Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

‘To tell the truth, my being here amazes me just as much as it does you. It is a coincidence. Mahmut … He wanted me to see you. Does the name mean anything to you? Do you remember Mahmut?’

‘I’m sorry I cannot recall him. In these parts there are many with the name Mahmut.’

‘Mahmut is also from the east but not from here. Whether his real name is Mahmut I don’t know either. That was what was written on his identity card, and he introduced himself as Mahmut. As far as I understand he was on the mountain for a time, at Kandil and perhaps in Bekaa and thereabouts. After that he came over to this side of the border. Then something happened. I believe he was wounded and left the mountain unit. I don’t know exactly. I didn’t ask for details.’

‘When they talk about being on the mountain, you immediately think of Kandil, don’t you? I don’t think he was there. But anyway … It is not so easy to be parted from the mountains. If he surrendered and was recruited as an informer, that’s different.’

‘No, no, it’s nothing like that. There was a very young woman with him. She was pregnant. They were running away together. The girl’s brothers and family were after her. She had run away to escape the clan laws. They were together. Then the girl was hit by a stray bullet.’ He realizes that he has been forming disjointed inarticulate sentences like an excited child’s breathless narration of an incredible adventure, and he starts to laugh. ‘Oh, forgive me. Trying to summarize things for you I’ve got everything mixed up. Basically, I met Mahmut and the girl by accident at the Ankara coach terminal. There was an incident, and the girl was hit by a stray bullet. In trying to assist them I found myself involved in their story. And now I’m here. Mahmut was looking for a safe place for Zelal. Zelal is the name of the girl. He said that you might be able to help and gave me directions to your pharmacy. Perhaps you do remember him. His father’s name is Hüseyin Bozlak. I’ve been to see him, too, before I arrived here. He’s a wise, dignified man, grieving …’

‘I think I do remember Hüseyin Bozlak. We are distantly related through my husband’s father. We once went to their village, which had been forcibly evacuated. The person you are talking about must be Hüseyin Amca’s youngest son Mahmut. I have never seen him. As I said, we are not very close, but I did know his elder brother who was killed. I had heard that Mahmut was studying at university. His father wanted his youngest son at least to study, to get a proper job and a career. What a pity!’

As he listens to the woman Ömer notices the strong emphasis on the syllables, the shortening of the vowels, the narrowing of the broad ‘e’s and the word ‘husband’ more than what she says about Mahmut. For some reason it had not occurred to him that the woman might be married.

‘Tonight we are on duty. My assistant has taken a few days off. I have to stay here at least until around midnight. Please sit down. We can talk comfortably here,’ says Jiyan indicating an old chair in the corner. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘At the Yıldız Hotel opposite.’

‘It’s safe and clean. Foreigners who come here mostly stay there. They’re on good terms with the state and the garrison headquarters. They send the registrations of all the visiting foreigners directly to the centre, so there is no problem. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you don’t get an invitation to drink rakı with the Commander before long. After all, someone as famous as you doesn’t come to these parts very often.’

‘I really don’t think the Commander will know of me, but to tell the truth I’m not minded to refuse anyone’s invitation to drink rakı. I’m tired, tense and in need of a drink!’

He feels he has behaved too familiarly, shockingly, and he is embarrassed. I have asked the woman to find me a drink. She’s think I’m a typical author with alcohol problems whose hands begin to shake when deprived of his booze.

They hear snatches of conversation outside the door, strident voices, the clinking of metal … They fall quiet and look outside. The streets lamps have not yet come on, but the road outside is illuminated by the light from the chemist’s shop. A few armed men with black snow masks and wearing camouflage stare into the shop, their hands and noses pressed against the window.

‘It looks as though the invitation to drink rakı has arrived,’ says Ömer, trying to contain his anxiety and excitement.

He recognizes them from newspaper photographs and the television screen. He remembers he wrote an article years ago on the subject when the Special Team was first formed as a part of emergency measures against terror. The editor-in-chief who, whenever Ömer sent an article, had always put it on the front page and sent an acknowledgement signed by the editor, had on this occasion requested that he tone down the article ‘taking into account the delicacy of the situation and sensitivity of the relevant authorities’. Ömer had been enraged and had withdrawn his article saying, ‘In that case, don’t print it.’

The men are really intimidating in their masks. Ömer thinks that on a summer’s day the function of them is most probably to terrorize. Perhaps they enjoy going around like that. They wear the masks not just to remain incognito but because the masks give them an air of menace; because they know that to wear them increases their power, their influence. After all, they are young men. That is how they add spice to their miserable lives in this intolerable place. They see themselves as the masters of terror and fear. They think that they can bring the whole town to its knees if they want to. They get a kick out of this.

Instead of turning his back and trying to hide his face, he looks straight at the window as though challenging his fear. A small part of this is his novelist’s instinct to perceive the individuals behind the masks and their frightening weapons. These men in masks, armed from head to foot, appear more real, more frightening in the newspaper images and on the television screens than they do here. In the dark streets of this remote, dismal and strange town — where they should be at their most frightening, their most intimidating — to Ömer’s eyes they lose power and substantiality. They remind him of extras trying to play their parts in a scene from a science-fiction film staged in a different galaxy in the distant future or else bad jesters, half-clothed in superman costumes and half in shrouds attempting to frighten children at a street carnival. In the photographs their faces seem more potent than in real life, because the originals are too scary to be real.

‘Don’t worry. This is the Special Team’s welcoming posse for newcomers to the town. A routine visit. The message to say that nothing goes unnoticed.’ Jiyan moves towards the door. The length of her neck and the slimness of her body are accentuated as she walks. She resembles a tense pedigree black cat — no, a black panther; it would be wrong to liken her to a domestic cat. She opens the door slowly. ‘I’m on duty tonight. Did you need something?’ There is not the slightest quaver in her voice, no trace of nervousness. ‘I’m here until midnight, and after that if you need anything I shall be at home.’ She closes the door slowly, without haste. The interior is filled with the cheerful tinkle of the bell entirely out of harmony with the atmosphere.

‘They are frightened, too,’ she says. ‘Don’t take any notice of their swagger. Here everyone is afraid. Tyranny makes people frightened, intimidates them, but fear also nurtures tyranny. The more we fear, the crueller we become, all of us. Until a few months ago we were more at ease; tension had lessened, a détente had begun, and we had started to hope. Imagine: even the streets lights were on at night. I realized how much I hate pitch-black streets and how much I miss wandering around lit streets once they started to turn on the lamps once more. Back then houses were not raided in the middle of the night as frequently as they used to be. The women were not prodded with bayonets and forced to lie on the floor with army boots on the nape of their necks, and their menfolk were not carted off to an unknown place. At least, this sort of thing didn’t happen every day and every night. The number of unsolved murders decreased. How hopeful we were, how ready we were to forget everything …’