Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

‘Has something happened?’

‘No, abi . You go up to your room. They’ve surrounded the market again. They’re over by the chemist’s.’

Ömer rushed towards the door.

‘Don’t open it, abi . Go up to your room. This is our business.’

‘What do you mean, our business, buddy? Don’t I count as a man here? Isn’t this my country? If there’s a nasty situation developing here, then it’s as much my business as yours.’

The young man stood in front of the door without moving a muscle. In his harsh eastern accent, emphasizing his words one by one, he obstinately reiterated, ‘I’m responsible for your safety.’

Buddy, you were asleep just a moment ago. If I had gone out, you wouldn’t have known, thought Ömer.

‘You are right, abi. It’s your country, too. But you don’t know this area, what it’s like. We fight, and you are the judge. If the judge gets beaten up there will be even more blood and tyranny. Just stand back and leave things to me.’

‘I can’t stand back. Your Jiyan Abla’s chemist’s shop is over there. My friend is there…’

‘Our Jiyan Abla knows how to handle them. She has survived till now. She knows death, blood and tyranny. Nothing will happen to her. No one would dare touch her. Anyway the men are not coming just to see her. It’s a general raid on the market, and in passing they’ve stopped by the chemist’s shop.’

‘But, still, let me go and look. If they see me they will steer clear.’

‘Here no one will steer clear of you. If they take you in, they will question you like there’s no law or constitution — or even God. Here no one has a God, not in the mountains nor on the plains. Men you drank with, talked to, yesterday will suddenly disappear. There will be no one behind you to offer support.’

‘Are we just going to stand here with our hands tied? If I call the Commander…’

‘It won’t do any good. Anyway the Commander knows. Sometimes it’s beyond the Commander. Who’s really in charge here is anyone’s guess!’

Ömer sank into the armchair next to the door. He realized that his headache and the throbbing in his temples had passed. This must be what they call the hair of the dog that bit you. Years ago, when they arrested him and took him to the police station — was it when they went out flyposting or was it during a protest to support a workers’ boycott? — he recalled them saying, ‘Even if the Son of God came, he would not be able to save you from this place, so spill the beans! Tell us about the organization.’ Such things get forgotten … Years pass, our lives change, no one cares any more, we pass over to the other side and we forget. Tyranny and terror recede from our surroundings because we have become compliant, respected members of the system, the cogs of the cutting machine. As the boy said, at best we are the judges. Here rights, justice, even God have long since fallen victim to unsolved crimes.

‘Well, ring the chemist’s shop.’

‘That won’t do, abi . In any case they will have connected the phone to their own line. To telephone from here is not on.’

My mobile phone! Why didn’t I think of that before? Luckily it’s in my hip pocket. He dialled Jiyan’s number and waited, his heart constricting. ‘The number you have called is unavailable at present. Please try later.’ He looked at his message inbox. Two new messages: the first was from Elif. Without reading it he quickly skipped to the second one. It was from Jiyan. ‘Don’t worry. It’s a routine check. I’ll call later.’

He sank a little deeper into the armchair or, rather, he shrank. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the youth on night duty take the gun on the reception desk and place it under the counter.

‘While you were asleep I went into the kitchen and the window was wide open,’ he said to put the boy on the spot.

‘It can’t be. I closed everywhere up myself,’ replied the boy. He took out the gun he had hidden under the counter. As he walked towards the kitchen he turned to Ömer and with the smile of a naughty child he said, ‘You’re angry so you’re teasing me, aren’t you, abi? Was the window really open?’

‘Yes, I was angry, but the window really was wide open. I closed it.’

He saw the shadow of fear passing over the boy’s face, and he felt sorry.

‘If the latch wasn’t closed properly perhaps the cat opened the window. After all, it was in the kitchen, and it shot out when I opened the door.’

‘But, still, I should look. They might throw something in or something…’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘Four or five years ago they threw a couple of Molotov cocktails — bombs and stuff. I wasn’t here then, and after that nothing like that happened, thank God. But nowadays things are stirring up again, so you never know. They could throw something different, such as smuggled goods, I mean, white stuff. Then they mount a raid and extort money.’

‘Who does?’

‘All of them. How do you think people get by here? Is there regular work? Where are the factories? The military and the government don’t even shop from local tradesmen. Even their jars of honey are surreptitiously imported from some way away. The people are destitute, and they try to get by through their own means.’ Lowering his voice he whispers, ‘Smuggling, especially drug smuggling, serves everyone in these parts. Jiyan Abla doesn’t get mixed up in that sort of thing. That’s why they keep raiding the market and the chemist’s shop to conduct searches. They don’t find anything and off they go.’

Ömer remained quiet and contented himself with watching the boy carefully searching the kitchen through the open door.

‘There does not seem to be anything here,’ said the boy. He stood in front of the door and looked outside. ‘They are not coming this way. They are going into the market. Don’t call Jiyan Abla straight away though. Leave things to settle down a bit. Your calling would not be good for her either. Here things resolve themselves, and, if not, nothing can be done about it.’

Two steps away Jiyan is in trouble, perhaps in danger. And I can’t do anything. I can’t help. My hands are tied. This rascal of a hotel boy gives me advice, tells me what I should and shouldn’t do. I’m of no use to anyone. I cannot help either of the two women I love.

He slumped into the torn leather armchair. He began to fiddle with his phone. There were new messages in the inbox. Why can’t I just switch the thing off? Why don’t I take the SIM card out and be free of it altogether? Frustrated by his indecision, displeased with himself and also a little worried, he reads Elif’s message: ‘I can’t reach you. I’m with the boy. Call me.’ He looked at the date of the message. It must have come while they were at Soğukpinar. Suddenly he felt shattered, all done in: weak, feeble, hesitant and homeless. Not even in limbo — at a complete loose end.

I’ve slowly rolled into this chasm, destroying myself, forsaking myself. Writing with an eye on customer satisfaction, calculating the number of editions, measuring the length of the queue of admiring readers — mostly women — that stretch in front of me on signing days … And then that difficult question: What was I really? What did I have to destroy? Elif had written in her message that she was with the boy. The boy … my son who ran away from violence, life’s cruelty, the savage world of grown-ups; whom I abandoned because he longed for an insignificant, happy life and I considered him lacking in courage and drive. My wounded son who ran away and sought refuge on a distant island. What noble cause was I espousing when I accused him of being worthless? Was I courageous when I flung his failures, his incompetence in his face?