‘Who is Diyar?’ Ömer demands. ‘Who is this stepson? How long has this stepson been around? Your husband’s death, all of it … You never told me about any of it! You remained silent looking through your eyelashes and putting on an air of mystery.’ He realizes that he is shouting and that his voice resounds from wall to wall. He understands that he is jealous of this woman, of her dead husband, of Diyar, the lawyer, her damned alleged secrets, this house, this strange land, the local women who hug and kiss her when they see her, these people who speak the same language and even the Commander. They are a closed sphere, an egg, within which they fight and merge. I cannot break the shell of that egg and enter. I just hold the egg in my hand and look at it. That’s all I can do!
‘Clearly the Commander’s tales have had an effect.’ This time she doesn’t smile sadly but tauntingly. Her dimple deepens, and her face can barely be made out in the twilight.
‘It’s got nothing to do with the Commander. What has affected me is what I see and what I cannot see, what I feel and do not feel. I reach out and think I have touched something, and then I find that it was only air.’
Fatigue and weariness sweep over him. I came here to look for my lost word. I came to escape alienation, to understand with my heart where reason falls short. Now Jiyan is shutting me out. Everything and everyone unite against the stranger.
‘I wanted to explain to you. I wanted to say that there is no secret, that everything is so simple that it would disappoint you. That is why I wanted us to talk. It’s quiet here. Here I feel at ease. It seemed to me that this was a place where I could explain certain things more easily. And besides, it is a haven that even a phone cannot reach. That is why I asked you to come here. I wanted you to see this house, this garden that we love as a family. And perhaps — as you are a writer, a novelist — I thought that this house, these surroundings would make an impression on you. The reason I did not come to the shop today is simple. I was extremely tired because I had been up until morning the previous night. I thought to myself that I could sleep here undisturbed, without anything untoward happening, I could rest and be by myself. Diyar is a chatterbox, I’m sure he has told you a lot of things. He is in fact a Swedish Kurd — or perhaps it would more accurate to say a Kurdish Swede. He is one of those who try to become natives of this place. Why he wants to be a native is a different issue. We can speak about it, if you like. I call it ‘new Orientalism’. In fact my husband, or rather Diyar’s father, used to say that. Let me tell you straight away that there is no connection between Diyar and me other than the fact that he is the son of my dead husband and some social activities that we are jointly trying to carry out here. I am sorry that I have disappointed you, Ömer Eren, but I cannot contribute to your vision of the “mysterious east”.’
Ömer feels that his anger has passed, that he is more comfortable and relaxed. He is also embarrassed. This fuss of mine, these remarks about ‘foreignness’ and ‘alienation’ were all because I was jealous of her, afraid of losing her. It is as simple as that.
The fading light of the closing day filters through the veranda door. Darkness will fall a little later. Jiyan will light a lamp. A pale still light would suit the place. He gets up from the corner where he is sitting and comes over to her. He unties the bands of her hair. It is as though a raven-black flood is teeming down over cliffs. He gently strokes the anklet on her ankle. He lets his fingers wander not over her skin but the little round bells of her silver bracelet. He does not desire the woman now who has been the object of his lust and passion ever since they first met at the chemist’s shop — ‘Can I help you, did you want something?’ It is as though he has lost his sexuality or has overcome it.
‘You don’t have to explain,’ he says in a gentle, tired voice that is foreign to him. ‘Don’t explain anything. Leave it as it is. Let’s write the tale as we wish.’
Jiyan pulls her naked foot with the anklet under her full skirt. ‘There are no secrets,’ she says. ‘You create the secrets. The vision of the “mysterious east”; the fictionalized portrayal of woman that ranges from images of the harem, concubine and courtesan to Kurdish woman and me. The secrets are in your heads. They are in the heads of the Commander, intelligence, the District Governor and even in yours, Ömer Eren. Even in yours.’
It strikes Ömer that Jiyan is using the familiar you for the first time. It’s as though the ‘you’ does not express familiarity but anger. Even though he is upset, he does not answer. He remains silent.
‘There is no hidden agenda, secret or a word that hasn’t been said. I know what the Commander told you. How often I’ve thought about going and talking to him person to person, to say exactly what I have told you now. Not because I had hopes of anything or wanted to protect myself but so that he should know and understand, for something to stir in his heart. Perhaps he would understand. I still believe in people, in promises. He would understand, but he would not be able to do anything. I’m sorry for the Commander, but, contrary to what he thinks and the assumptions and fabrications of his informers, there is nothing secret about my mother or my father. If there were, that would be my business, but there is not. It is merely that my mother died when I was very young. And she was from the Syrian branch of the clan. You know I look more like an Arab than a Kurd; that is why. As for my father: Turkish intellectuals think they know what happened here in the 1980s, but they have no idea. How can they? My father was imprisoned in Diyarbakır prison for a short time. Politics were not for him. From today’s point of view, you could even say that he supported the state. But they still picked him up. From there he sent news. “Here there is every imaginable form of cruelty and torture. Who knows what they will do outside! Don’t stay.” The family was frightened. They moved from this region. Until my father was freed and he returned I wasn’t seen outside on our land. Later I was always at boarding-school, and I went to university in Ankara.’
As Jiyan explains, Ömer watches her language change to the local dialect — from her rather high-flown formal Turkish to her harsh eastern accent, favouring the present tense instead of the past perfect continuous. She is about to speak her own language, Kurdish, without realizing it.
‘Let me tell you what you really want to know. When I met my husband I was twenty-three years old. I had gone to see my elder brother who had settled in Sweden. I first saw my husband at my brother’s house. He was very much in love with me. He was almost my father’s age. And I loved him greatly, beyond measure. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did. It was a love story that the dengbej had not told. We told this story by living it.’
Don’t tell me any more. Let’s be quiet together. Let’s go outside and listen to the silence of the deserted village in the remaining twilight.
He thinks he has said this but he knows he has not uttered a word.
‘He taught me that my living here wasn’t enough to make me a native. He taught me my history, my language and my identity and to look through the eyes of this place. He taught me to love this area and to be at peace with my identity. He taught me not to be hostile to other identities while being reconciled to my own, not to be cruel by taking refuge in our oppression. He taught me hope. He taught me to express feelings and thoughts that I sensed but could not formulate into words, that I recognized but could not express. He said, “We are going to try what is difficult. We will choose to be on the side of humanity and life and not on the side of persecution and tyranny.” He said, “Being persecuted does not give you the right to be cruel.” I loved him so much.’