That day as they tried to talk to each other half in English, half in German and through Deniz’s efforts to translate, the poor girl, who was obviously not a great conversationalist, stretched her linguistic abilities to the limit and asked the question redolent of so many second-rate domestic film dramas.
‘Do you think I’ve ruined your son’s life?’
Ömer, fearing his wife would say something callous, quickly intervened. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘On the contrary, we must thank you. Our son was going through a difficult period. You were there for him.’ Did he really think that, or was it just a trite sentiment uttered to save the situation, to ease the tension?
Elif couldn’t help saying, ‘Wasn’t it too soon to have a baby? Have you considered how difficult it might be to raise a child, especially in the tiny community in which you live?’
‘It depends what you expect from a child,’ Deniz responded. ‘What a child means to the parents. Are they an object for the realization of their ambitions, for the satisfaction of their own egos? Or do you want to create a person whose happiness will bring joy, whose values and choices will be respected?’
The sarcastic tone in his voice, the ill-concealed revenge and bitterness, did not escape anyone, even Ulla who didn’t understand what had been said.
Sensing that something was going awry, she regarded her husband with fearful eyes. ‘Bjørn is already two years old,’ she said. ‘It’s not at all difficult. He gives us joy and happiness.’
‘He is a very easy child, and we don’t pressurize him or force him in any way. He gets on very well with his grandmother, too. He won’t upset her while we’re away, I’m sure of that.’
‘I wish you had brought him along so that we could have seen him.’
‘It would have been difficult. You aren’t used to children, Mother. And also you’ve lots of work.’
They closed the subject and talked about things in general. Then they sat down at the table. The home help, who was a good cook, had been told to make not only Turkish dishes but ones their Norwegian daughter-in-law would like, including fish. It was observed, however, that Ulla did not touch any of the dishes that had been prepared with so much care, and she was deemed the girl with no table manners.
On the one hand, there was that deep feeling of pity in Elif; the desire to hold them close and say, ‘If this is the way things have turned out, don’t worry about it. Let it be! Live the way you want to live. Don’t stress yourself. Don’t be so tense. We don’t demand anything from you any longer. Just be happy — that’s enough.’ On the other hand, there was anger and sadness; her inability to accept the biggest defeat of her life … And the question that nags at her mind; the hollowness and insincerity of the words ‘Just be happy — that’s enough’, said with doubt, the relative meaning of happiness … And knowing deep inside that the kind of life that Deniz calls happiness is defeat and escapism…
One day, when he was very small — he was extremely frail, unimpressive and much smaller than his peers but always smiling — the children playing in the playground had refused to include him in their game and had pushed him around saying, ‘You’re too small. You’re tiny. You can’t play with us.’ He stood in the middle of the sandpit watching them play, with an expression on his face that was far too sad for a child. And when occasionally their ball rolled towards him he would half-heartedly pick it up and throw it back to them. He looked so dejected but so good-natured and so ready to do anything to be liked and accepted that she ran to him and embraced him tightly. Then she had noticed that tears were running down his cheeks, yet he still had that strange smile on his face. What had gone wrong? What was missing right from the beginning that we never even noticed? Why didn’t he defend himself, resort to violence or fight? We had always interpreted this positively. We were happy to think we had a well-adjusted, peace-loving child.
As they walk along the coast towards the Gasthaus at the end of the road, Elif asks herself the same question. On this Nordic island, previously recalled as the location of an interesting trip twenty years ago but which has now turned into a nightmare place, the question becomes even more crucial. What went wrong?
The wooden house suddenly appears in front of them where the road ends and the steep cliffs rear up on both sides. She remembers this from their first visit. They had seen the white house just when they had given up hope, thinking they had lost their way, that there was no hotel there.
‘Do you remember the Gasthaus, Mother?’
‘How could I forget? Of course I do. If I’m not mistaken it used to be white.’
‘We painted it yellow. Ulla used to say white looked too bleak.’
In the endless twilight of the white nights, the building rises a bright yellow against the grey and dark-blue sea. She notices a sign illuminated by neon lights above the front door. The word Gasthaus has been decorated with colourful designs of fish, mermaids and flowers, evoking children’s pictures. A cheerful, whimsical, childish eccentricity amid the grey gloom of the North Sea and the formidable steep cliffs against which the house rests.
‘It was Ulla who painted the sign and the garden walls. She enjoyed making such pictures — fish, mermaids, fairies, happy dancing children … Inside are other pictures that she did. You wouldn’t like them. They are naïve paintings. But she really enjoyed creating them.’
‘It’s true that I don’t like naïve art, but these are very interesting. They contrast beautifully with the lack of colour of the surroundings, the harsh weather and the stillness. We do a similar style of painting in Turkey. Bright-coloured mermaids, roses and so on are drawn and painted on glass. They remind me of that.’
The little village girl who yearned for vibrant colours, flowers, joy and life … She feels the same emotions as she did when she noticed the girl trembling like a test animal that smells death. She realizes that in a few minutes she will meet the girl’s family. How is it possible that I had not thought of this? At least I could have prepared myself. What to say, how to act…
‘Does Ulla’s mother live at the Gasthaus?’
‘She doesn’t have a mother or a father. It’s as if they never existed. She has a grandmother and a grandfather — bestemor and bestefar in Norwegian … This is also their home. They will be very surprised to see you. They are not prepared for this.’
‘Are they angry at you, because of … what happened to their daughter, I mean granddaughter?’
‘Because of Ulla’s death? I don’t know. It wasn’t my fault. It was a terrible misfortune. They understand that. We hardly ever talk about it. They find solace in Bjørn. But perhaps deep in their hearts they do blame me for taking Ulla there. Actually I blame myself, too. It was a mistake to go away from here, to leave this sanctuary. She was afraid of travelling to another country, of leaving her island. She never wanted to make that journey, but she came because of me. I will never forgive myself.’