Oya Baydar: The Lost Word

He utters a violent oath at himself, at life, the tavern, the mountain, the plain, fate, everyone and everything. ‘Nizanim çiji dîya bikim!’ Damn!

Had he wanted a drink? He did not know anything about drink to make him want one. He just wanted to relax a little. It was not going to be as easy to smuggle Zelal out of the hospital and bring her home as he had originally thought. You would have to avoid the grumpy neighbouring patient and the hospital staff and give the doctors and nurses in the corridor and the people on door duty the slip. You would have to find a taxi and help her into it. In the meantime Zelal needed to have some mobility and be able to walk, if only a little. Well, let us say we got into the taxi, it would be altogether reckless to drive straight back to the house they had been loaned. They would get out of the car earlier. The driver should not know where they were staying. After that he would carry Zelal in his arms. She is as light as a feather. What was her weight to him?

Thinking about all this had made him tense and he had wanted to relax, to gather his wits and to restore his strength. Moreover, if they are after me I would be able to spot them better while sitting and drinking inconspicuously.

Slumping down at a table at the far end, he had called ‘Beer!’ to the waiter. This was the drink he was most familiar with. And it was the one with the least alcohol, the most harmless. After the second beer the waiter had asked, ‘Shall a give you a double vodka with it?’ He had said yes, mainly to act normally and not to send the waiter back empty-handed. It also enabled him to stay a little longer. He had enjoyed it when he began to get slightly tipsy: he felt good; it had relaxed him. Obviously there was good reason for people to turn to the demon drink. He cannot remember when he left the place. And how he had reached the hospital and got through the garden gate? He had called at the Accident and Emergency Department entrance, and they had shown him the door to the Emergency Service, thinking from his state that he must be ill. He had wandered up and down the corridors for a while, probably trying to locate the stairs that went up to the ward where Zelal was lying. He had not been able to find them. Suddenly felt really bad and had rushed out into the garden — by which route he could not remember.

Now he is gradually coming round. His temples throb. His shirt is sticking to his body from sweat, and he stinks. He is disgusted by his own smell. He cannot quite see from where he is, but he notices a commotion, a bustle, at the hospital gate. The yellow flashing light of a police car passing through the main gate merges with the noise of sirens. What has happened? Who knows! What time is it? There was the call to prayers a little while ago; that means it’s almost six. I’m late. I’m late for Zelal! Now everyone is awake. How will I take her out of hospital? How will I smuggle her away with all these police gathered at the door and amid all this activity?

He wants to wash his face and hold his head under cool water. On the mountain, when he and Zelal woke up to a new day, they would run to the spring. They would wash themselves clean in the cool water that flowed from between some rocks hidden in the bushes and trees. She would cup the water in her hands and transfer it into a sweet-smelling leaf or an alpine flower and drink it like that. They believed that the crystal water gushed from that rock just for them.

‘I know this area well, this spring was not here before. The water bored through the rock for us, to quench our thirst, to bless our love and to purify us of our sins,’ Mahmut used to say. He thought of himself as Ferhat, the valiant lover. They say that everything is most valuable in its rightful place. In the mountains, I was both Mazlum and Ferhat, I was Rüstemê Zal. In the mountains I was decent, strong and a hero. Who and what am I here? Am I a drunken mouse or a fugitive who hasn’t the strength to protect his love or himself? A wretched Mahmut whose only support, only hope is some weird writer we know nothing about; who he is, what he is, where he is and whether he will return. Mahmut who lost himself to two beers and three vodkas on his way to save the one he loved.

One day when he came to visit Zelal and got lost in the labyrinth-like hospital corridors he had found himself two floors below the ground floor in a sort of garage or depot. He remembered that up some stairs there had been a door that opened out on to the garden. Immediately beside the door he had seen a tap used to water the garden and a garden hose. I must find that place. I must have a wash, have a good drink of water and cool down. His body is burning like fire. I have a fever. I’m ill. He feels his pulse. Yes, I have a high temperature. He remembers his days at medical school. By now I could have been one of the new doctors at this hospital, swaggering around in my white coat; here to cure people’s troubles and relieve their pain. He walks slowly to the back of the building. The hose is not there, but he finds the tap. He cups his hand under the water and drinks thirstily. The water that has absorbed the coolness of the night is good for both his heart and his head. He takes off his shirt and washes his neck and his arms. He feels better.

He can go up to Zelal’s room now. Whatever has happened, there is pandemonium at the main door. One cannot enter from there. They won’t let anyone in before visiting hours. He must try the door by the depot. He descends the dark narrow steps. The door is open. There is no one about. He will find C3 block in the end. If this doesn’t work, he’ll look for Nurse Eylem whom Zelal likes so much and ask her. He must reach Zelal before it’s too late. I’m already too late. If I hadn’t passed out like some dirty old drunk, she and I might now be in a taxi speeding away from here. He goes through the door. He moves ahead in the half-light to the wide corridor opposite. He begins to climb the first stairs that appear in front of him. If I go up two flights of steps I should reach the ground floor. And when I find the lift the rest is easy.

He passes through glass doors, dim corridors, other doors and more corridors. He goes up and down a few flights of steps. It had been like this the day they had taken Zelal out of intensive care and carried her to her room, when he first got lost among the wards looking for her room. He had felt as though he was in a nightmare from which he would shortly wake up screaming. The hospital was like a huge maze.

Expecting to emerge at the entrance, he realizes that he is in front of C3 block. It is very bright everywhere. Dawn has long since broken, and they have put on all the lights. There was an intense silence in the corridor. In front of Zelal’s room there were a few men in uniform making notes. That was when Mahmut understood. He recalled what he had seen and heard in his drunken state, as he was sobering up. He leant against a wall so that he did not fall over. How come I didn’t think of it? How come I didn’t think that they would arrive before me and finish the job! The man had said, ‘The girl is in our hands.’ He had not believed him. He had thought he was calling his bluff. He had thought that if he really were the brother who had confessed he wouldn’t have the heart to kill his own sister.

He walked towards Zelal’s room. The men in the corridor stopped him before he reached the door.

‘A relative of mine is here,’ he said.

‘Who is this relative? Show us your identity card.’

He takes it out. ‘She’s my wife,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Zelal. She had an operation. She was in this room yesterday.’

The man paused for a moment not knowing whether to pity him or to grab him and take him away.

At that moment he didn’t care about anything. They can shoot me, kill me or arrest me if they like! He lunged towards the room. It was completely empty. Neither Zelal’s bed nor the one belonging to the elderly patient was there. The floor had evidently been wiped with disinfectant. It smelt strongly of Lysol.