Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

When they get out of the taxi in front of the bar they realize it has stopped raining. There is a faint smell of the sea in the air. The sky is a milky grey and the clouds are gradually dispersing. Elif looks at her watch. It’s just past seven thirty. It must be about nine thirty in Turkey. Her date opens the door of the bar with unexaggerated, natural courtesy and waits for Elif to pass through first. Then lightly touching her back he directs her to an empty table in the corner. As she settles herself in the chair that he has pulled out, she decides to be free of the vicious circle of anxiety and doubt and make the most of the evening. Let’s see what happens. Don’t get tense. Don’t bottle up your feelings. Enjoy the evening as the fancy takes you. If you get bored, go back to the hotel. If you enjoy yourself, then carry on. Drink and eat as much as you like. After all, you won’t get fat in one night. Listen to your heart and not your mind — if only for one night. If you like the man, prolong the evening, but, if you start finding him tedious, then leave saying you’re tired. Make life simple. Don’t tense up. Relax.

‘What would you like to drink? They have good beer here.’ Her companion’s question brings her out of her reverie.

‘I’ll start with wine, so as not to mix drinks too much. A dry red wine please — sometimes when you ask for wine they bring a sweet one.’

The waiter takes the order.

Her English colleague broaches the subject of work immediately. ‘In your paper you made reference only to your most recent experiments. Your subject was the ethical dimensions of gene technology and its limits of acceptability. For that reason you did not enlarge on your research. I think the work I am doing is very similar. That is why I wanted to speak to you.’

A typical Englishman, she thinks to herself. This man really does want to talk about science. Gracious me! And what was I expecting?

Ömer received Elif’s message as he was waiting for news of Jiyan at the chemists. He did not get perturbed because he already was. He only remembered that it was 13 July. At that moment he did not even think of answering. What could he write? What could he say to Elif?

They were following him. They were after him. There were problems. He had to leave as soon as possible. He did not give a damn about any of this. He had left the Commander and gone straight to the chemist’s shop to see Jiyan, to touch Jiyan, to speak to Jiyan and to be quiet with Jiyan. Not to become involved with her world and solve her secrets but to be buried in secrets and be part of them. She was a beauty whose attractiveness did not draw its power so much from what it showed but from what it concealed. Her impish intelligence, her forceful femininity and surprising self-confidence seemed to whisper, ‘There are things that I keep a secret. You won’t be able to reach them, and the more you fail to discover them, the more you will be committed to me. Just like this land, these rivers and mountains.’

Ömer sensed that the poetry of the yellow-grey earth, the barren hills and the craggy cliffs did not lie in what they revealed but in what they concealed. Now he really did understand the meaning of St Exupéry’s words, that what made the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hid a well. These lands, these mountains, these people are beautiful because of the voice echoing inside them. It is not what she offers or shows but her secrets that make Jiyan beautiful.

Jiyan was not at the pharmacy. Her helper, the sullen girl, had said, ‘Jiyan Abla is going to come late. Perhaps she won’t come at all today’, making it clear that she did not want to say more.

‘How late? After the shop is closed?’

‘I don’t know. She just said, “Don’t wait for me.” That’s all.’

‘I have to find her. Her telephone is switched off. She’s not at home, and she’s not here.’

‘She’s gone somewhere. She has a lot of work to do.’

‘Did you see her this morning? Was she all right? There was a search or something last night. There’s nothing the matter, is there?’

‘They’re always raiding the chemist’s shop. Well, whatever they’re looking for, they don’t find it — and off they go. We are used to it. Jiyan Abla’s fine. Don’t worry. She’ll come when she’s ready. Can’t a person have things to do? Can’t they go places? She’s not going to tell us everything, is she?’

The bitch, he thought to himself. She’s just making fun of me. She’ll come when she’s ready! The girl is right, up to a point. Of course people have work to do. She has to go somewhere. She has patients to see. She has friends. I’m making an unnecessary stupid fuss. But after the events of last night she would not go off without a word. She would have phoned or sent news or at least left a note. Doesn’t she know I would be worried? Then he remembered the lawyer with whom he had gone to the mourning house. Thank God I took his number. Perhaps he knows. The lawyer was not in his office. His young trainee assistant said that he was out of town on a case.

Again Ömer turned to the girl. ‘Now look here. Did she leave me a message? I’ve got business with Jiyan Hanım. I’ve brought her some very important news. I must see her straight away. Who can tell me where she is? Her family, her friends, those who know her — where do they live?’

‘Don’t get worked up over nothing, sir. Don’t worry. She’ll come. Go and ask the military if you like. Ask the District Governor. Perhaps your lot will know. They are the ones who are following her. How should I know?’

Ömer wondered what lay behind the girl’s brusqueness. She had said ‘your lot’. In other words, the Commander, the District Governor, me — all of us are in the same boat. ‘The TC state’ as they say here. For her I’m a stranger from the west. It’s as though she is trying to protect Jiyan from this me. Why are they so mistrustful, so distant? We say that a person can reach people, but sometimes one can’t. One does not know how to; one cannot find the way.

He tried to touch the girl’s weak spot, her attachment to Jiyan.

‘My news is very important. If you know something, tell me. After all, if something bad happens to Jiyan Abla, you will be responsible!’

A shadow passed over the girl’s face. Or so it seemed to him. Her lips went taut. She fixed her eyes on the counter and spoke without looking at his face. ‘Why don’t you leave us alone? You come here like this, infidels, Turks … And then you abandon us and we get into trouble. Whenever a stranger comes there are incidents afterwards and military operations. We are just trying to live here. We are used to it. We fend for ourselves. Don’t come and stir things up. If you are Jiyan Abla’s friend, well, it’s better if you leave her alone.’

A crowd of customers arrived at the shop. It was obvious they were from the village. A very young woman in local dress was trying to soothe her small baby who kept on crying. There was an older woman with her, perhaps her mother-in-law, her mother or her stepmother, with a headdress that resembled a kalpak, decorated with gold coins. Ömer was surprised at the loveliness of the woman’s greenish eyes, the way in which she flung her skirt around as she talked, her free movements and the imperious tone in her voice. She must be one of these local agha women, he thought. The man with them held out papers, presumably a prescription, to the chemist’s assistant. Ömer’s eyes lit on the black Mercedes waiting outside. Well, here was yet another scene to shatter our south-eastern stereotype! From the few words of Kurdish that he had begun to get used to hearing he gathered that they were asking about Jiyan and that they were sending her their greetings. Perhaps it was the leading family of another clan. If I ask the girl, though, she would clam up again.