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.
When the customers had gone and they were alone again, to put pressure on the assistant he said, ‘I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here until Jiyan Hanım comes.’
‘Stay. At seven I’ll be closing the shop. You can wait as long as you like. You can stay until morning if you wish.’ She did not speak again. She concentrated on a new set of customers who had just walked in.
As he was trying to call Jiyan for perhaps the twentieth time Ömer remembered Elif’s message. If it had been some other time he would be sorry that he had forgotten his wife’s birthday and try to make amends for his forgetfulness. But now he was in no state to think about all this. He was focused on finding Jiyan — or at least getting news of her.
‘I’ll go, but I’ll be back before seven. If you speak to Jiyan Abla in the meantime, please ask her to call me. My phone will be on.’
Perhaps the assistant really did not know where Jiyan was. The chemist did not have to tell the poor girl all her plans! She had said, ‘I’ll be late.’ What need was there for more? Hesitantly he walked to the hotel. It was possible that she had left news for him there. How was she to know that I would sit stupidly at the shop and wait?
He was not wrong. The elderly hotel clerk in reception pointed to someone dozing in an armchair in the dimmest corner of the lobby. ‘He has brought news from the chemist. He has been waiting for ages.’ Then he called out to the sleeping man in Kurdish. ‘Yazar hatîn! The writer’s here!’
The man who got up from the chair and walked towards Ömer was dressed smartly. Not very young. Well built and handsome. His complexion and expression were western even if the lines on his face were not. In his walk and in his face there was something alien to these parts. He was wearing a fresh white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow over dark widely cut trousers. The gun at his waist in the large pocket of his trousers was immediately evident. It was as though he wanted not to hide it but to show it.
‘I’ve come to take you to Jiyan Hanım. Jiyan Hanım said, “If he has time, if he wants to come.”’
Ömer hesitates for a moment. Who is this man? What is he? He does not look like a driver, a bodyguard or a servant. Why doesn’t she phone? Why send this man instead? How does one trust a stranger in this sinister land?
He turns to the hotel clerk, with whom he has now begun to be friends, with a questioning glance, as though appealing for assistance.
‘He’s a relative of our Jiyan Abla, a man you can trust,’ says the clerk. ‘She’s sent for you. You should go.’