wonder why?
My strings are gone now. There are no more in my pocket. Because now I have a parka. Strings are for kids.
—
“To oppose a rail system is to oppose humanity! In order to save gas and diesel, and in order to break the chains of dependency on foreign resources …”
An uncle up on a high place is yelling into a microphone. Everybody’s clapping. We clap, too. Sometimes I yell, “Shoulder to shoulder against fascism!” But Grandma doesn’t yell, of course.
I think you’re only supposed to yell three times. When I do it a fourth time, I’m the only one. Then they start laughing at me, but in a nice way. Big brothers are walking around with yellow ribbons on their arms that say, “On Duty.” They’re the most serious. They go everywhere and look at people and keep things right. I guess they’re the youth revolutionaries. When it’s time to yell, they look at everyone and yell, and they lift their hands in the air. They make fists, so the veins come out on their arms.
—
When we got to the square, Birgül Abla looked around. There’s a big ditch right in the middle. Everyone stands around it. I want to look inside, down into the ground, to see what’s under Ankara. But everyone’s yelling, and it’s so noisy. Nobody’s looking inside the ditch. They have their eyes on the mayor, and he’s shouting. Birgül Abla sees someone she knows.
“Bahri!”
Bahri Abi isn’t very tall. In Swan Park, with those other two men, he was taller. Now he seems short. Maybe because he’s standing alone. Birgül Abla takes the sack from my hand.
“Ali, if you get up on Bahri Abi’s shoulders, you might be able to see our neighbors. Do you want to? Is that okay, Bahri Abi?”
“Ready, Ali? When I say ‘go,’ jump up.”
I jumped and suddenly I was high in the air. As high as Bahri Abi is when he looks out at things. I felt a little dizzy. Then I looked at the people. They gather and scatter, gather and scatter. There’s a roar. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It smells good, like fun. And then all the people shouted together, and Kızılay Square smelled like an apple.
—
“Did you hear that, Ayşe? This uncle right here says he’ll pick you up. Would you like that? Are you going to get up on his shoulders, sweetie?”
“Yes!” The uncle laughed and I climbed up onto him. Grandma and the others laughed harder. I was up high, and it was wonderful. When everyone claps, it sounds like water, like those when the water is cut, but then it comes back on and sprays into the glass, all gray and cloudy and bubbly. I closed my eyes. I could smell it, the spraying water.
—
I see Ayşe. She’s up on a man’s shoulders, just like me. I hold up my arms, so she’ll see me.
—
Oh! It’s Ali! His arms are open wide. Like he’s about to fly. I laugh and open my arms, too. We both turn into swans, me and Ali.
—
Birgül Abla was talking to Bahir Abi. I didn’t point to Ayşe. I can see her, and that’s enough for me.
—
Grandma was talking to the uncle holding me on his shoulders. I didn’t say, “Look, Grandma! Ali’s over there.” It’s nicer when only he and I know something. It’s an adventure, a secret.
—
Me and Birgül Abla got a wheelbarrow from the metro construction. She asked the workers if we could borrow it for a bit and then leave it with the municipality. The workers said, “You’re from the Gardens, aren’t you? Take it, sister.” We walked all the way to Liberation with the wheelbarrow. Birgül pushed it, and I put my sack inside it.
“We’re famous. Everyone’s staring at us because of the wheelbarrow, Ali sweetie,” Birgül Abla said. She called me “sweetie!” People talk like that on TV, but never in my neighborhood. I got embarrassed. But Birgül didn’t.
“We spend so much time going from the neighborhood to the protests and back. We have no idea what the people living in places like this are doing. They’re ordinary people. Although it’s true that ordinary people don’t know anything about us, either. Ali, do you think we’re too angry to see them? Or do we ignore them because they ignore us? What do you think?”
I shook my head.
Birgül Abla pulled back her toe so it wouldn’t show through the hole.
“They’re laughing at us, Ali. In their eyes, we’re naïve and gullible at best, a threat at worst. They sneer at us as though it’s terribly old-fashioned to talk about things like hunger. As though this is their time, not ours. And that sneer is the most dangerous of weapons. That sneer can build and build until it smothers an entire country. If you ask me, their ridicule might defeat us, but their submachine guns never will. Ali, what if they understand everything perfectly well? We tear ourselves apart, trying to get out the word, and they gawk at us with empty eyes and blank faces. We assume they don’t understand what we’re saying, that we need to try harder. Perhaps there’s a simpler explanation. Perhaps they don’t want to understand. What do you think, Ali?”
