Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

Ömer left behind him Mahmut’s father, the little girl who embraced every man who came to the house in her hope for a father, the small town that manifested its sadness and hid its anger, and the crows, the poplars and the snow that disappeared from the ground with the spring, and continued his journey. This was an exciting journey to the east of the east, to the limits of his own feelings, to their hidden depths, towards the beginning and the future. He did not know where the journey would take him or where it would end, but he sensed deep inside him that when he had run the distance — that is, if he were able to — he would never be the same again.

A banner with the words ‘One country, one flag, one language’ flies over the sole entrance to the town surrounded by an invincible fortress built with fear and revolt, mountains, rocks and outposts, provocative fire and commandoes, and as they pass through it Mahmut’s words come to his mind.

‘I don’t know whether I’m in a nightmare or a dream. In a fight a person’s feet are on the ground. You shoot. You are shot. Yet there is nothing real about what I’ve been experiencing recently. Ever since I rolled down the slope, since I met Zelal, since Zelal was shot by that stray bullet, ever since we lost Hevi before he was born, since you came along to the rescue, nothing has had any reality. You know, abi, you said, “I’m a storyteller.” Well, for days I’ve been asking myself: Is all of this a tale, a dream, a figment of the imagination? How will this story end? I’m frightened.’

As Ömer enters the town in the battered coach, weary from constantly being stopped and searched all along the road, he realizes that he, too, does not know how the tale will end. He has come to this town to find the chemist to whom Mahmut has entrusted Zelal and whom he was told to see. Instead of unsettling him, this thought gives him pleasure; his heart lifts. Where he is going is not even important. He is looking for someone in an unknown unfamiliar town, and even to remember her name he has to look at his notes. To entrust to her if necessary — which clearly it is — Zelal whom he does not know, under the directions of Mahmut whom he does not know, and perhaps unwittingly be a messenger for fate.

This is a town between valley and mountain where during even the longest days of the year the sun quickly surrenders to the peaks and disappears behind the steep mountains and where the coolness of dusk swiftly descends. He remembers a similar place between the rocky mountains in Macedonia, and another — was it in Tibet? The same early chill that suddenly comes down cleaving the suffocating heat; the same purplish light, the same flickering of colour and shadow. As he gets off the bus with his case in his hand he asks the driver for a hotel in which he might stay.

‘There’s not just one. There are several,’ says the driver with pride. ‘They are next to each other. We have places to stay because it’s close to the border, on the way to the crossing. Go from here to the main road and keep walking straight. There is only one street anyway. You can’t go wrong. You’ll see the hotels just ahead. They say that Yıldız Hotel is good. Foreigners always stay there.’

Ömer feels the suspicious, thoughtful stare of the man on the back of his neck — or he thinks he does. Should he first look for the Hayat Chemist or should he check into the hotel? He walks with an undecided step along the road lined with poplar trees, amid the rustle of leaves and the cawing of crows.

There is the Yıldız Hotel in front of him, right at the entrance to the market, the kind of small-town hotel that one encounters everywhere. He goes in through the main door with its gilded metal bars. There are old armchairs covered with maroon leather, maroon curtains down to the floor and a strange smell, a mixture of kebabs, mildew and soot. At the entrance, on the left, is a wooden panelled corner with the sign ‘Reception’ written over it. On top of the counter are yellow and red artificial roses in a vulgar plastic vase … He leans his arm on the counter and waits for someone to turn up. After a while he presses the bell.

An elderly man comes out of a door at the back. ‘May I help you?’

‘Do you have a single room?’

‘Yes, we do. How many nights will you be staying?’

That’s a thought! How long will I be staying? ‘It depends on my work. I shall probably be here a few nights.’

The man holds out a long registration form. ‘You have to fill this in. They ask interminable questions. You have to answer them all. Your Turkish identity number is required, too. And you must leave your identity card. We’ll send the information to command headquarters.’

‘What has it got to do with command headquarters?’

‘That’s what they require for foreigners.’

‘But I’m not a foreigner. I’m a Turkish national.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that. I meant to say, people from outside; anyone who isn’t local. Here everyone is a foreigner.’

If only I had gone first to command headquarters, to the district governorship or whatever and introduced myself. I would have said I was working on a new book. They would have made things easy for me.

Just to be awkward he hands the man his driving licence instead of his identity card.

The man wearily gives the driving licence back. ‘It’s all the same to me, but command headquarters wants your identity card.’

He is angry with himself. What’s the point of causing the man trouble? Beating the saddle instead of the donkey. He produces his identity card. As he fills in the registration form he asks, ‘Is the Hayat Chemist near here?’

‘Yes it is. Cross the road, and it’s immediately on the left. If you look out of the door you’ll see it, just at the start of the market. All foreigners ask for the Hayat Chemist when they come here.’

He senses relief, a friendly tone in the man’s voice. ‘Why is that?’

‘Our Jiyan Abla knows how to speak to strangers, and she knows these parts well, too. She also speaks English if required. She is our only lady chemist. Everyone loves and respects her.’

He thinks that she must be one of those small-town interfering women who are too clever by half, who have studied a little and moved up the social ladder by opening a chemist’s shop; and, to top it all, the daughter of a clan leader — whatever that means — and a Kurd to boot. All the Europeans trying to keep in with the Kurds, this mission or that commission, look her up first.

For a moment he thinks about exploring the town or going to the military garrison, the Governor’s residence or anywhere instead of the chemist’s shop. After all, he always finds someone who has heard of Ömer Eren. I’ll tell them that I’m working on a new book and I’ve come to absorb the atmosphere in these parts. Nobody will be suspicious. What is more, it’s true. I can’t be considered an undesirable person. That was in the old days, twenty-five to thirty years ago. After all, we were revolutionaries then; communists. Now I’m the famous author Ömer Eren. ‘The darling of the system and bestselling author, a writer who gives the correct dose of opposition, the correct dose of apostasy, the regime’s fig leaf …’ Who wrote this about me? Which son of a bitch? Damn it! Elif mustn’t hear me swear. She used to say, ‘You profess to defend women’s rights and feminism, but your swear words degrade women.’ Is she wrong? And when that bastard said ‘the correct dose of opposition, the correct dose of apostasy’, was he altogether wrong?

‘Let’s go, sir. I’ll show you your room,’ says the man. He picks up his case and leads the way. They go up stairs covered with a dirty and stained maroon carpet to the second floor. Room number 204. There are not 200 rooms in his hotel, he thinks. They always do this as though prestige increases with numbers.