Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

‘She was lying here on the bed in front of the door,’ he whispered. ‘I last saw her yesterday evening. She was fine. She was going to be discharged soon.’

‘What relation did you say she was to you?’

‘She’s my woman, the mother of my unborn child. She’s my Zelal.’

‘Well, you’d better come along with us to the doctor’s room where our chief is.’

‘What’s happened to her? Has someone done something to Zelal? Has her wound opened up again?’

‘No, there’s nothing the matter. Nothing. Just come with us.’

They passed through doors, corridors and stairs. One of the officers held him gently by the arm. Whether it was to prevent him from stumbling and falling or from escaping, he could not decide. He let himself walk beside them silently and unresisting. He didn’t care if they took him away or locked him up. There was no longer any need to resist or run away. If there was no Zelal to protect, no life worth living, no children to be born, no seas to reach, what need was there to flee or to struggle?

He seemed to revive when he saw the familiar young doctor in the room to which they had taken him.

‘He arrived at the door of the room where the crime took place, boss. We checked his identity. He had on his person an identity card with the name Mahmut Bozlak. He says that the woman named Zelal is his wife.’

‘What were you doing here at this time of the morning? It’s not visiting hours,’ enquired the man they called their chief.

‘I’ve always waited in the garden at night. And yesterday night I fell asleep outside. Then as day broke I heard noises and I became anxious.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said the young doctor. ‘Your patient is well.’ Then he turned to the chief. ‘I know this man. He really is the patient’s husband. He has been here ever since she was admitted to hospital. The person responsible for the patient is the famous writer Ömer Eren. You probably know of him.’

‘Sit down,’ said the chief in a harsh voice used to giving orders. ‘Your patient is well but in a state of shock. She cannot speak. We cannot get a statement from her. Perhaps you can help. Did you have any rivals or enemies? The elderly sick woman in the room was shot. But, if you ask me, she wasn’t the real target.’

‘We have no rivals or enemies,’ said Mahmut firmly. He fell silent. He turned to the doctor. ‘Can I see her?’

‘We changed her room. It’s better for now if no one knows which room she is in. Even you. Don’t worry. She really is fine. She was very frightened. She went into shock. We are going to sedate her for a while so that she can recover. Anyway she’s asleep now.’

‘Please allow me to stay and wait here at the door. So that I can see her when she comes round. I’m in no state to go anywhere. I think I have a fever. I feel really bad.’

He felt like telling the doctor that he, too, had studied at medical school but restrained himself. If they should try to probe further into the shooting incident it would be best to play the role of hapless victim, the wretched ignorant, injured villager…

‘Come with me,’ said the young doctor. ‘You really do look bad, I’ll give you some medicine. May we go, sir?’

‘Of course. Please do. The Hippocratic Oath requires one to look after patients. We’ll just take a formal report. As you know this man we don’t need him.’

They went into a room used as a depot for medicine and supplies next door.

‘Our young patient — her name is Zelal, isn’t it? — wanted me to deliver a coded message to you. It was “It was Mesut Abi. Mahmut must escape.”’

His voice was mocking especially when he said ‘coded’, but he acted like a friend and accomplice.

‘May I take her out of the hospital?’ asked Mahmut.

‘You can’t take her out. She is not fit enough yet, and she is safe here now. We have taken major precautions. The hospital doesn’t want a bad reputation. That poor elderly woman! They shot her instead of the girl. Who is Mesut?’

‘He’s her brother … You will keep this to yourself, won’t you?’

‘Yes, for sure.’

‘It must be an honour killing. When I met Zelal she was running away from this code of honour. We ran away together. We thought we were safe here. So they found us. The poor old lady. What a terrible end! What a terrible fate! She died in Zelal’s place.’

‘She died, and Nurse Eylem was wounded. She is my fiancée. Violence is everywhere, and it always strikes the innocent. Take these pills straight away. You have a fever. There’s no doubt you’re ill. Go and answer the officer’s questions. He’s waiting inside. Give him a proper postal address if you have one, and find a safe place for yourself to rest up for a few days.’

‘Thanks. You know, I studied medicine, too. Not for long; just three terms. I had to quit. I have a favour to ask. If anything goes wrong, please deliver Zelal to Ömer Eren. As you said, he is registered as responsible for her. Our situation’s quite simple. In short, as Zelal and I were waiting at the coach station there was some shooting and she got hit by a stray bullet. The writer, who happened to be there, felt sorry for us and helped us. He brought her here and got her admitted to hospital — purely out of kindness. Right now we are in a mess. The only person we trust is Ömer Eren. He is out of the city at the moment, but he will return soon. I’ll give you his phone number.’

‘Fine. It’s a deal. We haven’t had this conversation. Don’t tell anyone else about it. Things are complicated enough right now.’ As they were about to leave the room, the doctor stopped and held his arm. ‘I don’t know who or what you are. It was the innocence of the girl that impressed me. It was the helpless, innocent trust she had in me. Sometimes I think innocence is the strongest weapon.’

The driver shouted, ‘Zap Bridge!’ as they passed in front of the crumbling abutments of the ruined bridge.

So it was the same driver as when he came. He recognized me and sent a greeting in his own way to the stranger who was interested in the old bridge. He did not even look at the ruins of the bridge that they had built years ago, carrying stones, mixing the sand and singing marches and folk songs and arguing all night long about revolutionary collaboration, the brotherhood of the people. In any case our bridge was not here. To make the driver happy he shouted ‘Thanks’ in a loud voice. The passengers on the bus did not understand what was going on and were not even interested.

What does it matter whether the Bridge of Brotherhood is here or thirty or forty kilometres further back when it has been destroyed? But, still, it warmed his heart that the young driver remembered it. A small victory won against the savage aggressiveness of forgetting. He leant his head against the window of the hot, stuffy bus with the broken air conditioning. Instead of looking at the view outside from the front seat of the bus progressing slowly along the rough road, he closed his eyes and looked into himself. Yet only a few weeks ago when he was coming — has it been a month? — he was looking outside trying not to miss a single detail as if to absorb all he saw. The yellow-grey of the earth, the precipitous rocky slopes, the beauty of the snowy peaks, the bends of the river, the abandoned hamlets and huts, the yellow daisies and the poppies blooming in the green grass, the soldiers mine-sweeping along the road, the forbidding gorges, the military fortifications, the men who stop and board the buses at crossroads to check identity cards, the weary passengers, the shabby cafés where they stop for a break, a wild flower that has blossomed among the rocks of an arid slope, the scraggy goats that climb the slopes leaping from rock to rock, the crags that the setting sun coloured red. He was trying to engrave, to imprint everything in his memory and in his heart.