I shake my head.
“Listen, Ali. There’s something important I want to say to you about not speaking.”
Birgül Abla let go of the wheelbarrow and put her hands on her hips, just like Ayşe.
“Speak out, Ali. Everyone’s going to look at you, but don’t be frightened of making a mistake. The only way to make yourself heard through all this noise is to shout it out, loud and clear. Okay, Ali sweetie?”
“Okay,” I said. Birgül Abla took her hands off her hips and pinched my cheeks.
“Good for you!”
I can’t push the wheelbarrow alone, but I’ve got Ayşe. We can do it. We’re big enough now.
When we got there, Birgül Abla said, “Is this the place? Are you sure?” Then she looked over at Samim and Ayla’s apartment building, shook her head, and said, “That’s funny.” I clicked the Ibelo. I’m not going to speak out, though. Not a word until after we rescue the swans. Then I’ll tell Birgül Abla everything: Hüseyin Abi’s beard, the swans … I’ll give her the lighter, too.
UNIT 14
Neighborly Relations
Neighbors Are Dearer Than Relatives
“Why, of course he can stay with us! There’s no need to explain.”
Dad and Mom came home together. They were taking off their shoes when, in a tiny voice, Grandma told them about Birgül Abla and about how Ali was going to stay with us.
“Ali’s mother got tortured, or so that girl said. I found her a bit rough around the edges, though. Why would they have tortured Aliye Hanım? Do you think they really did, Sevgi?”
One foot naked, the other in a shoe, Mom stopped for a moment and looked at Grandma. She didn’t say anything. Sometimes, Grandma acts like my mom’s child. Mom looked away as she was taking off her other shoe.
“Aydın, we could visit the hospital and find out how she is.”
“We don’t know which hospital she’s in, Sevgi. Hasan Bey will probably call this evening and let us know.”
Dad wasn’t very curious. He was too mad to care. Mom was acting like Dad’s child.
Grandma rubbed her hands together and talked in that tiny voice.
“Sevgi, the boy’s not well, I’m afraid. He’s staring blankly.”
“It’s okay, Mother. We’ll take care of him.”
Now, nobody was looking at anyone else. My finger was in my mouth. I left it there, because nobody was looking at me.
Grandma is all small right now, but when Ali’s Birgül Abla came she stuck her nose in the air. Just as the door was opening, Birgül Abla said to Ali, “So this is the house your mother cleans.” That’s why Grandma stuck her nose in the air. And that’s why she said, in her most ladylike voice, “Won’t you come in, my girl?” Birgül Abla stepped inside and asked, “Can we speak in private for a moment?” Grandma folded her hands on her belly and said, “Certainly. Please follow me.” Then she pointed to the welcome mat and said, “That’s where we remove our shoes.”
“I’ll only be a moment, auntie.”
Grandma led the way to the kitchen, and she shut the door so we wouldn’t hear. But we heard everything! Birgül has beautiful, long hair. But she wore her shoes in the house.
Ali’s holding a sack and looking at me in front of the kitchen door. A strange look, as though we’ve never spoken before. He’s making the lighter go click click in his pocket. He has a lot to tell me. He looks at me, then at the sack, then back at me. I understand what he’s saying. Through the frosted glass of the door, Grandma and Birgül Abla are slivered and split.
“Do you have any idea what’s been going on in our neighborhood?”
“We keep abreast of current affairs in this house, too. There’s no need to explain.”
“You misunderstood me.”
“I don’t think so, young lady. I’m listening to you. Please, go on.”
“I feel as though we’ve got off on the wrong foot. Well, it’s like this, Nejla Hanım. Ali’s mother, Aliye Abla … Goodness me. Where do I start? How can I make you understand?”
“I wasn’t born yesterday. We live in the same country, after all. You can start by telling me where Aliye Hanım is.”
“Hmmm … The same country, you say. Well, here goes. Your cleaning lady, Aliye Abla—”
“We never refer to her as our ‘cleaning lady.’ She’s our helper.”
