Randall garrett, p.1
Escape, page 1
Also by Perihan Magden:
Ali and Ramazan
The Messenger Boy Murders
Two Girls
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2007 by Perihan Magden
English translation copyright © 2012 by Kenneth Dakan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Escape was first published in 2007 by Can Yayinlari as Biz kimden kaciyorduk Anne?. Translated from Turkish by Kenneth Dakan. Published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2012.
Quotes from Bambi taken from the 1929 Grosset & Dunlap Edition, copyright
© 1929, 1931 by Simon and Schuster, Inc.
Published by AmazonCrossing
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781611091434
ISBN-10: 1611091438
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012940671
To Tülay Tuna:
All books to you, always.
“Most writers, probably, the writers who are most in tune with
our time, write about places that have no texture
because this is where most of us live.”
—Alice Munro
CONTENTS
BAMBI
HOTEL TIME
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM
THE GIRL AT RECEPTION
PEBBLES
A SMALL TABLE
THE SNOWSTORM
THE POOL BOY
FACES
THE THERMAL HOTEL
FAKE SOULS
THE CRAZY NUN
THE TALKATIVE WOMAN
FETUS
THE MOTHER CROW
THE GOLDEN-HAIRED BOY
MADAM MANAGERESS
FLOOR ATTENDANT
THE VACANT LOT
BEAUTIFUL PRISON
HOSTAGE
THE SECRETARY
THE OFFICIAL MERCEDES
THE HORRIBLE COUPLE
THE WINDY PLACE
THE BUSBOY
THAT SINKING FEELING
BLOODRED LIPSTICK
THE SEA BED
MISTER MANAGER
A DISTANT RELATIVE
THE BEACH BUCKET
FLIGHT
ROBBERY
BOOK OF PRAYER
THE SOLDIER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
BAMBI
It’s been so many years since Mother read it to me.
I haven’t forgotten. I’ll never forget.
Mother’s voice in my ear, reading.
Lines from Bambi. Forever.
In Mother’s scratchy voice. In that voice of Mother’s, that voice like no other.
NOTHING ABOUT MOTHER is like anyone else. Then again, I can’t say I’ve known anyone else.
“They’re all pictures moving before our eyes. As they flow on by, we don’t need to remember anything about them. And we won’t,” Mother says.
We’ll just remember what we went through together, Mother. All the good things. The nights you read Bambi to me.
In the double bed of a hotel room, propped up against the pillows, the covers pulled up. The two of us are illuminated by the bedside lamp, you reading Bambi to me. And Bambi isn’t just any book. It’s important to us.
“It’s full of signs,” Mother says of Bambi. “Rocket flares.”
There are two important people in Bambi. Two creatures, that is: Bambi and his mother.
Mother’s so annoyed at Bambi’s mother. I mean, if we met her, came across her in one of the hotels, Mother might beat her up. Teach her a good lesson. That’s how mad she is at Bambi’s mother.
“If Bambi’s mother hadn’t been such a fool, hadn’t been so careless, Bambi would never have been left alone in the forest. If you’re Bambi’s mother, you have to stay alive. You must never leave Bambi alone.”
I know what Mother means.
Mother would never be foolish or careless, would never leave me motherless. Never.
Alone in the forest.
Mother read that book to me for hours every night. She read and read until I learned to read it myself.
“There’s not a children’s book in the world I haven’t read to you, in English and in Turkish.”
But Bambi’s different. It’s our Book of Prayer. Sometimes we open a page at random and consult a few lines to know whether or not the time has come. Time to move on from the Old Place.
The dangers in Bambi are just like our own. Each of them a sign.
My head on Mother’s shoulder, or in her lap if I’m very sleepy, I never forget the opening lines of Bambi. I’m listening to Mother, filled with anticipation. She’s reading in her creaky, croaky voice. She stops from time to time to take a sip of water. Sometimes she pops a cough drop into her mouth.
Mother’s been smoking since childhood. Her throat and lungs are worn out. That’s what she says.
“What else could I do? I started smoking young. I clung to cigarettes. For comfort, for distraction.”
What made Mother so desperate? What happened to her? What happened to her mother? My grandmother?
Mother is reading; her voice in my ear, even now.
He came into the world in the middle of the thicket, in one of those little, hidden forest glades which seem to be entirely open but are really screened in on all sides. There was very little room in it, scarcely enough for him and his mother.
He stood there, swaying unsteadily on his thin legs and staring vaguely in front of him with clouded eyes which saw nothing. He hung his head, trembled a great deal, and was still completely stunned.
“What a beautiful child,” cried the magpie.
It’s always at this point that Mother stops, looks me directly in the eye, and says, “That’s just what the doctors and nurses cried when they saw you.”
She says it every time.
