Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

Today Mahmut does not feel like leaving Zelal there on her own. Crazy ideas pass through his mind. If I were to put her in a taxi and take her away, she would be able to walk as far as the door on my arm. She’s a tough girl; she wouldn’t even let out a peep. Hadn’t the doctors said she should take a few steps every day, walk around a bit? Would they look for her if we were leave now before they considered her ready to be discharged? Would they follow us? As if there are not enough people pursuing us! All we need are doctors as well! He thinks about the men waiting at the bus stand. He shudders. All right, I was suspicious for no reason, but my nerves are in shreds. I am wary of my own shadow. That’s certainly the case, but what if …? Without mulling it over, without thinking things out, he walks over to the woman in the other bed almost instinctively.

‘I’m entrusting Zelal to you, teyze,’ he says. ‘Please don’t take it personally if she’s sometimes rude or insolent. A lot of things have happened to her. It’s because she is shy, because she is afraid, that she puts out her prickles. She feels a stranger here, and when I go she is completely alone. Please look out for her. She’s just a young girl. She does not know this place — she does not know the city. Please help her. You have children of your own. There is love in your heart. Please take care of her for me.’

The woman had leant back against her pillows and was silent and unresponsive as though she had not heard what he said. It seems to Mahmut that she imperceptibly moved her head and said ‘All right’. He is not entirely sure, but he wants it to be so to ease his heavy heart.

Just as he is going out of the door he turns back. ‘I read somewhere that someone has written, “ People can reach other people.” What good are our hands and arms if we don’t reach out to help one another?’ His voice is mild but not meek and much wiser than one would expect from his appearance. He stands at the head of Zelal’s bed and with a clumsy, shy movement strokes the girl’s hair that resembles a sheaf of wheat spread out on the pillow. ‘I’ll come again tomorrow at the same time, and then perhaps, if the doctor allows, I’ll get you discharged early.’

The hospital corridor is crowded. It is leaving time for all the visitors. He gives a quick glance in both directions; everything seems normal. Before going out through the main door he lingers for a while at the end of the corridor. There is no one suspicious in evidence nor anything out of the ordinary. But, still, we must leave as soon as possible, I must take Zelal away from here right away. We have almost forgotten to be cautious. We have forgotten what a dangerous situation we are in. The people on the mountain used to say that the city air makes one relax. That’s true; we have let our guard down. I’ve relaxed. It is as though we thought we were normal citizens.

He goes out of the hospital and with rapid, determined steps mingles with the city’s crowds.

After Mahmut had left, Zelal felt worn out. They were giving her a great deal of oral and intravenous medication. The young nurse had said that the surgical wound site would hurt for some time so she should take medicine for the pain. Zelal liked this girl. Her highly sensitive antennae with which she continually combed her surroundings had picked up on the vibrations emitted by the young nurse; they had reached the touchstone of her heart, and she understood from the radiance that spread inside that only good would come from her. Among the many doctors and nurses who entered the room this was the one she warmed to most: Nurse Eylem, with the pretty face and strange name; Nurse Eylem who visited the room without fail whenever she was on night duty, who personally gave her her medicine, who spoke softly, who did not ask questions but who could read her looks.

Like a cat trusting its whiskers, Zelal trusted her antennae to sort out friend from foe. She was never wrong. Her teacher was a good man, the headmaster bad, her father was good, her uncles bad, her father’s second wife was good and the midwife was bad. Mahmut was good, very good. Before he went up the mountain her Mesut Abi had been good, too. she had loved him very much. However, when he returned from the mountain and came to the village he had changed. He had become bad; he had become somebody else. And those foul-faced dark men with cruel looks who had accompanied him … She had been afraid of them, had run away. When her father had thrown himself to the ground, beating his breast and crying like a woman because, he said, ‘My son is a collaborator’, she had not understood what was so bad about it. But when her Mesut Abi had returned to the village with those two youths, laughing unpleasantly and showing off his gun with a swagger, and had told her to run and tell their mother about his arrival, she had sensed evil with all her five senses. She had run away from them and had could no longer bear to see, smell or touch her Mesut Ab i, whom she had previously loved so much. She had thought that her father had been right to beat his breast. People change, the good become bad — and perhaps the bad become good…

Zelal had complete faith in her instincts. Nurse Eylem was good, a friend. When she talked to a person she looked them straight in the eye. One did as she said, took the medicine on time. She had said she was on duty that night. If she were on duty it meant she would drop by. When she was there, there was no need to worry or to be frightened.

She pushed the pillows that Mahmut had piled up behind her to make her comfortable to the top of the bed and lay down. She savoured the drowsiness that spread through the warm droplets of water that drained from her forehead and trickled into her eyes. Drowsiness gradually became sleep and sleep turned to dreams.

They were running down a very green steep slope. They were running, but Zelal had no legs. She was a cloud, water, vapour from the waist down. Who was the person beside her? Was it Mahmut? It was, and it was not. She was carrying a baby in her arms. The baby’s face was Mahmut’s face. Mahmut did not have a face. His face was in pieces; it had merged with green grass. They were running in a cold sweat. She did not know why or from whom. It was dark behind them. There was a storm, a deluge. A smoking burnt forest appeared in front of them, pitch-black stumps, branches and ashes. Mahmut’s faceless body threw the baby from her arms, embraced Zelal and threw her down; she felt the gentle warmth of the ashes on her body. She suddenly saw that she was stark naked and bleeding. Men had surrounded her, and none of them had a face either. Then the baby wrapped in rags stood up. It had a huge head, and Zelal saw her Mesut Abi’s face: it was not the good, kind face of her brother before he went to the mountain but the evil, frightening face he had when he returned to the village with the two young men. Mahmut got off her and disappeared into thin air. She wanted to get up and go after him, but she could not. She began to scream at the top of her voice in fear, but no sound came. The more she screamed, the more her voice was stifled. It was stifled screaming. The more she screamed the more she turned to stone, and the stone came and blocked her throat. She heard sounds, shrieks. Then…

She awoke to her own voice. First she thought it was from the pain, the ache she felt in her womb. She noticed the dumbfounded face of the woman lying in the bed next to her and her staring eyes. Intuitively, by some strange force, she turned her head to the door. In the half-open door opening on to the hospital corridor she saw just a face, a disembodied face like a continuation of the frightful dream that she had seen: the face of her Mesut Abi … Like a rabbit mesmerized by the eyes of a snake, she remained frozen, motionless and silent watching the door.