“Your helper, Aliye Hanım, was arrested and has been badly tortured.”
“What! Mercy me!”
Ali still hasn’t said a word, but I understand. He’s saying, “Look at the sack. I can’t show you. I can’t move.” I take the sack from Ali. He keeps his eyes on me. He doesn’t blink. There’s a green coat inside the sack. I pull it out. It smells dirty, like a winter night. I hold it up to Ali.
“A coat.”
“A parka.”
“What’s a parka?”
“A bloody coat.”
“Whose blood?”
“A swan’s.”
Ali clicks the lighter again. Maybe it’s a coat for rescuing swans in the park.
“Nejla Hanım, don’t get so agitated. They let her go.”
“Those scoundrels! Why would they do that to a poor cleaning— … torturing Aliye Hanım like that!”
“We’re members of an organization, Nejla Hanım.”
“An organization? Her? She’s a married woman with a child.”
“Please lower your voice, Nejla Hanım. It’s been a terrible shock for Ali. Let’s not make it worse.”
“God help us! One trouble after another …”
“Nejla Hanım. Aliye Abla’s in the hospital.”
“How is she? If only we’d known.”
Ali clicked his lighter again. His mother was in jail, that’s what the woman said. Maybe Auntie Aliye bled and bled. All over the floor! Ali hasn’t cried at all, I can tell. He’s too scared to cry. He pulled his list out of his pocket. “I don’t have strings anymore,” Ali said, so quiet I almost couldn’t hear him. “I don’t need a list, either.”
Ali lit the list with his lighter. All his “to do” things burned, starting at the end.
6. Save the swans (Or as many as possible. Maybe they’re too big for me to save all of them. The wingspan of a mature mute swan is typically between 79 and 94 inches.)
5. Get the butterflies into Parliament (then Hüseyin Abi can get into Parliament, too).
4. Get Mom a whole roomful of bread (like in Heidi) and meat (like in Hagar the Horrible).
3. Get the biggest gun ever for Hüseyin Abi.
2. Wear my uncle’s parka and do something important.
Only one thing was left.
1. Read the Wonderland of Knowledge from cover to cover.
He burned it, too, and let it fall to the floor. When Ali rubbed his foot on the carpet, the ashes melted away. I didn’t tell h
im about my secret things, the ones I gave away because we’re grown up now. Maybe he understands the things I don’t say. Ali’s lighter is still going click click. He’s big now, but when you grow up, I think you can feel small. We’re smaller than we were yesterday, somehow.
“We decided it would be best to leave Ali with you for a few days. I mean, that’s what his father and mother decided. But only until Aliye Abla gets out of the hospital. As you know, Ali’s a sensitive boy, and things are kind of mixed up in our neighborhood. There’s nobody to look after him—”
“Why, of course he can stay with us! There’s no need. Can you believe it? Aydın and Sevgi aren’t even home.”
“If you’d like, I can wait here until they come and explain it to them.”
“No, no. There’s no need to explain anything. It’s fine, just fine. Allow me a moment to regain my composure. Oh, dear! What shall we do with the boy?”
“You don’t need to do anything. All he needs is a safe, quiet place to spend a few days. Children bounce back.”
“Oh dear!”
Ali took the parka from me. His neck is kind of down, and to one side. He seems smaller and his neck seems skinnier, because he’s grown. Ali pulled the letter out of the pocket of the parka. The letter with the green ink Uncle Önder gave to Mom. He gave it to me. We lit it with the lighter. The words burned quickly.
Dearest Sevgi,
To love is, in a sense, to live with a broken wing. Did you know, my beloved Sevgi, that they break the wings of show pigeons to prevent them from flying away? To truly love someone is to present them—freely, joyfully, fearlessly—with a piece of one’s own wing bone, to let them know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. That piece of you is safe with me. And mine is safe with you. This, dear Sevgi, is the last letter I will write to you from prison. Soon, I will be released. Soon, the two of us
The letter burned until just there. Then the rest of it burned to ashes, too. We had nothing left. There was just the two of us, with nothing. I crushed the ashes into the carpet with my foot. Now, we really were grown up.
“What’s that smell? Is something burning?”
“Nejla Hanım, there’s one more thing–”
The Time of Mute Swans Page 31
