“I’m talking to you. Do you hear me?”
If only she worked at a school where she could say, “I’m going to speak to your parents!” But here if she called in the students’ legal guardians, they came toting AK-47s and asked her if she had any problems with their protection, “dear miss teacher,” with every implication that they could stop “looking after her” whenever they wanted. There were no lazy, naughty, bad students in this school. The parents considered the teachers agents of the state who brainwashed their children. They’d even claim teachers came and snatched their babies out of their arms. The children whose fathers were martyred taking arms against government forces were then subjected to torture, being taught social sciences, mathematics, and Turkish. Homework and written exams were forms of abuse. Why should a girl who at fourteen years old was beyond marriageable age associate with male teachers? They should be home married to men of that age. And these schools flaunted their religious beliefs. But what else could you do with them? The organization couldn’t always watch over you. If you were abandoned there was nowhere to run but the state. Children found playing with rabid dogs in front of houses made out of dung were thrown into Yeşim’s arms. And she received them with open arms. And then with no shame whatsoever she grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you.
“Derdâ, answer me! Do you understand what you’ve done?”
But was there a Derdâ who could answer? Was there anything left? What part of her was eleven years old? Her legs, her nails, her sunken cheeks? What part of her was still a child? The strands of hair that escaped from her braids like wisps of steam, the cracked soles of her feet that would never heal?
“All right, Derdâ. It’s all right. Go to the dining hall and have breakfast. And wash your hands and face.”
Twenty-six-year-old Yeşim was as much a teacher as Derdâ was a child. She released her grip from Derdâ’s frail shoulders. In a final attempt she grabbed her chin and lifted her face. Maybe if she could look her in the eye … a house cat and a street cat staring each other down, barely a hand’s distance apart. Yeşim gave up. Derdâ’s sealed lips won.
“We’ll talk later.”
Yeşim watched the little girl disappear out the door as she opened the top drawer of her desk and took out a pack of cigarettes. She pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. She lit the cigarette and the smoke poured out of her mouth and covered her face. Her eyes welled up. At the first drag she considered running away. She thought of stepping out of the building, passing through the garden, walking out of the iron gates, and running to the village; then from town she’d catch a minibus and get the fuck out of here. A few more drags and she’d returned. She stubbed the cigarette out in a glass ashtray. But it didn’t go out; smoke kept rising from the crushed butt. She tried again. Then again, her fingertips turning black. Ash got stuck under her nails. But the cigarette was still smoking. She didn’t look at it anymore. She closed her eyes and just sat, waiting. Whatever, it didn’t matter what happened anymore. Earthquake, fire, avalanche, any disaster. A pen with a divine tip to write a full stop to everything. She waited. And then it happened.
The rickety door to her office opened without a knock. It was Nezih, the assistant director. He poked his head into the room and looked through his glasses at the young teacher slumped in her seat, her eyes closed, and this during office hours.
“Miss Yeşim, are you sleeping?”
Her eyes blinked opened.
“The girl’s family can’t come. The village road is blocked. For the time being the body will be stored in the meat refrigerator in the kitchen, until the gendarme comes. Ok, enough now, go down to the dining hall. The children shouldn’t be left unsupervised.”
This was unlike any of the disasters she’d been contemplating, but a dead child kept in the meat refrigerator was grisly enough to be disastrous. Whatever she had in her chest contracted. Her stomach and abdomen turned hard as stone. Her body felt heavy, like she had swallowed a stone. She didn’t stand up but she just knew Nezih would insist. And he did.
“Yeşim Hanım, we don’t have the time to wait for you. Let’s go.”
Smoke was still wafting up out of the ashtray. She watched the rising smoke disperse. She thought, So this is how people lose themselves. And then she stopped thinking. She picked up the glass ashtray and hurled it at Nezih. It smashed into the door and Nezih retreated into the corridor. Yeşim grabbed a heavy stapler and hurled it at him. Then a penholder, a notepad, a 500-page book. And then the exam sheets were fluttering around the room like wild birds, crashing into each other before they fell. Nezih called to her from behind the door.
“Yeşim Hanım! Yeşim! Hey!”
But Yeşim wasn’t listening. Her eyes halted on the desk set, a gift from her mother. A fountain pen, a ballpoint pen, and a letter opener. She held the letter opener high and plunged it down into her stomach. There would be no more problems if she died. But unfortunately, she survived.
On the day a student died and a teacher tried to kill herself, the school was trying to make its guest in camouflage feel welcome. The gendarmes were telling jokes but the students weren’t laughing. The captain pretended to listen to the headmaster. Nezih rubbed his temples but he didn’t have a headache. Derdâ chewed her food but she couldn’t swallow. Yeşim lay on the infirmary’s only cot wanting to die, but
