Zelal had complete faith in her instincts. Nurse Eylem was good, a friend. When she talked to a person she looked them straight in the eye. One did as she said, took the medicine on time. She had said she was on duty that night. If she were on duty it meant she would drop by. When she was there, there was no need to worry or to be frightened.
She pushed the pillows that Mahmut had piled up behind her to make her comfortable to the top of the bed and lay down. She savoured the drowsiness that spread through the warm droplets of water that drained from her forehead and trickled into her eyes. Drowsiness gradually became sleep and sleep turned to dreams.
They were running down a very green steep slope. They were running, but Zelal had no legs. She was a cloud, water, vapour from the waist down. Who was the person beside her? Was it Mahmut? It was, and it was not. She was carrying a baby in her arms. The baby’s face was Mahmut’s face. Mahmut did not have a face. His face was in pieces; it had merged with green grass. They were running in a cold sweat. She did not know why or from whom. It was dark behind them. There was a storm, a deluge. A smoking burnt forest appeared in front of them, pitch-black stumps, branches and ashes. Mahmut’s faceless body threw the baby from her arms, embraced Zelal and threw her down; she felt the gentle warmth of the ashes on her body. She suddenly saw that she was stark naked and bleeding. Men had surrounded her, and none of them had a face either. Then the baby wrapped in rags stood up. It had a huge head, and Zelal saw her Mesut Abi’s face: it was not the good, kind face of her brother before he went to the mountain but the evil, frightening face he had when he returned to the village with the two young men. Mahmut got off her and disappeared into thin air. She wanted to get up and go after him, but she could not. She began to scream at the top of her voice in fear, but no sound came. The more she screamed, the more her voice was stifled. It was stifled screaming. The more she screamed the more she turned to stone, and the stone came and blocked her throat. She heard sounds, shrieks. Then…
She awoke to her own voice. First she thought it was from the pain, the ache she felt in her womb. She noticed the dumbfounded face of the woman lying in the bed next to her and her staring eyes. Intuitively, by some strange force, she turned her head to the door. In the half-open door opening on to the hospital corridor she saw just a face, a disembodied face like a continuation of the frightful dream that she had seen: the face of her Mesut Abi … Like a rabbit mesmerized by the eyes of a snake, she remained frozen, motionless and silent watching the door.
Then the face vanished. The door was quietly pulled shut. Was it Nurse Eylem who had closed the door? It seemed to be her. Zelal held her breath, then she took a deep gulp of air and tried to calm down. She was drenched in sweat. Her body felt very cold in the heat of the early summer evening. She felt embarrassed, especially when she thought that the old witch would have seen that she was afraid, heard her crying out in her sleep and perhaps talking — and what if I spoke Turkish rather than Kurdish! She closed her eyes so that she did not see the woman’s face, but when she shut her eyes her head spun as though the ground and the sky were merging. Spinning round she fell into such a dark well that she let out another shriek. When she recovered, once more she saw the patient’s anxious face. Suddenly she realized how much she needed this woman to be there at this moment. She was surprised. Mahmut had said something as he went out of the room: he had said that a person can reach out to another person. Was it this feeling that he wanted to communicate? If that was so, why should people be afraid of people?
‘You had a bad dream. Don’t be afraid.’ For the first time the woman’s voice was soft and kind. In tone it resembled her mother’s voice. Like the voice of my mother as she took me in her arms and comforted me when I was afraid of the jackals howling at night and cried ‘Dayê, dakilê.’ My mother who had given her sons to the mountains, my mother who doted on me, my mother who could not protect her child when they took out my death warrant and dangled the rope in the haylot, my mother who had gone out and hidden, crossing houses and roofs to God knows where so as not to see my death. My mother whose smell and warmth I longed for.
‘I disturbed you. Forgive me,’ said Zelal, turning towards her roommate. ‘It’s true, I had a bad dream. I screamed my head off, but no sound came out.’
‘You screamed. You did scream. You made a noise. You uttered muffled shrieks. You awoke to the sound of your own voice.’
Worried that she had given them away she asked in a sweat, ‘Why on earth did I shout, ana? What did I say?’
‘I don’t know your language, do I? I didn’t understand. You were shouting someone’s name, was it agha or abi? You were obviously afraid. You were terrified. What happened? What did your abi do to you?’
‘I don’t know … In my dream I saw someone who resembled my abi. I saw a baby who had Mahmut’s face. I saw burnt forests.’
‘It’s over now. It was just a dream. There is still some water in the glass beside you, take a sip and calm yourself.’
Zelal took courage from the woman’s voice that had become quite mellow and friendly and asked in a whisper. ‘Did you see him, teyze? You know, that man who was peering through the door just a moment ago?’
‘You know we keep the door slightly ajar because the room is hot, so people passing along the corridor peep inside. Somebody did look in, but perhaps they were looking for someone. What’s wrong with that?’
‘No, it wasn’t like that. It was a young man with a dark face. He was there just as I woke up.’
‘Your nerves really are in shreds, my dear! You’ve been frightened by something. I didn’t see anyone. This is supposed to be a hospital, but it’s more like a thoroughfare. Everyone barges in. You see, that’s how these second-class private hospitals are. If it were a public hospital, especially a military hospital, they wouldn’t let any old person in. But, still, we’ll tell the nurses when they come. They can place your bed in front of the window, and I’ll move over near the door, so don’t be afraid.’
Zelal suddenly began to weep, silently, quietly, burying her head in the pillow to stifle her sobs. Not from fear or weakness but out of the gratitude she felt for the woman’s unexpected concern and kindness.
‘Let’s call the nurse, and she can give you some pills to calm you down. It’s evident your pain goes deep, that bad things have happened to you. Illness makes one edgy. Look, I’ve been unfair to you, and I behaved unkindly. But you snapped at me, too. Anyway, don’t be upset any more. Soon we’ll both get better and be out of here. You’re young. You’ll recover more quickly than I. You had a nightmare: the baby in your dream, the burnt forests, the figure of a man … Clearly losing your baby has greatly distressed you. You’re still young and your man is, too. You’ll have very healthy children — sons and daughters who will be good citizens. Don’t be upset.’
If Zelal could have got out of bed and walked unaided she would have gone over to the woman’s bed and put her arms round her neck. Not only that but buried her face in her bosom and cried to her heart’s content. I miss my mother, my mother who even gets on well with my father’s second wife and consents to sharing her man. My mother who gave her sons to the mountains and her daughter to strangers. My mother who is possibly much younger than this woman but looks old enough to be the woman’s mother, all the same.