The Time of Mute Swans

by Ece Temelkuran

  “Hello! Hasan Bey! Is that you? Good morning. All right, then. I can only imagine how upset you must have been when you got cut off last time. Hold on. I’m giving the phone to my son-in-law.”

  Ali swallowed a whole olive, pit and all, when he heard his dad’s name. My dad stood in the doorway, doing a “come, come” with his hand. Ali got up, but so slow. The phone was too big for him. He couldn’t get his mouth and his ear in the right places at the same time. He didn’t say anything. “Say hello,” Dad told him. Ali looked at Dad. Nothing. We could hear Ali’s dad.

  “Son! Ali! Can you hear me?”

  Village people always yell on the phone. They think nobody can hear them, but then they yell so loud everyone hears them, even me and Dad.

  “Son! Are you okay? We’re coming to get you tomorrow. Early in the morning. Your mother’s fine, son. Don’t worry about her. Ali! Are you there?”

  Ali shook his head. Dad yelled.

  “He’s here, Hasan Bey. He can hear you.”

  “Ah! Good. Talk to your mother, Ali. Here she is, Ali.”

  Auntie Aliye yelled into the phone.

  “Ali!”

  Ali started kicking the shoe cupboard, but soft, like a tap. People do that when they want to run away.

  “Ali! My little lamb! Are you okay, my boy? Darling!”

  Ali kicked the cupboard again, but harder this time. I think he was crying. He didn’t say anything. Then he gave the phone to Dad and ran to the bedroom.

  “Hello? Aliye Hanım? Don’t worry, Ali’s fine. He’s feeling a little shy … Yes. No, really, he’s fine. We’ll be expecting you then. And let me say again how sorry I am about what happened…. Okay then. If you need anything—We got cut off again!”

  I ran to the bedroom to see Ali. When I came in, he ran away to the bathroom. He closed the door. I didn’t even see his face. I’m getting a little tired of chasing Ali all the time. The phone rang again.

  “It must be Ordu this time. Hello? Dad? Good morning. How are you, Dad? Are you feeling better? Ah, I’m sorry to hear that. Dad, we’re coming…. Yes, we’re coming to see you. We’re leaving tomorrow morning, first thing. What? Sure. We can do that. Okay then. See you tomorrow. Bye.”

  Dad laughed.

  “Your grandfather’s a funny man, Ayşe. First, he says, ‘My heart, my old heart. I hope you make it here in time.’ Then he adds, ‘Can you pick up a melon on the way?’ Sevgi, did you hear that? Hey, why are you reading the paper? We’re going to be late.”

  Mom was wearing one shoe and looking at the newspaper while she looked for the other shoe.

  “The headline caught my eye. Just when you think things couldn’t get any worse. The commander really did fire on the political prisoners in Mamak Penitentiary. I thought they had to be exaggerating, but it’s been confirmed. When did we become so cruel? All they care about is liberating Jerusalem and—”

  “Come on, Sevgi. I’m already late.”

  “They broke into an apartment and killed a CHP family. MHP partisans living in the same building did it. It’s madness.”

  “Sevgi!”

  Mom never wears her nice shoes these days, just the old, ugly ones.

  Grandma picked up the newspaper as they were leaving.

  “Let me see. Was it here, in Ankara? Neighbors killing each other … Oh dear!”

  “What is it, Mother?”

  “They gouged out the eyes of an eyewitness to a bank robbery. Oh dear, oh dear!”

  “Mother, Aydın and I are coming home together again this evening. We might be earlier than usual so we can start packing. See you later.”

  Mom left without kissing me. Again.

