Her hand trembled, or her mind was racing, something did happen that the cup filled with tea once again fell flat on its face on the floor and broke. With this cup, a heart hit on a sparkling floor and broke into pieces. The sweet tea was spilled yet again.
Her mother appeared on the other side of the entrance hall with her face distorted from nervous. Whenever her mother's face was nervous, it looked so horrifying that one could almost get deadly frightened.
Every other day her mother with her dreadful face came to her in her dream. With a strange face and only the white eyes visible, as a storm she walked towards her with "iron" steps. At that moment as if night fell, all around were plunged into darkness because of her huge shadow. She remained frightened and alone, under her mother's dreadful shadow in the dark of the night, she grew into a very small water drop... Then her mother with her big heavy legs stepped over her and walked away. She trampled her under foot, mashed, spread her over the floor and walked away. And she called out for help in a weak voice with thousands of water drops spread over the floor...
Her heart yearned for her grandmother; she wished to cuddle her head, her body curled as a fist to hide under her grandmother's belly. She thought that she would never come out if only she could get into this state. She would just stay there, she would do her lessons, and she would write, sleep and awake there. Grandmother's belly was as giant and deep as the ocean. If she wished, she could even ride a bike there.
While her mother was still watching from the other top of the entrance hall, it seemed as if she were gnashing her teeth, clenching her fist, her hair standing on end... Her mother seemed to wish to curse out.
She wondered why her mother wasn't tired of putting a curse on her. Rather, cursing,it was as if she looked more powerful and with a shinny face.
"Yea," she thought as if she always wanted something, but she couldn't do what she wanted. She wondered what her mother wanted.
While she was collecting the pieces in a hurry, sharp glasses were piercing her hand.
For a while she gazed at her mother breathing heavily from afar. She seemed to have no will to reproach her. Probbaly her mother had got tired. Or the bleeding fingers of her daughter had poured cold water on her?
"Burned your hand?"
Her mother's voice was cold and harsh.
Shaking with fear, she stepped into the kitchen with the pieces of glasses she had collected onto her skirt.
Moving away, she felt her mother's glare as if some poisonous arrows of hate hate pierced her back.
Her mother shot her with those arrows even from the other room. As if tapping nervously on the black typewriter with her both hands, she was shooting her from the other side of the wall.
Besides, her mother also shot her in a dream. Getting on that black typewriter and booming as a tank, she drove over her. Then tapping the keys, she stuffed her body with bullets, such as the pierced pouring colander. Looking at her body, she realized that they were not the bullets that had made holes in her body, but coal black letters just like the surface of the typewriter. With black letters all over her body, hands, feet she could flee with her heart going pit-a-pat, she hid somewhere. All of a sudden, she caught a glimpse of the place she had hidden long time ago that was a big letter in the shape of ‘ü'...
Hanging on every word, she tapped the pieces out of her skirt into the bin, cleaned up; she collected the tiniest pieces one by one, patiently in her palm.
Mother was still in the entrance hall, her breath boiling over with tense filled space, passed to the kitchen as a heavy wave and surrounded her as a black smoke.
She once saw her mother in a dream, very horrible dream. The dream started like this: mother was sitting her face to the window and back to the door. She was drawing closer from the backside on her tiptoes, calling her mother... But she took up no call, with the hands on her knees, she was looking far and wide through the window without blinking her eyes. At a point, she was touching mother's shoulder. Mother got loose as an empty dummy, she was falling down on her side, and she was blatting lengthily as a headless puppy... crying in horror trying to lift her mother, whose arm was falling out; her head was coming off and dropping on the floor... Then shaking with fear, she put her mother's arms and legs together, carried them to her room, hurriedly threw the arms and legs on the floor in a state of shock, trying to fix them. But as much as she tried it felt like flogging a dead horse.
Her mother's door banged and not long after the nerve-racking tick-tacks from the typewriter were heard.
She sighed and breathed deeply, wondering what her mother had been typing!
Once she sneaked into her mother's room, read a pile of papers she had typed, but could understand absolutely nothing.
Her mother was writing something about sparrows....
She thought her mother might be fond of sparrows! Or maybe she was a sparrow too, and therefore she didn't like them! Or she wouldn't like them because of her not being a sparrow! Or perhaps her mother was fond of them?!
Yes, as if she was fond of them from time to time - it mostly happened when she was sick, particularly when she had a high temperature.
Then her mother didn't tap the typewriter, didn't mutter - she sat by her bed, gazed into space with thoughtful eyes and tired face, looked at her with kind eyes, at times touched her forehead with her cold lips to take her temperature. Even then she couldn't feel the warmth of the lips. In the same way she checked the iron warmth, checked the humidity of the clothes she had picked out after washing with those cold lips.
She thought if she died, her mother would love her more. Then she imagined how she died, was put into a coffin and her mother dropped on her coffin, bursting out and crying bitterly. Her mother was falling on her with her whole body. At that time, she could feel the weight, warmth, smell of her mother's body, and fell asleep by cosiness.
