Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

He felt as though he were in a bad film with a stupid script that had no proper beginning or end but which one could not help watching. The décor, time, place and actors were all strange, and unreal. What if he got up and left? He didn’t have to watch it, did he? But the doors of the cinema were shut. The youngster who showed people to their seats was of no help to the inconsiderate latecomers. He looked at the mobile’s inbox again. He reread Elif’s message. He felt he could not call her at this hour. She would be sleeping now. He would have to wake her up. He thought he might feel relieved, be purified if he heard his wife’s voice. He wrote a short message: ‘I received your message too late. I’ll call you early tomorrow, dear.’

He felt like crying his heart out. The youth on night duty was still standing in front of the door. The sun must have risen from behind the mountains to the east. A glow had appeared in that direction.

‘Day is breaking.’

‘Not yet,’ said the child hoarsely. ‘There’s been an assault, The glow you see is our mountains burning.’

It would be good if he could go up to his room and sleep a little. He was in no state to collect his thoughts and think sensibly. When had the Commander wanted me to come? At twelve, if possible, he said. It’s a long time until noon. What’s more, the request was quite deferential in tone. There is no sense in rushing off at the crack of dawn.

‘I’ll go upstairs and try to sleep. If I don’t stir, wake me at ten.’

‘I’ll leave a message for the colleague on day duty, abi. Do as you please. I’m here. If anything happens I’ll let you know.’

What can happen? he thought to himself. The Kurd enjoys scaring me and making me anxious.

He slowly climbed the stairs, entertaining himself by counting the stains in the maroon stair carpet, the luxury fixture of provincial hotels. Exactly thirty-two large stains. What do people fixate on when they are tense and knackered! The corridor was dark and stuffy. His headache was developing again. As he turned the door handle he remembered that he had not locked the door when he went out. He paused for a moment as he opened it, then he became ashamed of his panic and angry with himself. You’re not on top of your game, Ömer Eren! You’re behaving as if you’ve always been safe, as though you never rushed into danger before. It’s as if you’ve entirely forgotten the soldiers with Sten guns kicking the door down and barging into the house at dawn, the screams you heard as you waited your turn to be tortured in the cells where they took you blindfolded, the years of your youth when you were on the run to avoid giving yourself up. No, I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t become so estranged from my past. But it is different here. It feels foreign here. In those days I knew where the threat and the danger were coming from, what I was up against, what I was fighting. Here I don’t know. I cannot comprehend. People fear the unknown.

He had left the light on, and the room was bright. He realized from the coolness of dawn that filled the room that the window was open, and he shivered. As he walked over to the window to shut it his eye caught on the envelope from the Command Headquarters that he had left on the small table. On top of the envelope there was a second piece of paper torn from a chequered notepad. He was sure that this piece of paper did not belong to him and that it had not been there before. He had always hated chequered notebooks. He never used them. Perhaps it was because they reminded him of maths lessons, the nightmare of his childhood. He held the paper to the light and read the two lines on it: ‘Don’t interfere in our business. Stay away from the chemist. Go home.’

Where is my country, my home? Whose business is it? Who are you? Who am I? Who is the chemist? When was this paper put here? Who put it there?

He thought that he would hear similar advice from the Commander a few hours later. Jiyan had said, ‘People who do not take sides are put aside. I am trying not to be on the side of the people holding weapons and I’m also trying not to be put aside. I’m just attempting to be on the side of humanity and life. It’s very difficult, if it weren’t for the power of the clan and my being a woman I wouldn’t succeed.’

Who wants me to stay away from the chemist? Why am I upsetting them? At the end of the day, I’m a writer looking for a subject for my book in this area. Neither the organization nor the state would bother with me. That leaves the clan — and the possibility of some child’s game. Even that rascal downstairs might have done it to frighten and taunt me.

He began to learn that in this land no question had a single, clear, indisputable answer. The shadow of the mountains, the flames of the fires, the colour of blood and the power of violence wiped out all truths, rendered the answers doubtful and obscured them. Here everything seemed different to what it was, was different to what it seemed. Even Jiyan’s face, her identity. But perhaps, on the contrary, everything was open, as clear as day, simple. And there was no secret, no secret side, and we were writing — I was writing — this complicated scenario as an outside observer embellished by my overactive imagination.

He lay down on the bed. He was amazed at the solitude, the calm inside him. His fear had subsided. I’m not anxious. How strange — and how good! It was a feeling of having overcome that which had been imposed upon him. Was it from helplessness? Perhaps I am gradually adjusting to the region. His eyelids, brain and heart grew heavy. He fell asleep. If they had not called him from reception and woken him up at ten he could have slept until the evening.

As he was shaving and getting dressed in a leisurely manner, his mind was not on what the Commander was going to say; it was on Jiyan: her hair that was demure in the street and unruly in bed, her changeable face whose real exression he had not managed to catch, her anger, mutiny, pride and submission, her mystery, her secrecy. Jiyan who could not be possessed even at the moment of union, who did not surrender even when moaning with pleasure, always belonging to another world, to another lover.

When he entered the market he purposely walked on the pavement opposite the Hayat Chemist. As he came level with the shop he restrained his desire to enter and glanced over casually from across the road. Jiyan was not there. The young female assistant was arranging the shelves. He walked slowly across the middle of the market road as though he were challenging the unknown enemy. Two stray dogs lazing in front of the butcher’s shop feebly wagged their tails without getting up. The barber, who was sitting on the wicker stool he had put in front of his shop and sipping his very strong tea, gave a friendly greeting. He slowed his steps as he passed in front of the internet café. When one of the youths chatting away in front of the door saw Ömer he left the others and came across. With a strong eastern accent he respectfully asked him for a book. There was no bookshop in the town, and they would be delighted if the writer could send some books. Then he added, ‘Write about us, abi. Our voices don’t reach your parts. Our language isn’t suficient. As you are a writer, be our voice.’ Ömer promised to send some books, but he could not promise to be their voice.

As he passed in front of the photographer’s shop two girls emerging in local dress ran off giggling. His eye spotted the honey pots on the shelves of the honey-seller who sold every imaginable kind of foodstuff, from cereals to potatoes and onions. He craved honey; he longed for it. I must buy some on my return. He fell in with the ginger-and-white piebald dog that followed him whenever he went through the market and reached the end of the market road. A military jeep passed him by lifting the dust from the earth road. The dog gave up following him and turned back with its tail between its legs as though he had been spooked by something. The dusty, deserted road sloped gently up towards the military zone. At the side of the road, yellow daisies had opened despite the dust. He picked one. As he passed the first checkpoint he only had to say his name. They knew him by now, so they did not ask for his identity card, but he produced it as well as the invitation from the Commander for the guards on the main gate. There was a short telephone call with ‘yes, sirs’ and ‘no, sirs’ and then ‘The Commander is expecting you.’ He remembered the day he had first passed this gate. It was as though there used to be a kinder, friendlier atmosphere. Come on, I’m imagining it. It’s always the same formalities!