  I got bored then, so bored. Grandma made herself some coffee and sat by the window in the kitchen. She smoked and smoked, like a train. She looked out the window. She puffed, and she talked to herself: “I need to do something … talk to her.” Ali stayed in the bathroom, and I went to my room. I got my box of pencils. Opening it up, I took a sniff. It smells like pencils, erasers, and my hand, but my hand last year. We’ll probably come back from Ordu on Sunday. On Monday, school starts. Mom will get me new stockings, all white. And new shoes, red and shiny. On my first day, I’ll wear my lace collar. Grandma will wipe my knees with cologne, and my neck, too. I’ll be “fresh as a daisy.” I’ll wear braids, and we’ll put a new white ribbon in my hair. Everyone and everything is always extra clean on the first day of school. Even the toilets. The schoolbags are new. We’ll play with a rubber ball during recess. Then we’ll go to the stationer’s and get a whole bunch of notebooks. I’ll use a ruler to draw red lines in the left margins of all the pages. That’s where you start writing, from the red line. Once the line’s there, the notebook’s not empty anymore. But the best part is the right side. The page on the right is always clean, always waiting. It’s cool when you lean your arm on it. The left side pages get warm and dirty. I think maybe I’m getting sick of Ali, but just a little. He’s like the left pages. Always sad. Always down. When school starts, I’ll use my lunchbox every single day. In the afternoon, when it’s full of mandarin peels, the whole class will smell orangey. And it will smell like hand towels, too, because of the mothers who want kids with clean hands. Kids who always smell like soap. It’s nice when everyone’s so clean. Ali doesn’t have a lunchbox, I’m sure of it. He probably doesn’t know how to draw squiggles and flowers on the left side of the red line, either. I know how to draw braids in my notebook. First, you draw three lines, top to bottom, and then you draw loops, one after another, between the line the most on the left and the one the most on the right, but around the middle line, too, and … now how do I do that? I’ll remember if I look at last year’s notebook. I need to remember. I find a nice sharp pencil. I get happy when I draw braids. That’s why I keep doing it. And I don’t hear anything, not when I’m drawing. Everything is fine, nothing bad happening, nothing to be sad about. It’s better to be one of those sparkling clean girls in white stockings with a white ribbon and notebooks that don’t have the corners turned back. I draw and draw, not thinking about Ali, not getting sad. Even if I asked him to make notebook decorations with me, he wouldn’t. Oh! He’s coming out of the bathroom. He’ll come up and say, “Let’s look at the encyclopedia,” or “How are we going to save the swans?” It’s because we’re going to save the swans together that he likes me, or acts like it, anyway. It’s more fun to play with the kids at school, the ones who bring bananas during “Made in Turkey Week.” I’m still bored. If I had lots of new notebooks, I’d make even more red lines.

  “Ayşe, sweetie, I’m running to Jale Hanım’s for a couple of minutes. You’ll be good while I’m gone, won’t you, dear? I’m leaving the door open. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  I stood by the door and listened to grandma walk down the stairs. Ali finally came over, but I don’t want to talk to him anymore. Always sad, always boring. And he won’t visit when school starts, anyway. He won’t say to his mom, “Take me to Ayşe’s.” He won’t miss me when the swans are saved. Why would he? He doesn’t really like me. I made crazy eyes and looked at him, without talking. How do you like it? He got scared. I could hear Grandma talking at Jale Hanım’s door.

  “Jale Hanım, good morning.”

  “What can I do for you, Nejla Hanım?”

  “Nothing … About yesterday, I wanted to—”

  “Nejla Hanım, I’m awfully busy right now. We’re getting ready for the engagement. It’s tomorrow night.”

  “It’s shameful what you’ve done, Jale Hanım. We all know what you said to that policeman.”

  “So what.”

  “So what? Can’t you see it’s shameful? How many years have we been neighbors? These are trying times, Jale Hanım. Brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor, they’re all killing each other. You know us. We’re ordinary people who keep to ourselves. And we know you, too. You’re good people. What quarrel do we have each other? We had a misunderstanding, but no malice was intended. Let’
s make peace and go back to being good neighbors.”

  “Look here, Nejla Hanım. Don’t think I don’t realize how your daughter and your son-in-law and those communist friends of theirs ridicule my family every chance they get. For all I know, they even call us fascists behind our backs.”

  “That’s not true, Jale Hanım. How can you even think that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Such a word would never leave my lips, and I—”

  “I don’t know about that, Nejla Hanım. All I know is you dumped a bolt of fabric in my hand a week before my Feride’s engagement ceremony. Fortunately, my future son-in-law arranged for the best tailor in Ankara to make me a dress in less than three days.”

  “I’m so happy for you.”

  “As it turned out, I wasn’t forced to depend on communists like you and yours.”

  “That’s enough, Jale Hanım!”

