Oya Baydar: The Lost Word

Zelal holds the doctor’s fingers which are on her forehead and brings them to her lips. She kisses them with respect and gratitude. A person can reach people, Mahmut had said one day. Do you see? They can.

She closes her eyes and relaxes. A little girl lies all alone, helpless and dumb in a strange hospital room, in a strange city, in a strange world. She does not even expect Mahmut any longer; Mahmut, her only support in the whole world. But she wants him to escape, not to come near her, to be caught or to put his life in jeopardy. She thinks of a fairytale. A fairytale in which enemies make peace, lovers reunite, death is timely and from old age, in which birth heralds life, streams and rivers flow deep blue and crystal clear and not the colour of blood, in which people hold out their hands to each other instead of shooting. She had said to the writer who had gone to look for the word, ‘As you are a storyteller, tell me a story with a happy ending.’ Had the writer abi been able to hear the faintly whispering voice? Had he been able to find the word he was looking for? Will he return bringing the word in his wake? Will he again be a godsend as he was that night at the coach station?

Cats Return to Their Homes

When she saw the man and the boy come through the hotel’s revolving door Elif wanted to get up from her chair in the corner close to the reception desk and run over to them. She could not. She sank back into the chair. A whole night without a wink of sleep; a whole day wandering restlessly around the city, her hotel room being too confining; and now hours of tense waiting drinking endless cups of coffee and smoking endless cigarettes under the curious glances of the girl at the reception desk. And especially this last hour that, when Deniz said on the telephone, ‘We’re in Helsingør, we’ll be there in an hour at the latest’ seemed to her like a century.

Deniz was holding the boy’s hand. The little blond boy who was just a tiny mite beside Deniz carried a large pack on his back that was almost as big as he was himself. As for Deniz’s backpack it seemed just medium in size in comparison. She moved towards them, to hug and embrace them. This time she succeeded.

They must be tired. Who knows how they had got here. A long sea journey and then over land. Why didn’t I think of sending a ticket straight away so that they could come directly by plane from Oslo to Bergen? Then they would have been here before evening and not be so tired. As she stands resting her head against her son’s neck with her hand on Bjørn’s head she is surprised at her weakness and exhaustion. If she could cry in loud sobs she would feel better. She cannot. She can only say, ‘Miaow, miaowww…’

Finally she says, ‘You are tired. And Bjørn must be dog-tired. Let’s go straight to the room.’

She has already reserved their room. When asked for how long, she said she didn’t know. She doesn’t know. She hesitates to ask, to learn. She is afraid of the answer she will receive. The size of the packs on the backs of father and son looks promising. But still one never knows. One must not think about this now. It’s not the right time. What is important at the moment is their being here, safe and sound.

As they take the key from reception, Bjørn prattles on, trying to tell her something. Deniz translates what the boy says. ‘The Devil was angry with us. He burnt our house. He says that they don’t want us there any more.’

‘Don’t worry, Bjørn. I’m angry at that devil, too. We’ll burn his castle down. Then he can’t stay on the island any longer. And I know very nice places where the Devil can’t reach us. We’ll go there all together.’

As they walk towards the lift Deniz translated to Bjørn briefly what Elif has said. She understands that he has not translated everything to the boy.

‘Is there anywhere where the Devil cannot reach us, Mother? Do you really believe that? The unknown deserter had written, “The violence of the age will find you everywhere.”’ Deniz’s voice, beyond being tired and daunted seems to have reached the end of the road. It is as though he is saying, ‘Take the boy and me and do whatever you want. That’s it from me. I give up. He has left the heavy burden of living on the ground, and it’s as though he is saying, ‘I cannot carry it any longer. Take it if you want or leave it on the ground.’

After Bjørn has wolfed down a couple of biscuits and gone to sleep and mother and son sit together with a glass of cognac each, he says, ‘I would like to be stronger. I would like to be strong enough to enter the race and carry, not just my own, but the weight of the whole world. I would like not to need havens, calm harbours and be able to put out to stormy, wild seas. A person can drown in a glass of water. At least drowning at sea would have glory. You could say that I drowned with dignity.’

At first their conversation was hesitant, calculated and reserved. They were weighing each other up like adversaries, trying not to play into the other’s hands and putting off the questions, not ready to listen to the answers. They were careful, lying in wait. It was as though there was a white piece of paper in front of them and an empty screen, and, with careful consideration, they were writing their shared fate on it. Every word they uttered was written on the report of their future in a way that could not be erased or changed. ‘What happened on the island?’ This question that Elif asked mustering all her courage seemed fleetingly to hang in the air.

As they cheerfully returned from the Big Fish competition, having caught a really big fish, they had first seen a distant red glow. If the horizon had reddened not in the east but in the west they would have ascribed it to the sunset, and they would have mused on the beauty of the purply red horizon. The fishermen who knew the seas and the skies of the island well were witnessing a miracle. The sun was setting both to the west and the east; the horizon was coloured red in both directions. Who said that word first? Did they whisper it? Did they shout it? Deniz cannot remember. He only remembers the word ‘Fire!’ And his own voice saying, ‘The Gasthaus is burning.’ Had he said it out loud? Had the others heard? He doesn’t know.

They were a few miles away from the island and were approaching it from the north. It was not possible for the Gasthaus to be seen from where they were. But Deniz had understood with infallible instinct that it was the guesthouse which was on fire. Fisherman Jan said, ‘That’s the direction of the Gasthaus. There are just the rocks and your house. You’re right!’ He took the binoculars to see better. ‘Yes, damn it! The Gasthaus is burning.’

Deniz continued his account. ‘Then a strange but good thing happened. It was as though my brain emptied. I turned into a robot that saw everything but did not think or feel. I hid in the void of insensitivity and nonentity that the psychologist calls a black hole. It had happened to me a few times before. In times like those I became so unfeeling, unperturbed and calm that everyone was astonished. Once again I waited silently and calmly for us to reach the quay. The only thing I felt was Jan’s hand was on my shoulder. There was only Bjørn on my mind.

‘The festivities that had been cut short: all that remained was bewilderment, piles of empty bottles, nets decorated with fish and mermaids, abandoned stalls of junk food and beer, interrupted gaiety, silenced music, Bjørn’s red car, people in their Sunday best … All had gathered at the square by the quay and were waiting for the boats returning from the Big Fish competition. Not to award a prize but to give news of the fire.

‘Jan and I sprang from the boat together. Without running, without hurrying, I walked towards the crowd that had assembled in the square. I saw the island people not as individuals but a solid wall, as a dark stain darker than the twilight. They were not sympathetic. They were lined up there not to share the tragedy but to prevent the foreigner’s curse. That’s how it seemed to me. When we reached the end of the quay, with me in front and Jan immediately behind, a small yellow star slipped towards me from among the crowd. He jumped into my arms shouting, “Daddy!” Then I began to cry.’