Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

When he regained consciousness in an intensive care unit he could not make sense of the thin rubber tubes that encircled his wounded body like a spider’s web and were attached with sticking plaster to needles stuck into his hands and trailed from his nose and his mouth. He had not spoken at all. He had not said anything when he came round from the anaesthetic after each operation or during the days while lying with his head, face, arm and fingers wrapped in thick bandages in the hospital in which he had remained for weeks. When they came for the routine questioning to shed light on the incident, a single sentence had come from his lips. ‘There were red tulips, and Ulla stood in front of the tulips.’

When he said to his son, ‘Stay, don’t go,’ Ömer realized that his request was as hopeless as it was cruel. For Deniz Istanbul was now a grave where Ulla’s scattered, fragmented body and her blood showered on the tulips, the streets and the city remained. He had shown respect for his son’s grief and felt it deep inside and had not made the suggestion again.

When the day of parting arrived, Deniz had not wanted them to come to the airport to see him off. His mother was worried about her son’s health. He still had a bad limp, and perhaps he would require further operations. The burns on his face had healed, but the scars were too deep to fade without cosmetic surgery. He felt uncomfortable under Elif’s gaze and had said to his mother to comfort her and to make her think he was recovering and not too bothered about his appearance, ‘It’ll pass. It’ll all pass in good time. The longer I stay here, the deeper my wounds get. They don’t heal. I’ve missed my son a great deal. I can’t leave Bjørn alone any longer. I know he’s well looked after but he needs me.’ He hadn’t talked much. He hadn’t opened up his heart, and he hadn’t shared his grief. Not to offend her, he had taken a bite of his favourite food that Elif had prepared so carefully, and he had talked a little about his island, and then he had fallen silent until the hour of separation had arrived.

Mother, father and son had tried to suppress the grief within them and lodged in their throats like a lump of metal with pleasantries such as ‘You used to like this food’ and ‘You used to love this börek.’ Deniz had told them about herring fishing, the best way to salt fish, that although they went to the castle almost every day they hadn’t met the Devil, that they had painted the Gasthaus bright yellow and that the ghostly woman with baskets on her arms was still alive — although perhaps it was her daughter- that the island was as deserted and peaceful as always and that visitors who came for a few days stayed at the Gasthaus. As a formality he had said, ‘If you happen to be in the area, come and stay. You’ll have a feeling of déjà vu. And you can see Bjørn, too.’

Then it was time to leave, and he repeated that he didn’t want them to come to the airport. He had gone off limping, dragging his clumsy body with his heavy pack on his back and his head bent, not looking back. From the balcony they had watched him get into the taxi that came to the door. Elif had, for custom’s sake, poured a bowl of water after him so that he could go and come back with ease, like water. The child that we had condemned to the Devil’s Island because he hadn’t been equal to the dreams that we had failed to realize, the enthusiasm that had abandoned us and our hopes that had been let in the past; and because he had not taken revenge for our disappointments and our defeat in the battle we expected him to fight in our name. The son that we had left alone and almost abandoned because he did not want to be a hero, because he had refused to compete and had been crushed under the cruelty of the age, and because he had not the strength to contend with life; because he was not ambitious enough, capable or strong.

He always remembers his son like that, as he saw him that last day. Whenever he thinks of him, he remembers him slowly going off — lost, alone, tired and defeated. And that look in his eyes: Mahmut’s look.

‘When I last saw him he had the same look that you have.’

‘And what was that, hocam?’

‘Grief-stricken, defeated and desperate.’

‘Like an animal that has been shot? Like a guerrilla who has surrendered with the barrel of a gun thrust against his mouth and an army boot pressing on his chest? Your son, the sons of people like you, wouldn’t look like that though!’

He is upset by Mahmut’s words. He doesn’t answer. The left corner of his lip twitches slightly. He had not had that dreadful tic for a long time. Or was it going to start up again? The doctors had said that too much alcohol could weaken muscle control. I really must take more care of myself. He is angry with Mahmut. They believe they are the only ones who are downtrodden and wronged. So our son wouldn’t look like that, wouldn’t be left helpless! Is it only you lot who suffer? That talk of being victimized even in this hospital corridor, in this peculiar situation! Well-worn ideas learnt by heart, the familiar attitude of tarring everyone with the same brush, hanging everyone with the same rope. His anger mounts. Whatever you do is futile. They never trust you. And after all I’ve done to defend their rights. I almost got into trouble over the issue of them using their mother tongue and because I wrote articles on the unsolved murders in the east. If it hadn’t been for the European Union, the reaction of the non-government organizations, the concern for what Europe would say, because of the lawsuits against me, they might have convicted me.

He tries to appear calm. ‘Everyone has their own suffering, their own setbacks,’ he says. ‘A moment comes when we are all afraid, we are all desperate. Turk, Kurd, French, Arab, whatever nationality, it makes no difference. Today everyone is oppressed. Everyone is a tyrant, and everyone is a victim.’ His anger, resentment and weariness are reflected in his voice.

‘I didn’t say that. I don’t know, I’d thought your son was one who had made it. I mean, had a good job, had studied and all that. Forgive me, but it’s usually like that. I mean big, important men’s sons …’

The boy’s honest, worried manner and the anxiety he feels that what he has said may have been misunderstood softens his heart. The boy is right: it is like that. Our children do make it. Most of them succeed — or that is what people think. What is the fallacy ‘We are all in the same boat’ other than a brilliant deception? Wouldn’t I have talked like that in my youth, in those happy, hopeful days when we thought we were fighting for the revolution and for the people? Suddenly he feels depressed. It is dawn, and the sun is rising. What am I doing here at this hour? What am I doing in this hospital corridor? For what am I paying the price, giving alms?

The team who performed the operation appear at the end of the surgery corridor in their blue-green gowns. Telling him to wait, he jumps up before the youth and walks towards them. He hopes that one of the team will recognize him and give him information.

‘I was going to ask about the condition of the wounded woman who’s been operated on. I…’

Nobody pays attention. They carry on walking and talking among themselves.

‘I’m the writer, Ömer Eren. I wanted to learn …’

One young man among the gowned doctors turns him.’If you are asking about the woman hit by a bullet, she’ll survive.’

‘And what about the child? The child …’

‘The bullet lodged in the foetus. It was a boy. A pity. Most want boys … So you’re Ömer Eren? Pleased to meet you. I started one of your books. This could be a good subject for a story for you.’

Without wasting much time and with rapid steps he catches up with his colleagues. He doesn’t appear to have been impressed at meeting the writer. Perhaps he is arrogant or just very tired, thinks Ömer. He said he’d started one of my books. He didn’t say he’d read it, the bastard! Perhaps he doesn’t like what I write. Who knows? In fact he probably doesn’t read. This generation isn’t in the habit of reading. It’s likely that he’s one of those who buys a book because it’s fashionable and puts it to one side.