  “Enough of what?”

  Grandma started walking up the stairs.

  “Enough of everything. You’ve gone too far. Why, I’ve never met a more ill-mannered woman in all my life.”

  “It’s you communists who are ill-mannered!”

  “Trouble, nothing but trouble …”

  Grandma came in with a tomato-red face. She closed the door.

  “That fascist harpy!”

  She clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “Ah! I called her a ‘harpy.’”

  From the kitchen came the sounds of Grandma clearing the breakfast table, beating up the dishes, clinking and clanking, yelling to herself.

  “It’s my mistake! Why attempt to humor her! What do you expect of a woman who would call the police? It’s all my fault. Damn it to hell!”

  Ali doesn’t know I’m not talking to him anymore.

  “Are your neighbors really fascists?”

  How am I supposed to know? Fascists are for grown-ups!

  “If they’re fascists, do you have guns? For if they attack?”

  Ali’s being silly. Always thinking the worst. Always expecting terrible things to happen. I’m going to read Heidi tonight, and tomorrow I’m going to run through all that greenness in Ordu, and then there’s school on Monday, so I’ll have lots of notebooks with straight red lines.

  “Where’s your gun?”

  “I’m not talking to you!”

  I went to my room. Ali didn’t come. I took out all my notebooks and made decorations, a whole lot of them, and sang songs. Happy songs. The sunlight came in through the window and those teensy things, the dust and the I don’t know what, whirled around. I watched them for a long time. I wrote, “I am a Turk, honest and hardworking…. My existence shall be dedicated to the Turkish existence,” so I’m ready if my teacher calls on me for the Student Pledge. I read the whole pledge out loud, twice. Ali didn’t come into the room, even once. But I don’t care. I don’t want him to. Then it was time to draw braids, and flowers, and squiggles … and someone knocked on the door. Not a normal knock. A bang, bang knock. Maybe Jale Hanım’s come to say “sorry”? I ran to the door. So did Ali. But we’re not talking. Not one word. Grandma came, too, still yelling.

  “Coming! Coming! There’s no need to knock so hard. I can hear you.”

  It’s Samim Abi! His shirt is undone. He’s sweaty and red.

  “Samim. What’s happened, son?”

  “Auntie Nejla, we’ve got to leave at once. Someone will come and get this package from you. Give my best to Aydın Abi and Sevgi Abla. We’ll be gone for—”

  “Samim! Hurry up!”

  Ayla Abla was shouting up the stairs. Samim Abi was about to go, but he looked at me and Ali first.

  “Ayşe! Ayşeyevich. We’ll be back, kids. Ali! Your Hüseyin Abi and Birgül Abla are coming back, too. Don’t be scared.”

  The package in Grandma’s hand was shaking.

  “Samim!”

  Samim Abi was on the stairs when he turned and asked.

  “What, Auntie Nejla?”

  “Be careful, son!”

  Samim Abi didn’t laugh like wild horses this time. He laughed like all the horses had run away. And were gone. And then he was gone, except for the clop clop of his shoes on the stairs, quieter and quieter.

  Music began filling the stairwell.

  “… My hair grew white before I grew old.”

  As the door to the building slammed shut, the song ended.

  “Snow white hair I feel like tearing out.”

  Jale Hanım slammed her door shut, so there was no more music. Grandma yelled down the stairwell.

  “That’s a sad song for such a self-satisfied woman!”

  Ali and I just stood there. Grandma remembered the package in her hand.

  “Whatever could this be? Who’s going to pick it up? Did he say? Good gracious. It’s a wonder I’m able to keep my wits. God help me.”

  Grandma was shaking so much she almost dropped the package. Ali took it from her and put it on the shoe cupboard. It was covered with newspaper. Cumhuriyet. He pulled it off. Grandma was still shaking.

  “My blood pressure’s gone through the roof. I think I’m about to faint. What’s that in there? God have mercy!”

  A gun!

  I think I said it. “A gun!”

  “One’s a STEN and the other’s a fourteen caliber. They’re Hüseyin Abi’s.”

  Then Ali turned to Grandma.

  “Have you got a coal cellar? Pieces are hidden in coal cellars.”

  Grandma swayed and grabbed at the wall.