So tell me, Mother, were we alone in the hospital? Was no one there with us? Were we always alone? From the beginning?
But I won’t ask.
Mother can’t bear questions like that.
“Please, baby, don’t push me. Please.”
I may have done that sort of thing when I was little. Brought up questions that should never be asked. I didn’t understand Mother well enough, not yet.
There are questions like that. Questions that must never be asked. Subjects that must never be brought up.
One day, we saw a picture in the newspaper of a baby fox abandoned by its mother.
It gazed, its wide eyes tiny but open. As though seeking help. It had no other choice.
Mother obsessed over that photograph for days. She cut it out and stuck it in the corner of the mirror.
“Abandoned by its mother. Humans are looking after it now. It’s getting used to people. Dreadful!”
Actually, we don’t usually get newspapers. For this very reason, as well as another: Mother doesn’t want news of anyone she knows. She must have been well known. Or her family. Why else would she be so terrified of seeing them in the paper?
But Mother has taught me not to ask unnecessary questions.
Actually, she loves it when I ask questions. As long as they’re not the ones that make her fall apart.
When Mother falls apart, she grows weak. Too weak to protect us. She’s no longer able to teach them all a lesson.
They’re able to hunt us.
“I’m sure they’re still after us like a pack of bloodhounds,” Mother says.
Just when it seems we’re free of them, that they’ve forgotten all about us: “They’ll never forget. That’s why I’m not allowed to forget.”
We can’t depend on them to forget. Just as there’s nothing else about them we can depend on.
In order not to be hunted down and caught, we have to be alert, watchful, and suspicious.
When she falls apart—no matter how careful I am, Mother can fall apart for what seems like no reason at all, collapsing in on herself right before my eyes—
When Mother collapses completely, we have to hide, not attracting any attention.
At Those Moments, Mother is in no condition to protect us.
I don’t need to do anything.
On the contrary, I must do nothing, see nothing, hear nothing.
“I won’t let them defile you,” says Mother.
She’s so against me being like her. I don’t understand why.
Why shouldn’t I be like her? She’s beautiful, Mother. Perfect in every way.
But I don’t have the right to be like her.
“It’s because of my past that this is happening.”
Mother has a terrible past she never talks about. It’s extremely terrible.
Her past is not mine, though.
My past is sparkling clean. And so is my future.
That’s what Mother says. The one and only thing in my past is her.
And in my future too.
That’s why I’m so happy.
Mother will never be hunted down like Bambi’s mother. And I’ll never be alone.
I’m not Bambi, even if Mother sometimes calls me “my Bambi.”
Mother and me, forever in the forest. Wonderful!
HOTEL TIME
TIME PASSES QUICKLY in hotels.
Sometimes the opposite is true. It seems like time has stopped in the hotel.
That’s when our spirits sink. When time in the hotel stops. That’s when we know it’s time to escape.
From our hotel. The New Place has become the Old Place.
It was new when we arrived: the New Place.
Even if we’d been there before.
We do this sometimes. We return to a place we’ve visited before for a short stay or a long one, a place we used up.
But it’s like arriving for the first time.
“We’ve never been here before. We’re here for the first time. Each arrival is a first arrival. It’s our first time,” says Mother.
Until we use it up and go.
“It’s like we’ve eaten it up and finished it off,” Mother says. “We’ve eaten this place up.”
That’s when we leave. No matter what time it is.
We can wait at the bus station, the train station, the dock, or the airport; wait until morning for whatever it is that will come and take us away as quickly as possible from the places we’ve “eaten up” and “finished off.”
Mother has an Internal Clock for when we have to leave a hotel, have to spring up and go.
Without checking timetables, tickets, schedules.
It’s at times like these that Mother says, “The clock is ticking.” Just like the ticking of a time bomb. It can explode and fragment, each bit scattering in a different direction.
Because that’s how Mother feels and that’s what she says, I feel the same way. The same as her.
Mother and I are alone. There’s no one with us.
There never has been and never will be.
Mother hates that word and doesn’t want me using it.
“We’re not alone,” she says. “Never give in to that ugly word. You and I are a unit.”
Actually, that’s not quite what Mother says.
She says, in English, “We’re a unit. We’re a Moon Unit.”
She says we’re a Moon Unit.
It’s funny.
It’s not funny when Mother says it in English. Mother speaks English sometimes. English gets mixed in with her Turkish.
She gets exasperated, and then she has to teach a lesson to the Girl at Reception, the Busboy, the Pool Attendant, the Hotel Manager, the Travel Agent.
Because we spend our life in hotels, we have to fight with Hotel People and Travel People. To teach them a lesson.
We have no choice. They do ugly things.
Such very ugly things. Really.
Those are the times when Mother has to defend us.
“I have to,” Mother says. “I wish they hadn’t forced me to teach them a lesson. “Close your ears and eyes real tight, baby, like I taught you. It’s time for me to go on the defensive.”
