Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

The words ‘a corpse without a grave’ stuck in Ömer’s heart like a lump. ‘Violence doesn’t just strike here. There’s violence everywhere. The world’s ablaze, Son. The Middle East and Iraq are in flames. You saw those places with your own eyes. Where can we be safe? There’s nowhere to run.’

‘Here, we are much closer to the fires. The flames are licking the borders. Don’t you feel the heat? In this country it’s as though the fires, the bombs and the bullets are in the very people themselves. Ready to explode, to burst into flames at any moment … Bjørn and I are much safer on our island than we are here. He will grow up there in the middle of nature and the sea, content, without anyone pushing him around, despising him and expecting him to bring the sky to their feet. I … I am not Deniz there either. I am the good foreigner from far away. I don’t have to account for myself to anyone. I don’t have to be a hero or a scholar. I don’t have to be anyone other than myself. There I’m no one or everyone. I’m like everyone else. That makes me happy. Although you’re angry, Dad, can you understand?’

He did understand. He was amazed that Deniz could explain his feeling of defeat, his fears, and his need for refuge so openly and eloquently.

‘I understand in my mind, but it is dificult for me to accept it in my heart. Son, do you know what it means to have a son?’

‘I have a son, too, so, yes, I know. I want to protect him. I don’t want him to be a loser. No, I don’t want him to be a loser. Do you remember the old man in the Gasthaus? You know, that old German who said, “I’m the unknown deserter”? I was young then, but I didn’t forget the island or that man. Many years later when I returned I tried to explain with the little Norwegian I had and in sign language that years ago when I was small we had come to the island, stayed in that guesthouse where there was an old man and that he had sat in the rocking-chair and given me cake. They knew him, of course. He had died a few years before. He had taken his own life. He was all alone and had no heirs or relatives. He had left the guesthouse to Ulla’s family who had worked with him for ages, and now they run it. Anyway, that’s how I met Ulla.’

‘Is that so? I didn’t know.’

‘Of course you didn’t know. You never asked, so how could you? You weren’t interested in how I lived — just in my achievements. When she learnt that I had taken refuge there Mother just said, “The Devil’s Island? What fate!” Well, anyway … They had kept the old man’s room just as it was. They gave it to me. Mother has every right to be astonished. Indeed, what fate! What a coincidence really. There was some writing on the wall in German in a coloured pencil. “Running away from war is easier than running away from life. I’m finally beating the odds.” It was signed “the unknown deserter”.’

Suppressing the reluctance in his heart he had looked at his son’s face. He had seen a tired, defeated, frightened look. If only he could hug him, embrace him and never let him go, eradicate that look in his eyes. If only he could look after him and rescue him. If only he could prevent him from being the unknown deserter of life on a forgotten tiny island in the North Sea.

‘Let me go home as soon as possible. I mustn’t keep Bjørn waiting any longer, he’s missed me a lot. I can’t leave Ulla’s family alone either. I have a responsibility. After all, it was I who brought their daughter to her death.’

‘It’s not your fault. It could have been anywhere in the world. Terrorism is everywhere. In Spain, in New York, in Iraq, in India, in London, in the Lebanon, everywhere … It’s a terrible coincidence that a suicide bomber should panic and pull the pin just as you were passing. You weren’t especially picked out. What I mean to say is…’

‘That’s the worst thing. You don’t have to be chosen as a target. Everyone can be a target at any moment. I know that terror prowls everywhere. You’re right. It could have been elsewhere. That’s true. However, it happened here.’

It happened here; in this beguiling, magical city, the unchanging backdrop of Ömer’s novels and narratives where the tragedy of man has been lived out in its various forms intensely for thousands of years; in the Istanbul of tourist brochures and travel guides — with Ömer Eren’s words, ‘Epics and poems should be written of this city; not history.’

Deniz had wanted to take his wife around the city where he was born and in which he had grown up, to show off his city and to share the memories of his childhood and youth. However, Ulla had insisted on looking round Sultanahmet, the Grand Bazaar and St Sophia first. It was written in the Norwegian guidebook on Istanbul that one should see this area first of all, ‘to understand fully the spirit of the east and to get to know Byzantium and Islam’. From the Grand Bazaar she had bought herself a beaded sequined belt with silver tassels, for her grandfather a Meerschaum pipe, for her grandmother a colourful, flowery shawl, for Bjørn a toy camel decorated with bells, blue beads and ribbons and a huge blue charm to ward off the evil eye. She had been as happy as a child with her purchases. She had immediately put the belt round her waist and hugged Bjørn’s camel to her bosom. Walking cheerfully along, their arms wrapped round each other, to Sultanahmet from Nuruosmaniye they had arrived in front of St Sophia. They had decided to wander round Sultanahmet Square and Sultanahmet mosque — a disappointment to Ulla who had thought it would be a really bright blue because in the book it was called the ‘Blue Mosque’ — and leave St Sophia to last. There was no particular reason for choosing this route. Perhaps it was because a large group of tourists was standing in front of St Sophia at the time. Perhaps it was because Ulla heard the irresistible call of death waiting for her in front of the flowerbeds of bright red blooms at the edge of the park. ‘How beautiful the flowers are,’ she murmured in admiration. ‘They’re tulips. When I was a child Grandpa used to read me a story about a little Dutch girl. It was a picture book, and a little girl in clogs used to wander around the tulip fields picking flowers of different colours for her mother.’ Then she had leapt up joyfully. Darling Ulla was like that. One moment she would be like a still, calm lake without a ripple, and suddenly she would surge like a turbulent sea. ‘I must take some close-ups of them straight away. When we get home I’ll draw some tulips on either side of our door, and I’ll paint them yellow, red and white like these. But hang on. First take a picture of me in front of them.’ Then she had dashed off like a chubby, mischievous child, and while she was hurrying towards the park she had paused, turned round to look at her husband who was watching her with a smile. ‘Take a good photo! Make sure the tulips and I look beautiful. We’ll show it to Grandpa and Grandma and Bjørn. Let them see how lovely your city is!’

Deniz had seen her for the last time in a frame of a photograph, just as she had wished, in her long blue dress holding the toy camel clasped to her bosom, with the colourful silvery belt with the beaded edges that she had wound round her waist, her long bright blonde hair and the deep red tulips behind. He had pressed the shutter. But had he pressed it? Had he been able to depress the button? He doesn’t know; he doesn’t remember. However, the photograph of Ulla smiling in front of tulips the colour of blood with Sultanahmet mosque in the background, the skirts of her dress blowing in the breeze and the toy camel that she hugged to her bosom like a child is etched in his mind and remains there never to be erased. Then an explosion deafening ears and senses, screams and smoke, and blood splattering the red tulips, and all around legs, arms, shoes and a toy camel scattered amid the blood, smoke and screams … First, the searing pain he feels in his face, hands and body and then the swirling and tumbling into a deep, dark bottomless well. Then …