  “I’m feeling terribly woozy, children.”

  Shouting came from the street, big brothers and big sisters.

  “You’ll pay for Mamak!”

  “Death to fascism! The only path is the revolutionary path!”

  We were running out onto the balcony to look down when there was a huge boom. “A bomb!” Ali said. He knows everything.

  Grandma sort of crossed her arms, but in the air, not on her belly.

  “The bogeyman’s coming, Ayşe! Time to hide!”

  Grandma wanted to play “Safety Drill.” Ali and I just looked at her. “We have to hide the guns,” Ali said. Grandma stood there, waving her arms, trying to play “Safety Drill” all by herself. I looked at Ali. It was no time for games.

  —

  “What’s keeping them? I hope they get home safely.”

  For the ninth time, Ayşe’s grandma was saying that. We hid the guns. I said, “If you don’t have a coal cellar, hide them in a pot.” Ayşe’s grandma got a pot and put the guns inside it, and then we put the pot in a cupboard in the kitchen. The yelling outside didn’t stop.

  Dhak! Dhak! Dhak! They’re spraying bullets out there. With an automatic. At each “dhak” Ayşe’s grandma makes us sit closer together. We’re on the sofa across from the TV. She’s doing this weird prayer.

  “I enclose the children in a dome of light and crystal, of satin and pearls. Presto. They are sealed in their dome. May God protect them!”

  We watched a cartoon while she was doing that. Heidi missing the mountains, and telling Clara about them. Ayşe said, “Don’t you miss your neighborhood? It’s in the mountains, isn’t it?” I didn’t answer. What can I say? Besides, we have jobs to do. I can’t think about home. My head will hurt, and I won’t be able to get any jobs done. The door to the balcony is behind the TV. I can see Samim Abi’s house over there. Me and Ayşe are watching Heidi, but we’re keeping an eye on Samim’s house, too.

  Ayşe’s grandma gets scared again when the news starts. She turns it up and sits next to us.

  “Commander of the Air Force General Tahsin Şahinkaya, who returned from the United States today …”

  “I wonder if Sevgi and Aydın decided to do some shopping for tomorrow. Could that be why they’re late?”

  Ayşe’s grandma is looking at me. As if I’d know. Maybe she’s asking me because I’m a man. When I don’t say anything, she turns back to the TV.

  “In a statement released by the Ministry of the Interior, provoca
teurs and anarchists have been warned not to …”

  “Ah! So that’s why they’ve taken to the streets.”

  Ayşe’s grandma is looking at me again. Maybe because I’m a revolutionary. She thinks I know everything.

  “Where could they be? I’m getting worried.”

  I feel like I have to say something.

  “It was the Port-Said that misfires. The fourteen caliber works fine.”

  “What did you say, my child?”

  “Samim Abi took the Port-Said.”

  Uncle Dürüst stares like that when he talks to himself, the way Ayşe’s grandma is staring at me now. She got up and closed all the curtains. She went over to the phone, picked it up and listened.

  “It’s working.”

  She went into the kitchen and lit a cigarette. Ayşe opened the curtains back up. Because she’s smart, actually. Then we watched some commercials.

  “Spread it on thick! Eat it up!”

  It’s spreadable cheese. “I’ve never eaten spreadable cheese,” Ayşe said. “Me neither,” I said. “It must be one of those American things, like Corn Flakes,” I said. “Things that make you smile.” “But we’re going to eat them now, aren’t we?” Ayşe asked. I didn’t say anything. “You spread a little at a time, right? But so it covers all the bread, even the corners?” “Of course,” I said, even though I have olives with my bread. “It wouldn’t taste good if you had too much,” Ayşe said. “Nope,” I said. We were both watching Samim Abi’s house and the TV.

  There was a knock on the door. Ayşe’s grandma yelled from the kitchen.

  “Thank God, they’re home.”

  It was Ayşe’s mom and dad. Her grandma was holding the pot when she opened the door. Ayşe ran up to them. She hugged her mom. Her mom hugged her.

  “I was worried sick, Sevgi! Why are you so late?”

  “Haven’t you heard the gunshots, Mother? There’s a firefight right on our street. We waited until it was safe, just around the corner. You’re white as a sheet. What are you doing with that pot?”