Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

On the one hand, there was that deep feeling of pity in Elif; the desire to hold them close and say, ‘If this is the way things have turned out, don’t worry about it. Let it be! Live the way you want to live. Don’t stress yourself. Don’t be so tense. We don’t demand anything from you any longer. Just be happy — that’s enough.’ On the other hand, there was anger and sadness; her inability to accept the biggest defeat of her life … And the question that nags at her mind; the hollowness and insincerity of the words ‘Just be happy — that’s enough’, said with doubt, the relative meaning of happiness … And knowing deep inside that the kind of life that Deniz calls happiness is defeat and escapism…

One day, when he was very small — he was extremely frail, unimpressive and much smaller than his peers but always smiling — the children playing in the playground had refused to include him in their game and had pushed him around saying, ‘You’re too small. You’re tiny. You can’t play with us.’ He stood in the middle of the sandpit watching them play, with an expression on his face that was far too sad for a child. And when occasionally their ball rolled towards him he would half-heartedly pick it up and throw it back to them. He looked so dejected but so good-natured and so ready to do anything to be liked and accepted that she ran to him and embraced him tightly. Then she had noticed that tears were running down his cheeks, yet he still had that strange smile on his face. What had gone wrong? What was missing right from the beginning that we never even noticed? Why didn’t he defend himself, resort to violence or fight? We had always interpreted this positively. We were happy to think we had a well-adjusted, peace-loving child.

As they walk along the coast towards the Gasthaus at the end of the road, Elif asks herself the same question. On this Nordic island, previously recalled as the location of an interesting trip twenty years ago but which has now turned into a nightmare place, the question becomes even more crucial. What went wrong?

The wooden house suddenly appears in front of them where the road ends and the steep cliffs rear up on both sides. She remembers this from their first visit. They had seen the white house just when they had given up hope, thinking they had lost their way, that there was no hotel there.

‘Do you remember the Gasthaus, Mother?’

‘How could I forget? Of course I do. If I’m not mistaken it used to be white.’

‘We painted it yellow. Ulla used to say white looked too bleak.’

In the endless twilight of the white nights, the building rises a bright yellow against the grey and dark-blue sea. She notices a sign illuminated by neon lights above the front door. The word Gasthaus has been decorated with colourful designs of fish, mermaids and flowers, evoking children’s pictures. A cheerful, whimsical, childish eccentricity amid the grey gloom of the North Sea and the formidable steep cliffs against which the house rests.

‘It was Ulla who painted the sign and the garden walls. She enjoyed making such pictures — fish, mermaids, fairies, happy dancing children … Inside are other pictures that she did. You wouldn’t like them. They are naïve paintings. But she really enjoyed creating them.’

‘It’s true that I don’t like naïve art, but these are very interesting. They contrast beautifully with the lack of colour of the surroundings, the harsh weather and the stillness. We do a similar style of painting in Turkey. Bright-coloured mermaids, roses and so on are drawn and painted on glass. They remind me of that.’

The little village girl who yearned for vibrant colours, flowers, joy and life … She feels the same emotions as she did when she noticed the girl trembling like a test animal that smells death. She realizes that in a few minutes she will meet the girl’s family. How is it possible that I had not thought of this? At least I could have prepared myself. What to say, how to act…

‘Does Ulla’s mother live at the Gasthaus?’

‘She doesn’t have a mother or a father. It’s as if they never existed. She has a grandmother and a grandfather — bestemor and bestefar in Norwegian … This is also their home. They will be very surprised to see you. They are not prepared for this.’

‘Are they angry at you, because of … what happened to their daughter, I mean granddaughter?’

‘Because of Ulla’s death? I don’t know. It wasn’t my fault. It was a terrible misfortune. They understand that. We hardly ever talk about it. They find solace in Bjørn. But perhaps deep in their hearts they do blame me for taking Ulla there. Actually I blame myself, too. It was a mistake to go away from here, to leave this sanctuary. She was afraid of travelling to another country, of leaving her island. She never wanted to make that journey, but she came because of me. I will never forgive myself.’

Elif thinks: They lost their daughter, their granddaughter and I lost my son. So we’re quits. I don’t know whose grief is deeper. How does one measure grief? I don’t know that either.

With Whose Bullet Was I Shot?

Mahmut remained standing until Ömer Eren had walked slowly to the end of the intensive care department corridor and disappeared down the stairs beyond the glass door. He gazed after him for a long time, trying to gather his thoughts, to understand what had happened that night. His mind was in utter confusion, in turmoil. Nothing fitted into place. For instance, that writer … There was something strange about the man that Mahmut couldn’t figure out. There was his sudden appearance beside them when the gun went off and Zelal fell to the ground. Then his accompanying them to the hospital and taking care of everything without asking who they were or what had happened. His voice trembling when he said ‘Son’ and his eyes misting over, ready to cry at any moment. It was all very strange. Let us say that it’s because he’s a really decent person. If it had been simple kindness he would have brought them to the hospital where he knew some doctors and the set-up, handed over some money and gone off. Why should the man care? What is more, it’s obvious that we are in trouble. We are fugitives. We have come down from the mountain, we’ve got blood on our hands and we are illegal. This much is quite obvious. The man sensed this, he understood, yet he wasn’t afraid; he didn’t walk away. A strange man, somebody well known. If he hadn’t been a famous writer I would have said he was a secret agent sent to tail us.

As he crouched from fatigue in the corridor, he felt embarrassed by his thoughts. He felt a pang of sadness. The mountain makes one suspicious. It turns people into enemies. You start being afraid of the slightest thing; you doubt even your comrades. His father used to say, ‘People are scorched and hardened by the mountains, softened and mellowed by the plains.’ Not that he disliked the mountains. Where I come from, the mountains are like our ancestors, our saints. Each one has its ghosts and spirits, its names that don’t exist on maps or atlases. People speak to the mountains and pour out their hearts; they plead with them and seek refuge there, and sometimes they curse them for claiming our sons and daughters. My father didn’t say those things because he disliked the mountains but because he was wise and knowledgeable and he wanted his children to have a better life. Perhaps it was because he had lost hope that people could live on this land like human beings, without fear or hunger. Perhaps it was so that his children would be saved.

Mahmut has crouched down in the hospital corridor with his back against the wall, his eyes closed, weary from exhaustion and lack of sleep. However, his mind is still crystal clear and he is thinking of the mountain tale he and Zelal lived together. Their love story that is nothing like the ones in novels, television serials or in the films he hasn’t seen or watched … A legend that befits those told by the dengbej on long winter nights … One day in the future will they also tell the legend of Mamudo and Zalal? The heroic epics of the dengbej always end in glory, but the love stories are usually sad. Wicked characters come between those who love but only death unites lovers. He shudders. Ours will be a happy ending. All will be well. It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t become a legend or tale, if the dengbej don’t tell our story, as long as my Zelal recovers and she loves me.