She has often envisioned that lately: she felt good...
If she didn't dread death, plus she knew that she would revive, she would die. Yes, she apparently would ...
Crumpling her knees, she sat and meditated on death for a long time. Strangely enough death wasn't so dark. It was snowy and cold as a misty spring morning. What could she do with her tiny being there - in that thick mist?!.. She would seat, lie or spread her wings as a sparrow and fly?! She didn't know that. And how would she move from this clear room - to that misty place?! Would she have pain, or suffocate, or would her hands and arms move there as minced meat passing through an ugly engine like a mixed mincing machine?! It was so dangerous...
Thinking of it as if it were getting dark, the light in the room diminished...
Standing on her tiptoe, she switched on the light.
Mother would weep, cry bitterly for her, even wail like a madman. She saw her crying bitterly when her granny passed away. Her mother wrapped the coffin with her arms and yelled in a hoarse voice: ‘Maamm'.
Then she fancied her motherəs death. Mother would lie on the coffin, getting a pale face, antimony applied eyes, and with that overwrought expression on her face. Then she would just seat by the coffin and smooth her mother's faded cheeks as much as she wanted.
At this point she couldn't pull herself up, her eyes were apparently filled with tears and wept out.
Her mother stepped silently to the kitchen through the entrance hall. She must have made her coffee, later she returned to her room holding a cup in her hand and tapping of the writing machine was no longer heard.
"It was strange", she thought as if her mother weren't alone in her room, in complete silence. While sitting for hours, all alone passing thoughtfully through the entrance hall and standing toe to toe with her, it seemed as if her mother's brain were busy with somebody or something.
She lay back in the corner of the sofa and wondered what her mother's brain could be fixated on.
She picked up her ears. Silence settled in the other room. She wondered what her mother was doing there. She might have been doing nothing sitting alone in that locked room, just staring at the wall.
Her mother locked herself in the room as if she were hiding from someone. Whether she was hiding from her or from her father wasn't exactly clear. But once she was arguing with her father, and she heard mother scream in anger with her eyes wide open: ‘Leave me alone!.. Let me die!'
Only then she buried her head under a pillow and wept.
She thought the truth could have been on her mother's side. She was just going into the room and maybe she was just breathing her last there?!
Yes, she was willing to die. It was absolutely clear. Then she wondered why her mother wanted to die. Maybe the reason that killed her mother, paled her day by day, arouse hatred were those pieces she had been typing crazily round the clock?!
Her father hated those offensive writings too. He had once openly uttered it. Rather long after midnight he went to the mother's room and opened the door,"I do hate your scribbles!", he said.
She thought that it was strange that as if she were not only dealing with her father, but also she were. Maybe her mother was shooting him? Running the very typewriter, she was stretching the black letters into her father's body?
Lately her father had been looking at her with such sorrowful eyes as if he had had a toothache. Afterwards, her father also thrashed in bed with a fever, in an agony of despair, fell ill and moaning, looked at her mother's face and said: Do you feel sorry for me?
But her mother didn't take any compassion on him, even when he fell ill. And even...
When she reached that moment, she felt heaviness in the heart.
And if her father died mother wouldn't have mercy on him. Once her father got the needle and said: If I could die, I'd get this monkey off my back" and then my mother with the usual indifferent expression, without raising her voice, remarked: ‘But you won't die'!' And only then could she definitely see on her face what she wanted.
Thinking so, she felt a cold stab hurt her veins. Because of the silence in the room, she almost grew deaf.
She once went on tiptoes to her mother's room when there was the same silence, opened the door and she shuddered to a halt of what she had seen there... Her mother was sitting in front of the table mirror and looking at herself in silence. Her mother gazed at herself, then put her head on her arm and wept silently.
Since that day, dhe had been thinking over and over why her mother was weeping then, but couldn't get at the truth of the matter?!
She wondered why her mother is still weeping then?! Later on, sobs reached her ears from the next room. Her heart throbbed.
She stood up, slowly on her tiptoes went out to the entrance hall, came to the door of her mother's room and opened it through the crack.
Holding hands under her bosom her mother was standing before the window and looking well ahead. She felt her coming and turned: ‘What's up?'..., - she aked as cold as a fish.
‘Nothing, I thought you were weeping'
‘I wasn't weeping' ..., - mother said in a calm, harsh voice, -... and enough, stop spying on me.
The window-ledge her mother was standing at for a long while was full of sparrows. So, she had been looking at the sparrows from then onward....
She went out to the entrance, closed the door, stood in front of the mirror on the opposite wall and gazed at herself. She didn't look like a sparrow at all...
She thought, for real, that at least once a day or every other day her mother was to kiss her. As she did in her childhood... Maybe she was bored with kissing her. Well, she was bored with kissing her, but what about sitting and talking tete-a-tete with her at least?!
