Oya Baydar: The Lost Word

‘What about Grandmother and Grandfather?’

‘There was no one at home when they set fire to the Gasthaus. They did it a few hours after you had left the island while everyone was swept up in the dancing, music and entertainment. You know that the door on the seaside was always left open. It wasn’t difficult for them to enter. In any case they did not need to go inside to set fire to the house. The savage beasts: they even set fire to the kennel — without releasing Kurt’s chain, not caring that he was burnt alive.’

‘Was the house completely burnt out?’

‘No, not entirely. The island has a very well-trained firefighting group. From time to time we all used to work there as volunteers. They arrived really swiftly. But, still, the north wing of the house was burnt, in other words, the room I used — you remember, the room of the old fugitive poet. The kitchen and the room you stayed in, the side by the sea, are still standing.’

‘Did they find the arsonists? I was suspicious of those skinheads with motorbikes from the start.’

‘They caught them. They just said, “We wanted to give the foreigner a lesson. We didn’t think the fire would spread.”‘

‘It’s all because of me!’ says Elif. ‘If I hadn’t come to the island, if I hadn’t taken part in the festivities, if I hadn’t shown off with Bjørn in the square, those foul bikers would not have been provoked and perhaps none of this would have happened. I’ve destroyed your last refuge, too. I didn’t give you any peace there either.’

‘Don’t be silly, Mother. This has nothing to do with you. What is sad is that the evil seed has been sown even on that distant island. The islanders have learnt fear. They are wary now. When they begin to fear, people become hostile and cruel. So much has changed on the island within the past two to three days. The spell has vanished. Goodness and innocence have been defeated. The Devil has once more killed Princess Ulla. The last stronghold has fallen — but not because of you.’

Fearing the answer, she ventures to ask, ‘Will you return to the island?’

‘I didn’t come here to return there. Perhaps if I were alone I might have gone back, but I can’t sacrifice Bjørn. I wanted to prepare for him a safe haven without fear, hostility, tension and violence. I didn’t succeed. I’m afraid you and my father were right. There is nowhere to take sanctuary. I imagine the owner of the Gasthaus, the old poet, eventually realized this, and that is why he put an end his life.’

Elif remembers the notebooks, the poems written in the old man’s handwriting, the things Deniz had written and the disc of photographs in the drawer intended for Bjørn. They must all have been destroyed in the fire. She feels the weight in her heart of having seen and read them. She must share that weight with her son, otherwise it will be almost impossible to bear.

‘I must tell you something. I looked through the notebooks that were lying on your desk. Forgive me. You know that even in your childhood I never did such a thing. I took care not to touch your private possessions. However, that day, before I left the island, as I passed your room the door was ajar. I went inside. What I really wanted was to be closer to you, to understand you better. I looked through the notebooks on your desk and read a few lines of your writing. There were the poems and the writings of the old poet. Then I was curious about the contents of your drawer. The Devil must have goaded me, as they say; it was that sort of impulse. I saw the photographs on disc; the photographs that you were going to show Bjørn when he grew up. It was as though those four photographs were the epitome of the fate and suffering of not only you but of all of us, of all mankind.’

There is an uneasy silence.

‘They all burnt, and that’s good,’ says Deniz. ‘One could not even take a step with the weight of that writing, those photographs. Nothing could be started again without them all being destroyed, erased. If only an arsonist had set fire to my memory. Now I think about it, I had no right to saddle Bjørn with that bloody burden. What a good thing they all burnt.’

He said ‘taking a step’. He said ‘starting again’ … Elif keeps quiet, afraid of reflecting in her voice the selfish joy, cheerfulness and hope welling inside her. For a moment they look at the boy taking up the tiny space in the huge bed. He looks so small, so vulnerable that both are moved. They are seized with the desire to cover him and protect the little being from all the evils of the world. At the same moment, without knowing it, Deniz and Elif are both thinking of the same photograph. The image of the wounded, captive father with a black sack thrust over his head trying to protect his little son clutched to his bosom behind the barbed wire lodges itself in their eyes and their hearts.

‘Mother, do you think that there is anything I can do in the world of people? I have to bring up Bjørn and get him educated. I’m responsible for him.’

Just as Elif is about to say, ‘We’ll bring him up and educate him together; we are all responsible for him …’ She stops herself. She is afraid that it will hurt Deniz and undermine him.

‘Of course there are things you can do. With all your skills and talents you can do anything. All you need is the will.’

‘Today during the journey I was wondering what use I am. If I can’t do anything else I can take photographs of food and table settings. Might there be such a job? Rather than taking photographs of atrocities and violence, taking pictures of food and decorated tables would much better.’

‘The son of a friend of mine does that work. I heard from my friend that this is now a recognized branch of photography. It pays quite well, too.

‘Yes, of course. I have to earn money.’

She cannot bear the capitulation in his voice, the acceptance of defeat, his bowing his head to routine. What sort of woman am I? And now I’m anguishing because my son is planning to return to a normal life and preparing to be a father who must earn his daily bread.

‘Don’t worry. Everything will sort itself out,’ she says. ‘You were right when you said that there isn’t a place to take refuge. Even if there is no place left in the world it is always possible for a person to take refuge in themselves, in a deep, secret part inside them. When that is no longer possible then the world of man will have come to an end. Perhaps the last refuge is man’s own heart, his own soil. Let’s return home, Kitten. I, too, have missed home. Cats strive to return to their homes even if they are very far away. If they don’t perish on the way, they return home sooner or later.’

He is lying on a bench in a corner of the hospital garden, out of sight. There is a heaviness like lead in his head that he has never known before, a vile nausea in his stomach and the sensation of heavy stones on his eyelids. He hears the disturbing sirens of ambulances and police cars. He doesn’t know how and when he came here. He doesn’t know where he is anyway. Perhaps he was shot and is lying in a ravine. It seems as though he been shot in the head, stomach and eyes. He struggles to get up, to get to his feet. His head is spinning, and he is sick, retching and gagging. After that he feels better. He revives a little with the smell of alcohol reaching his nose. He looks around in the half-light. He recognizes the hospital building. A few doctors and nurses in their white or green hospital gowns who have come off night duty pass by in the distance. It is then that Mahmut comes to his senses. ‘What have I done!’

His first serious session of boozing, of inebriation. They say that it happens to every young person. It does not happen to us. People do not drink in our parts, neither in the town nor on the mountain. Especially now, in our state! Mahmut, you deserve every conceivable kind of trouble. You are a total arsehole. Did you think it was clever to get out of the taxi halfway and go into the first restaurant in the suburbs that served alcohol? You thought that you would distract the men, cover your tracks and make it more difficult for them to find the hospital. You thought that you would be protecting Zelal. Mahmut, you are an utter fool. You are a çaş, çaş! You are a complete idiot! It wasn’t the first time you saw the rows of shops selling beer on the road to the hospital, the taverns looking like orderly cook shops. How many times had you passed in front of them? How many times had you taken a curious peek? So you had already thought about going inside. What in hell made you get out of the taxi and go into that tavern?