Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

The meal passed with stories of how they had come to the island years ago; Deniz’s insistence that he must see the Devil’s Castle, the elderly German that they had met introducing himself as ‘the unknown deserter’ and how that night they had not come across a single soul apart from the woman with the baskets on her arm and how they had begun to think that the island was bewitched. Deniz tried his best to translate the conversation so everyone could understand.

‘We northerners tend to believe in sea spirits, mountain fairies, wood elves and in fairytales and legends,’ Ulla’s grandfather said, ‘perhaps because of the mists, storms, the twilight that lasts for months and then the long dark nights, the foaming seas and the dark forests.’

‘But now all this is over. Modern life has changed everything,’ the grandmother that the boy called Mormor argued. ‘Now television brings the world to our homes. Even tiny children no longer believe in elves and fairies. They pretend to believe — just for fun. In the east, presumably fairytales and myths are still popular. Everyone knows The Thousand and One Nights, don’t they?’

‘The situation is not so different in our country,’ Elif replied. ‘The world has become small now. As you say, technology has broken the spell. And there is this fact, too: Turkey is not really the east. We feel closer to Europe. Geographically we are, in fact.’

God knows, these Norwegian villagers probably think that in Turkey all women live in harems and men wear fezes and smoke hookahs. That is why they look down their noses at Deniz. He should be told that he must not be put upon.

‘It’s a bad world,’ the grandfather bemoaned. It was obvious that her descriptions of modern Turkey had not interested him. ‘Evil has beset the world. We are trying to protect our island from wickedness. We don’t know how much longer we can do so, but nothing bad has happened here for years. Sometimes neighbours fight, then, at church, they make it up. Sometimes a boat has an accident and we lose people. We are sad, especially for those who die young, but we put our trust in God and look after those they leave behind. However, on the island people are not bad to each other. Children are safe here.’

It seemed to Elif that ‘Ulla’ had just been mentioned. She sensed that Deniz was not translating everything. Perhaps the grandfather had said something about Ulla being killed in Turkey and to avoid a tense atmosphere Deniz had not translated those words. Then they had spoken about the preparations for the fish festival to be held the following day.

Deniz said, ‘Tomorrow there’s the herring festival, Mother. They are discussing the preparations for it. Tomorrow the island will be full of people. Visitors will arrive by boat. They will stop by the Gasthaus to have something to eat and drink. They may stay overnight as well. Bestemor and Bestefar, I mean Grandmother and Grandfather, are talking about what still needs to be done. I don’t need to translate this for you. I don’t think you’ll find it very interesting anyway. It’s one of the simple activities of the fishing village.’

She sensed in her son’s voice a feeling of inferiority towards her, of inadequacy, and the pang of sadness deepened. But still it couldn’t be said that dinner and the evening had passed badly. So in that case who had dug this deep dark well in the middle of her breast? Why did she feel as though a wild cat had been scratching her breast with its claws, making it bleed?

Outside the storm rages, and its roar penetrates the windows. She is seized with a sense of panic that the waves might reach the house and that they could come through the windows and fill the room. She remembers that the strong drink tasting of iodine they had offered her after dinner is in the large room in which they ate their meal. I must have a sip. I don’t know what good it will do, but I need a drink and a cigarette! She leaves the bedroom light on and the door open and goes down the dimly lit stairs. The door of the dining-room that also functions as a kitchen is open, and a light is burning inside. Damn it! What will she say? I’ll say I was thirsty and came down for some water. I can’t say I want a drink like an alcoholic, can I?

Luckily the grandparents are not around. Deniz is sitting at the end of the long solid wood table. He is busy fastening fish heaped in front of him, of various shapes and sizes cut out of colourful bright mica or a similar material, on to a fishing net.

‘I woke up to the sound of the storm and…’

‘I told you. When a storm blows up one has to plug one’s ears to be able to stay in the room you’re in. That’s why I sleep downstairs in the room at the back now.’

Elif looks searchingly around. She looks for the bottle of alcohol on the table, on the kitchen worktop and on the carved wooden sideboard. ‘Give me some of that drink we had or whatever — something strong. Not beer.’ She sits down directly opposite her son at the other end of the long table.

‘What’s the matter, Mother? You aren’t that keen on alcohol.’

‘I need it tonight.’ She pauses, mellows and says, ‘It’s because of the storm. If I wake up at this hour I can’t get to sleep again. A glass of spirits will do me good.’

‘It’s difficult to find alcohol in Norway, and it’s expensive, too, as you know. However, because this house is considered a tourist lodge, even though it doesn’t have many customers, alcohol is always available. Would you like some of what we had at the table or something like akevitt?’

‘Not what we had earlier. The other stuff should be better.’

He fills his mother’s glass. ‘I don’t drink strong drink much. Alcohol-free beer goes down better.’

‘What is this you’re doing? Preparations for tomorrow?’

‘I don’t know if the storm will have died down by tomorrow morning, but at the fish festival they have a tradition of decorating the square at the quay. These have to be finished in time.’

‘And this is left to you?’ She is unable to hide the condescension in her voice and falls silent.

‘Not just me. Others do it as well. Ulla and I used to do it together. She used to love all sorts of handicrafts and was good at it. You know that I’m not very good at handiwork. In any case, I can’t produce enough. Masses of decorations are needed. I get satisfaction from doing this sort of thing, Mother. Your son enjoys occupying himself with simple tasks like this.’

‘I didn’t say anything. Don’t get all prickly. This is your choice. I can’t pretend it would be mine. If stringing fish made from glossy paper, plastic or whatever this stuff is on to nets for a fish festival on this godforsaken island at the edge of the world makes you happy…’

‘I don’t know if it is my happiness you’re concerned about, Mother. But, yes, making these colourful fish, decorating the nets for a silly fish festival makes me happy. Mending the fishing nets on the ocean-going boats, cooking for the people on the vessels and giving them drinks, carrying the fishing baskets and crates of prawns make me happy. I’m sorry that I’m happy doing this. What would you suggest?’ He speaks softly, trying not to raise his voice. At the same time he continues threading the netting through the eyes and tails of the colourful fish and clumsily ties knots with his long, slim fingers. The long, slim fingers on this fat, clumsy body are like a reminder of the graceful youth of the past.

Elif gets caught in the whirlpool of the complex feelings she feels for her son and is silent. He was always clumsy. He was hard-working, well-meaning but always inept, particularly where handiwork or sport was concerned. She remembers his efforts to ingratiate himself with the other children so that he could join in their ball game. She feels a little depressed. And here he’s trying to ingratiate himself with these stupid Nordic villagers by working for them and preparing decorations for a stupid festival. Suddenly she begins to weep softly and quietly. Tears trickle down her cheeks.