I can close my eyes and ears even if they’re open. Because that’s what mother wants and that’s what I must do.
I’ve learned.
Then, when Mother has gone into Defensive Flight—while she’s doing it, I mean, and even if my buttons aren’t pushed yet—I hear her mixing English words into her Turkish as she launches the verbal assault.
That’s when the Other Side becomes even more confused. Because Mother’s words get so confusing. Harder and harder to understand.
“I need to use the possibilities of both languages when I’m on the attack,” Mother says.
But I still don’t like her mixing so many English words into her Turkish. She should speak only Turkish here.
Lately, we’ve been staying in Turkey all the time. And we are Turkish, after all. Here, instead of saying “them” and “the others,” Mother always says “the Turks.”
“The Turks are like that,” she says, narrowing her eyes.
“And us, Mother?” I respond, since she and I are Turks, aren’t we?
Mother doesn’t want to answer. She expects me to understand.
And understand I do.
We’re a unit: the Moon Unit is what she’s named us.
Mother gives special names to the Others too. “The Turks,” she’ll call them. “Horrid Hordes. Fake Souls. The Bourgeoisie.”
Time passes quickly in hotels.
From the beginning, Mother has always wanted me to believe this: that time passes quickly in hotels.
That life in hotels is what’s best, what’s wonderful, what’s right.
“Most important,” she often says, “it’s what’s right. By living in hotels together, we’re doing what’s right.”
Sometimes, time flows incredibly slowly.
Time becomes sticky.
It sticks to our souls, sinking its claws in.
I understand Mother. She feels so terrible at Those Moments. She has trouble breathing.
She doesn’t speak. For hours. For days.
Her face darkens with sorrow. Or blanches yellow. Her face turns yellow and black.
“My nerves have made me dark,” says Mother. “From sorrow, from worry. Of course, it’ll pass. Don’t worry, Bambi.”
She’s scarcely able to get the words out. She expects me to understand.
And I do understand.
I’ve got no one in life but Mother. If I don’t understand her, how can I understand anything?
And what can I do?
All I do is read, write, understand Mother. It’s also important for me to be a perfect swimmer.
But even when time in the hotel is heavy and sticky, Mother still wants us to stay there sometimes.
Wherever we are.
Whatever hotel we’re staying in.
She has to master her Internal Clock. If she doesn’t, her Internal Clock will master her.
“It’s a form of discipline.”
If Mother doesn’t get her Internal Clock under control—and hers is a difficult one—it could destroy her. It could destroy us.
Mother’s terrified of being destroyed. That’s what she fears: her destruction.
And if Mother is destroyed, who will look after me?
Who will protect and defend me? Who will organize our escapes? We’re always escaping, the Moon Unit.
Looking after and protecting each other.
If I always look after Mother and protect her, if I always understand Mother, we can survive.
“Then no one can touch us. No one can catch us.”
That’s what Mother says.
On the outside, our life seems strange. But it isn’t.
Because we’re on the inside.
And anyway, we have no choice. And we’re the only ones who know we have no choice.
That may be true, but it’s not such a bad thing.
We’re fine.
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM
SOMETIMES MOTHER WAKES up with a Heavy Heart.
When she’s had a bad dream.
Heavy-Heart Days can happen without a dream too.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she keeps saying. “I won’t be starting the day today.”
At times like this, Mother doesn’t start the day, can’t carry on with it; she wishes only for the day to be done.
The curtains are drawn.
She expects me to have breakfast, swim, and walk on my own. No matter what needs doing that day, I’m to do it on my own, then come back to the room.
Mother doesn’t eat on these days. She scarcely drinks water. She says there are thorns in her throat, a lump of asphalt inside her chest.
“Let’s not talk, baby. Let’s ride the day out in silence, until it’s over. Tomorrow, I promise tomorrow will be different. I’ll be fine tomorrow. I’ll get through the entire day, with you, start to finish. My heart won’t drag me down. It won’t drag me down to the bottom.”
She doesn’t have to tell me any of this.
They’re words for Heavy-Heart Days. They’ve collected, piled up. I know them all by heart.
She struggles to get the words out. They stick in her throat. Her eyes fill with tears.
But her eyes are empty.
Like black beads, glassy and wet. Like the eyes of the toys she gets me.
She looks at me with those doll eyes. Eyes that keep apologizing, eyes that keep saying sorry for being so helpless.
Please don’t apologize, Mother. Please.
There’s this dream. There are a few dreams, actually, but this one in particular.
Mother’s in a place like London. A big city. It could be New York. She doesn’t know where it is, but it’s not Turkey. In the dream, she’s in a cafeteria of some kind. She can see the sign. It has a nice name, an unusual name. She never remembers what it is.
