Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

First she sends a short message to Ömer. ‘Today’s my birthday. Love.’ Instead of a message, I could have tried phoning him. But no, she had promised herself that she would not call him unless he called her. She would keep her promise. Then she remembers that she has made a note somewhere of the phone number of the biophysicist who showed a real interest in her paper at the symposium in Copenhagen. ‘We are researching similar topics. We could share our knowledge and our experiments,’ the man had said. I think he was an Englishman working at the biochemistry or the gene technology institute here. He had given her his phone number and had asked her to call him if she found time. He was between forty and forty-five, a pleasant, intelligent-looking man.

She finds the man’s number in the phone’s ‘contacts’ section. So I did make a note of it! She dials the number. For a moment she is afraid that he won’t answer the phone. She knows that if she cannot reach the man now she will not call him again. He answers the phone almost immediately.

‘I’m Professor Elif Eren from Turkey. I’m in Copenhagen tonight. We could meet if you still think that sharing our knowledge and experiments might be of benefit.’

‘In my opinion, it would be more than beneficial. It’s crucial! When and where shall I pick you up?’

Elif gives him the address of the hotel. ‘I’ll be ready an hour later.’

She switches off the telephone completely. If anyone should call they can leave a note. I’m damned if I’m going to wait by the phone all night long for Ömer or Deniz to call! Rather than spending the night on my own feeling sorry for myself I’ll talk to someone who understands the work I do. And I’ll celebrate my birthday with a glass of wine — no, not just wine, champagne!

She decides to put herself first, to spoil herself. People give you only as much as you ask from them. Especially men. In hindsight I’ve been unfair to myself in being self-sufficient and strong, in not making more demands on anyone, even on my husband, than they gave. There is no one to nurse you if you don’t cry. There are people who know how to get attention. I have not been able to be like them. Yes, not just wine; first champagne and, what is more, the best-quality champagne. I’ll spare no expense, and tomorrow morning I’ll buy myself a birthday present of the bag and blouse I spotted in the boutique of that famous fashion designer.

She takes the tight black trousers that she knows make her look slimmer than she is and the lilac silk blouse out of the cupboard and throws them on the bed. They will go well with my purple silk and linen jacket. I must be smart and well groomed on my birthday. This will be the first birthday for years that I have spent without Ömer, without having flowers from him. Long ago, when we were two penniless students, he used to bring carnations and roses that he had picked from gardens on my birthday; in the first years of their marriage a beautifully arranged bunch of flowers from the florist and with it a book or a cassette that she had been wanting for some time; and in more recent years expensive, exquisite orchids and tropical plants ordered by telephone from the florist accompanied by a valuable piece of jewellery, perhaps an unusual ring designed by a famous contemporary jeweller. As our relationship crumbled amid the gnawing teeth of time, the monetary value of the flowers and other gifts rose. I wonder if I could write the formula for the inverse proportion between love and the value of gifts.

She goes into the shower with a wry, bitter smile on her face. Standing for a while under hot water will do her good.

She carefully blow-dries her hair and puts on her usual light make-up. A woman must be well groomed and beautiful on the night of her birthday! Especially if she is going out with a man … The term ‘going out with a man’, not the idea, seems funny to her. She likes her reflection in the mirror. Lilac, purple and mauve have been her favourite colours ever since she was young. Ömer does not pay much attention, but he knows my colours. The lilac silk blouse was a present he brought from China.

She puts her jacket over her arm and walks to the stairs. It’s not worth taking the lift for two floors. Elif does not like elevators. Electricity might be cut off when you are inside, or there might be a fault and then you would get stuck in the thing. Even the thought of it gives her palpitations.

Her English colleague is seated in the lobby that is furnished with simple elegant Scandinavian furniture of teak, thumbing through the newspapers while he waits.

Instead of hello he says, ‘You look very smart. It’s impossible to park around here at this hour. I left the car in a car park some way away. I won’t make you walk that far. Let’s call a taxi so that your clothes are not spoilt by the rain.’

He asks the young woman at reception to call a taxi. They wait by the hotel’s glass revolving door. The rain continues to fall gently. The man is well dressed, neither too carefully, nor carelessly. Just as he should be. He holds a large umbrella in his hand. They had learnt at primary school that the British always carried umbrellas.

The man notices that Elif is looking at his umbrella and laughs. ‘You think I’m a typical Englishman, don’t you? It rains every day in England, so everyone carries an umbrella. Half the Englishmen are homosexual, and half the Englishwomen are frigid. They never miss five o’clock tea. They all drink Scotch and spend much time in the pubs. They have no sense of humour and so on … Let me tell you immediately that most of these stereotypes don’t apply to me.’

Just as she is about to ask which do apply to him Elif changes her mind. ‘Yes. You know there are stereotypes like that for every country. For some reason we like to put the whole of mankind into boxes, into moulds.’

‘It makes things easier, that’s why. Just like our lab experiments. If we were to think about the individuality of each guinea pig, it would be impossible to us to finish the test.’

The taxi pulls up directly in front of the hotel door. They have only to take a few steps but even so the man opens his umbrella and holds it over Elif’s head. Without waiting for the taxi driver he helps her to get into the car.

‘So the adage that all Englishmen are gentlemen is not wrong,’ says Elif by way of thanks.

The driver waits for them to give him the address.

‘What sort of restaurant would you like to go to?’ asks her English colleague. ‘I know the city well, and I’m fond of eating and drinking. Well, there you have another deviation from the norm. You know they say that the slimmest book in the world is The English Cuisine.!

‘It’s my birthday today. You are my guest. I don’t want any argument on the subject. I leave the choice of venue to you. It would be nice to have dinner at a good restaurant with a champagne menu. Somewhere where we can talk; quiet but decent.’

The Englishman gives an address to the driver and the taxi moves off.

‘I know of a very good French restaurant: Le Coq Rouge. Incidentally, half the French restaurants outside France are called the Red Cockerel. But it’s still very early. It’s not even dark. Let me take you to a Scandinavian bar first. From there we’ll reserve a place at the restaurant.’

What a good thing I thought of my English colleague, thinks Elif. I could not have stood being in that hotel room tonight. He’s really nice, has a good sense of humour, is natural and courteous. And we have subjects in common to talk and argue about. There is no reason for it not to be a good evening.

But what is this feeling of guilt, this uneasiness? She seems to hear the ring of a phone from the depths. She puts her hand to her bag, and then she remembers that she left her mobile in the hotel room. First I turned it off so that no one called, but then I turned it back on. Why? No, I didn’t forget it, I left it behind on purpose, knowingly, so that I didn’t have to bother with anyone. Be honest with yourself, Elif! You took precautions against the possibility of Ömer phoning you. Every moment you would be waiting for him to call, and the evening would have been spoilt. But still, if only I hadn’t left the phone at the hotel. Now it would be rude to say that I’d forgotten my mobile, so let’s turn back. Let others ring. Let those who phone learn to call and not get me every time.