Oya Baydar - The Lost Word

She thought how long it was since they had made love. Was it a month, two months? It wasn’t more than that. Ömer had returned from a book-signing day at a major international book fair. In the past he would return the same day by plane when he had been to those sorts of events. However much they urged him he would never extend his stay, resorting to the excuse, ‘I have to work, my publisher is waiting for me to finish my book.’ That time he had stayed there almost a week, the length of the fair. This was because when he came back there was nothing to do. Elif knew that he had writer’s block, that he could no longer write. She felt that it was for this reason he had gone east, that the source for his work had dried up and that he was looking for new inspiration.

‘This time you stayed too long,’ she had reproached him.

‘You are right, dear. I did stay a long time. I’ve missed you.’

They had made love. Just like the old days, right there on the couch, covering themselves with the twilight. Calm, safe, sound, unexciting love-making without waste, without surprise, where they both knew each other’s likes, all their sensitive points, the curves of their bodies.

As she looked at her body in the mirror, she had a feeling of longing that she had not experienced for a long time. She felt as though she had been left suspended in the middle of making love, as though she had been cut short just as she was about to have an orgasm. The bitter taste of adultery that had come to nothing and a feeling of humiliation coupled with shame. The emptiness of an intended but failed attempt at murder…

Why did I meet up with that English colleague? Was I really interested in talking science? And what about getting dolled up to the nines … Wasn’t everything, from the bra to the silk jersey blouse, chosen to show off your femininity, to get him excited? At one stage you even considered at the last minute wearing a thin cotton top without a bra at all — so that your nipples would be visible. So why didn’t you? Was it to play the mysterious woman from the east? You are Turkish. A man should find something in you that he can’t find in western women; a little reserve, a touch of coyness or coquetry. Aren’t all these pathetic ploys contrived to arouse a man, to ensure that the fish swallows the bait?

Why had she behaved like this? Before she leaves the mirror, she addresses her motives. With the habit she has acquired from her scientific studies she treats herself not as a subject but an object, as she does when examining the behaviour of a guinea pig. No, the reason was not the urge of the flesh, an irresistible sexual impulse, a desire that could not be curbed. If it were that, it could be seen as natural, understandable, healthy or even reasonable. It could be counted as a manifesto for woman’s sexual liberalization. In fact, it was none of these. It was because I wanted to punish Ömer, because I rebelled against our drifting apart, because he had allowed it, because I felt he thought of me as a fixture. He hadn’t even remembered my birthday. He hadn’t even phoned me. That is why I called the Englishman. It could have been someone else. The only available opportunity in this city was the scientist — the easiest to reach and likely to be the most harmless and free of complications. Adultery as revenge. The familiar theme of bad melodramas.

If she had fallen madly in love with someone, if she had run to this other person sacrificing everything, burning her boats and leaving all behind, she would not have lost her self-respect. Love forgives much; at that point conscience takes off its hat to infidelity. My case is similar to that of a poor girl who has fallen pregnant, is deserted by the man she loves and who becomes a prostitute out of revenge.

She becomes embarrassed by her nudity in the mirror. She doesn’t want to see herself. It’s as though she has been raped, soiled, covered in the sticky fluids of the male. She tumbles into the shower. She has to be cleansed, purified. But what about my heart? How can I ease that? She adjusts the water to cold. She is frozen. She shivers, but it feels good and she relaxes. As the cold water beats down on her shoulders, her breast and her face, her self-confidence returns. She begins to laugh. What had the Englishman said towards the end of the evening?

‘Mrs Eren, remember I told you to ignore the internationally perceived stereotype of the Englishman — about half the males being homosexual, taking five o’clock tea when not in the pub, being gentlemanly but emotionally cold and knowing nothing about food, constantly carrying brollies and so on … Just occasionally there is a modicum of truth in these preconceived notions about nationality. For example, I count myself as among the 50 per cent of Englishmen who prefer men. Otherwise there’s no way I would have let you get away!’

He had grasped that I was after him. He had realized that the conversation about science and research between fellow workers was just a cover, and he had politely turned me down. Perhaps what he said was true, or perhaps it was just an excuse, but he did save me from being unfaithful to my husband. Otherwise I would have been lying like a mummy in the arms of an Englishman with a bitter taste in my mouth and regret in my heart.

As she dries herself with the hotel’s soft snow-white towels she asks herself where the border for infidelity lies. Is it when you sleep with someone, when you seriously contemplate it, when you really want to but do not act on it or merely when you express your desire? As with the question where does violence start? Is it when you kill a laboratory mouse, physically intimidate your sister or when you become a suicide bomber and destroy people in the name of your beliefs?

Before she gets into bed she takes a sleep-inducing tranquillizer, a Chinese herbal remedy that is non-addictive. As she turns down the bedspread, her phone falls on the floor. Of course … I left it on the bed. How could I forget? She is about to turn it off and place it on the side table when she presses the ‘missed-calls’ key.

There are two missed calls: one from Turkey, a number that she doesn’t recognize which does not come up on the screen either. The other is Ömer’s number. So he did ring! He has rung! Hooray! And he let the phone ring for a long time. Perhaps a few times. No one answered. Was he worried? Had he tried to guess where I was and what I was doing? Will he call again? Over there it is two in the morning. Very late. Never mind. If he’s asleep then he can wake up. Today’s an important day. She presses the ‘reply’ key. ‘The person you have called is unavailable.’ He must be out of range again, or he has turned off his phone. I’ll call again tomorrow. Ömer will phone, too. A feeling of shame mixed with regret spreads over her. I owe my fidelity to the sexual preferences of the English colleague. How fragile everything is! How it all hangs on a thread.

Then she looks at her incoming messages. The most recent one is from her recent date. He must have sent it as soon as he emerged from the taxi that brought them back to the hotel. ‘What I said about my sexual preference was true. You are a very special woman. I should like to have been able to fall in love with you.’ She smiles. So the cliché that Englishmen are courteous was also true…

The other message is from Deniz. See, he has remembered my birthday as well. I am too negative, and I’m rather spoilt, I’m afraid. But, no, this is not a birthday greeting. ‘They’ve set fire to the Gasthaus. Please phone me immediately on this number, Mother.’

What does he mean, they’ve set fire to the Gasthaus? For a moment she cannot make it out. Then a photograph emerges in fragments from the depths of her memory and the pieces pile up, one on top of the other. Sounds and colours complete the picture. It transforms into an image of the group of young skinheads with motorbikes in a corner of the square by the quay where the fish festival was celebrated on Deniz’s island. When I went back to the Gasthaus to get my things and go the door was open as always. The dog yapped behind me. I thought that someone was there, but there was no one in evidence. I was surprised that the dog kept barking. Bjørn? Where was Bjørn at the time? No, no he wasn’t at the Gasthaus. He did not come with me. He was with his grandfather and grandmother at the fairground. He was driving round and round the square in the car that I had given him as a present.