Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

‘I’ll heed your warning,’ he says curtly.

The Garrison Commander breaks the tense silence. ‘I won’t offer you tea, Ömer Bey. I dare say our author wouldn’t say no to something stronger. This gives us an excuse to have a drink, too. Isn’t that right, my dear Governor? Tonight we’ll let the Commander off. He has already offered his apologies beforehand and asked to be excused. The last two days have been a great strain for him. Our condolences, Commander. We’ll see you tomorrow. This way please, Ömer Bey. The chef at our modest club is not bad at all. He cooks local dishes very well, too.’

Despite Ömer’s fears, the evening passes pleasantly. The Garrison Commander and the District Governor are moderate, charming people. They are the kind of people who think: if only all this had not happened, if only we did not have to fight here. The conversation is warm, friendly and frank. The local dishes are excellent, and the rakı is not bad at all.

They watch each other carefully and drink only a little; indeed the District Governor has diabetes and does not drink spirits. For a time they discuss healthy eating, diabetes and blood pressure. As they weigh each other up and feel more at ease, as they stop being commanders, governors and writers and become simply men, the conversation relaxes and flows. They talk about about clans, codes of honour, leaders and sheikhs, communities, the circumstances of the rich, the plight of the ordinary, law-abiding citizens, smuggling, terror, soldiers’ hardships, forbidden areas, fear, anger, ambition, hope and even a little politics.

At some point, when the conversation comes around to the situation of the women in the region, the Governor says, ‘Jiyan Hanım, the chemist, is very active when it comes to women’s rights as she is in every field, maşallah.’ Did you know her before, or did you get to know her when you arrived?’

‘No, I didn’t know her. Where would I have met her? The first evening I was here my head was aching. I’d had a nightmare journey. You know the road. The two-hour journey lasted almost six hours. I dropped by the pharmacy to buy some painkillers. That’s how we met. She seems an intelligent and interesting woman.’

‘She is, and she also belongs to one of the region’s powerful clans. A large clan that has relations both with the state and with the separatist terror organization. One branch consists of wardens; the other branch aids and abets the terrorist organization. You must look into this clan issue, Ömer Bey. It’s a completely different world. What is happening there throws all the old values to one side. I was not around during the incident. I was appointed subsequently, but as far as I can understand the murder of the chemist’s husband was linked to the clan. He was an important person in this region. A writer; well thought of.’

‘The chemist said that her husband was the victim of an unsolved murder. She didn’t go into the matter, and I didn’t think it fitting to probe. Besides, it’s not my sphere of interest.’

‘Around here, when someone close to the terrorist organization or somebody whose opinions carry weight is murdered, it is immediately ascribed to the state. The separatist organization spreads such propaganda straight away,’ says the Commander. ‘To tell the truth, on the whole, we keep quiet in order to intimidate, so even if we are not involved we don’t openly disclaim responsibility. After all, if you do you will then have officially addressed the terrorist organization. The military would never do that. The incident to which our Governor refers is an interesting case. No one admitted to the murder, but neither did anyone deny it. There were rumours that it happened with the wife’s knowledge. However, in my opinion all that was fabrication. Here the waters are murkier than you think, Ömer Bey.’

‘If the chemist were not under the protection of the clan, she would not be able to act so freely. Human rights, women’s rights and so on — please don’t get me wrong, Ömer Bey — at the end of it, these, are grist to the separatists’ mill. If the lady did not have the protection and support of both sides she wouldn’t be able to get involved in her political work in such a reckless way. It’s not my place to advise you, but accept this as a friendly warning. For our intellectuals this region has an attractive, alluring side. And if they get too carried away by its charm, they will be like the sailors bewitched by the sirens’ voices who wreck their boats on the rocks.’

Smug about showing off his knowledge of classical mythology, the Governor leans back in his chair and smirks from under his moustache. He doesn’t notice that the Commander has a long face and has turned his head the other way.

Ömer thinks it expedient to pretend not to have heard the Governor’s warning. He decides to change the subject. He turns to the Commander and asks if he can suggest where else and who else he should see. He wonders whether the Commander could facilitate visits if he had time. Would the military be able to give him special permission to visit certain places? If they saw fit, would he be able to watch preparations for a military operation — at least the preparation at the barracks?

He says this purely to gain trust, to make conversation. There is nowhere he especially wants to see, no one he wants to meet, to talk to, and, above all, there is no operation in which he wants to take part. He is not actually writing a novel; he is incapable of writing. In fact, there is no reason for him to stay any longer apart from the irresistible call of the sirens and the sound of the mountains.

As he returns to his hotel along the dark deserted roads in the Commander’s car, for a moment he considers visiting Cihan — no, not Cihan; Jiyan. Why do I always mix these names up? Either to say goodbye or to succumb to the desire that he has been suppressing for days, to wreck his vessel on the sirens’ rocks, to remain on this bewitched, sinister, forsaken island never to return to the mainland.

As they approach the hotel his phone rings. The ringtone is the sound of a cockerel … The soldier driving the car is at first surprised and then cannot help laughing. After all, the Commander’s guest is a civilian. There is no harm in relaxing a bit.

The cockerel sound belonged to Elif, the miaowing of a cat to Deniz — that is, in the past, before they lost him. He had set his phone to make other ringtones, too. For example, his publisher, the old revolutionary who had become rich at his expense, was set as the Internationale. This was a pleasant joke between his close friends. When Elif asked, ‘Why am I associated with a cockerel?’ he would answer, ‘Because you are my wife who always wakes me up and keeps me on the alert through life.’ It really was like that. Before Deniz had run away from their world he was their beloved kitten, their dear son. When he phoned, the miaowing of a kitten heralded news of their son. Now, not just physically thousands of kilometres away but emotionally thousands of kilometres from the cockerel, the cat and the Internationale, he thinks how alien they all seem, with a slight sense of bewilderment and a strange feeling of freedom…

Ömer doesn’t answer the phone. The cockerel crows for a long time, this time without waking anyone up, and then becomes silent. It is either a cock that crows very early or one that is too late. He says to the driver who is still grinning, ‘It tells the time, even if it’s midnight.’ He gets out at the door of the hotel and goes straight to his room.

I had come here to look for the word I had lost. The lonely, wounded, fugitive young people had said, ‘Go and look for the word in its place. To find the word you need first to hear the voice. You have to hear the voice to put it into words.’ I believed them and came. Was I just in pursuit of the word I had lost? I don’t know.