Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

‘Don’t worry. It’s a routine check,’ says the brother-in-law. Their work is difficult, too. Everyone’s priority is their lives. They know us, but should they see a car that they don’t recognize, believe me, their hearts will be thumping, too. All men are the same. Everyone has just one life. Everyone is afraid. We are all afraid.’

‘They treat us well,’ says Jiyan. ‘We will sort things out with a reciprocal greeting. We are considered the region’s gentry. We even have dealings in common with the state and with the military. Conversely if some poor person were to pass by on a donkey then there would be no deference or respect.’

The jeep stops and the heavily armed men approach.

‘We are taking our guest to Soğukpinar,’ says the brother-in-law. ‘He’s one of our writers, and he’s come to get to know our region. He’s a friend of the commander.’ Then he says something in Kurdish.

The men glance briefly at their identity cards. ‘All right. Pass. You don’t have anyone with you with a foreign passport, do you?’

‘Which of us would be a foreigner? This gentleman is one of our best-known authors. Perhaps you’ve heard of him: Ömer Eren. He has come to acquaint himself with the region, to write. We are looking after him.’

The man does not seem impressed. ‘We don’t know what these writers write. It’s all right for the Commander. If something goes cock-eyed, or anything happens to him, we’ll be held responsible, not the Commander. There is a lot of action again in the area these days, so you must get back before nightfall.’

The arrogant and abrupt manner of the man, who appears to be the head of the patrol squad, his all-powerful demeanour, offends Ömer. The brother-in-law’s almost grovelling humouring of him and Jiyan’s silence upsets him further. Here even going to a spring on a hot day comes at a price …

Soğukpinar: a few poplars, a few willows and a little further on clear water gushing from the rocks. And a hut with thick plastic over the holes that pass for its window and door. In front of it, by the water, are three tables covered with wax cloths with dilapidated wooden chairs arranged around them.

The dark, wizened man who emerges from the hut at the sound of the engine comes running with a dirty cloth in his hand in the hope that his unexpected guests may be good customers. Welcoming them in Kurdish, he makes a show of wiping the chairs and the table surfaces with the cloth.

‘Well, this is Soğukpinar,’ says Jiyan. ‘The surroundings used to be much more beautiful — or at least it seemed like that to us. In spring when the snow melts it’s really lovely, when the snowdrops begin to show their heads.’

She has the timid melancholy of a child who is worried that the beautiful picture she has drawn will not be admired or of a poor little girl who suddenly realizes that the frilly dress she has donned to impress the others around her is in fact old, cheap and pathetic. She knows that Ömer will compare it with country restaurants near water he has known and belittle it, thinking: Was this the picnic place you praised to the skies? She knows that even if he does not say so he will think it and lie, saying, ‘It’s beautiful.’ Indignant and depressed, she knows that Soğukpinar is a sorry place of three poplars and a willow and that the standards of the best and the most beautiful of this land have changed, that in the eyes of the country’s giants it has shrunk to the size of the land of the dwarfs. Later on she would tell Ömer this, in an attempt to explain herself.

She leans down to the clear water that flows in front of the table where they are sitting. From the edge of the water, she picks a daffodil with glossy yellow petals, the constant adornment of the riverbank. As she tries to pin it to her hair, her slide springs open and her hair tumbles down towards the water like a thick black mane. At that moment such desire swells within Ömer that he can hardly prevent himself from embracing her, reaching out for her lips and holding her tightly to his breast. As Jiyan straightens up and comes to the table with the gracefulness of a black cat or a lynx, he understands from the moistness in her eyes and the flush spreading around her prominent cheekbones that she shares this desire. He thinks that her hair is the conductor. When her hair is freed from its restraints, we fall into its net. Their eyes meet, their eyes make love, commit adultery.

Ömer sends a sign of his passion, his love and his respect in a single phrase to the woman that he cannot embrace and kiss right there, whose net of hair he cannot get entangled in. A sentence that he murmurs from the heart to himself, that has not been coated with sugar, dipped in the sauce of mock respect, that does not give solace: ‘When I can see this place, this land with your eyes and embrace it with your heart then I will have found what I am looking for. When I feel in my heart that Soğukpinar is not just a few poplars and a few willows.’

Instead of the thoughts that he could not express, he says in a loud voice, ‘I shall learn to love these parts.’

Jiyan comes over to him and sits on the broken wooden chair. She tries to match the yellow flower in her hand with the flowers on the wax cloth. ‘The fact that you are even making the effort is important, Ömer Eren. There has been many a person who has understood us in mind and has extolled us with speeches, many a politician, intellectual and writer such as you. We must not be unfair to any of them. However, because they have not understood with their hearts, because their hearts and language have not reached our hearts, they have always remained outsiders. Perhaps we have done them an injustice. We have not been able to open up our hearts enough to them either. Isn’t it like that with love, too? It is easy for the strong one, the one who dominates, to love and trust. Those who are meek and more submissive find it hard to love, hard to trust.’

Trout fried in butter, a salad with plenty of onion and an appetizer with yogurt and garlic resembling manti with bulgur arrive at the table. The man rushing around with a napkin in his hand, trying to please the customers, says something in Kurdish.

‘The bread is not fresh. They had not kneaded dough because they were not expecting anyone today. His wife is making fresh kete inside,’ Jiyan translates.

‘The trout from these waters is unique,’ boasts the step-sister.

‘If you were to ask us, we have nothing that is unique,’ says Jiyan mockingly.

Ömer recalls that wherever he goes and is treated to trout he hears the same sentiments. Wherever trout is the only fish available, the locals boast about how amazing it is. Is it that the less one has to boast about the more valuable it becomes? His feels a faint stab in his heart. I, too, should like to believe that my trout was unique, I should like to believe that what I have is unique, he thinks with a pang of sorrow.

‘Well, now it’s time for a drink of rakı,’ says the brother-in-law with glee. He calls out to the man, ‘Bring us rakı, Not that state rakı or whatever. Some of ours if there is any.’

The colour of the rakı that was brought in a water bottle is slightly yellow.

‘It is a sort of bootleg rakı. I advise you not to add water to it, Ömer Bey. First try it like this.’

Ömer takes a forkful of trout. The fish really is delicious, and it has much whiter flesh than the trout he has eaten in the past. He takes a sip of the rakı. It glides down his throat leaving a slight burning sensation. He admits to himself that he was expecting a much stronger, spirituous, unpleasant taste. We tend to think that the other person’s fish and drink do not measure up to ours. Even if we pretend to have liked them, our praise is just for politeness, a show of cordiality.