She could only sit with her mother face-to-face only at breakfast. And their talk was almost similar to: ‘Again you go around with a long face',- her mother said. With smile, she shrugged her shoulders.
‘Why don't you eat properly?!'
‘I have no appetite'.
‘Didn't you get any mark yesterday?'
‘I got an excellent mark in Literature'.
The respond brought no glimpse of change on her face.
Then her mother with that inexpressive face, the sparrows on her mind, went to work. Maybe she was going to the sparrows?!
In the evenings, her mother would get too nervous. First, she stripped off, for a certain period lay on the bed with her eyes closed, then having a quick meal while standing, she entered the room and again started her writing, may be about sparrows.
She thought, as if she hed been eager to do something since old times. What did her mother wish to do?, she wondered... Maybe she wanted to increase the number of sparrows? Then she wondered what the use of it was.
As if unpleasant, warm water poured through her childish soul... Putting her head on the back of the sofa, she wept silently.
In a short while, the typewriter started working. Once again, her mother was shooting another one. While typing she seemed to forget the whole world. She repositioned, got tangled, her fingers turned into a sharp-pointed pen, face resembled a wild bird. Not a bird, but a lion... Yes, her mother resembled a lion while typing.
She stood and stepped to the window.
It was getting dark. Later on mother would open her door and say in a cold voice: ‘Time to sleep'..., and she would lie on her huge sofa resembling a grey crocodile in that longish, dark room and expect her dream to come, staring at the ceiling for hours.
Her dream would eventually come, with her mother...
Her mother used to look kind at times in her dream. Instead of the typewriter, she was clattering her sewing-machine non-stop, sewing pink, orange scarlet dresses. Then her mother used to dress her, place her on the knees and stroke her hair... While her mother was stroking her hair, some of the hairs were falling on her mother's knees and onto the floor with some remaining in mother's palm... It was strange that she felt no pain while her hairs were falling out; rather she wanted to fall asleep.
The door opened with a squeak. Because of the light in the entrance, a shadow came in creeping.
It was her mother. First, she poked in her head, then the whole body and walked on her tiptoes along the room, stood on her head. As if she wanted to know whether she had fallen asleep or not...
Once her mother stayed like that for a while, bent and whispered into her ear:
‘Are you spying on me again?'.., she said.
With fear blindfold, she shook her head saying "No". At that moment mother's hand covered her face and she jumped up terrified...
The textbook slipped down from her knee and fell on the floor...
She wondered whether her her mother had fallen asleep?!She was cold and she stuffed her hands under her bosom. And suddenly she felt an inner shock because of the thoughts that had come to her mind. She jumped out from the sofa, ran to the other room, opened the door and poked her head into the room. At that moment, her mother was typing something with her eyes full of love.
Watching her step, she entered the room and stood face to face with her mother. As soon as mother saw her, the love in her eyes disappeared.
‘What's up?'.., mother said and stuck the glasses into her hair and gazed at her daughter with a nervous face.
‘I'm ill'.., she said and put her hands under her bosom and felt feverish.
Mother sighed and put her cold hand on her forehead.
‘No high temperature'..., she said and looked at her with the same face expression.
‘Should I take my temperature?'
In this case it will rise'..., she said and looked into her mother's eyes. Her face didn't change, but as if it had paled.
‘Let see how matters stand', said her mother and seemed to clench her teeth.
With her head down she wanted to go out, but then she changed her mind and turned back:
‘I feel bad... I am cold and I feel nauseated'..., she said.
‘Have some lemon, keep yourself warm'.
Mother said the last words like a robot.
She got out and closed the door. Her small fists got tied into a knot and clenched. Her mother got back to her room and opened the window widely. As the window-ledge was full of sparrows, they took wings.
The spring was outside, yet the coldness of the winter was still felt.
...For a while, she stood near the window in her thin dress, shivering with cold, in the wind messing her hair. As she was chilled to the marrow of her bones, she thought: let her tremble with cold, let her fall ill. In such a way that the mercury of the thermometer could breach the glass and bubble!
Or it would be better for her if she threw herself down?! Then she imagined: she climbs on banisters, throws herself down, her hair and the hem of her dress is fluttering in the air and she goes down where her mother comes up to her weeping bitterly, dragging her legs along. Or maybe she wouldn't come?! She would stand up because of the noise below, she would look out through the window, and later sighing deeply she would close the window with a care-worn face, put on her glasses and turn back to her seat and would type madly again.
She stood on her tiptoes and looked down. She felt so giddy that it took her off and nearly threw her down on her head, and stuck into the ground as a spear. Holding on the handrail, she could hardly keep her feet on the ground; she closed the window, turned back and folded-up sat on the sofa again deadly frightened.
The window-ledge again was full of with sparrows. Every morning, the sparrows pecking the dry bread on the window-ledge, hastily turning their heads to the left and right, but presently they were jumping over one another as if playing leapfrog. From time to time, they looked silently through the window with their tiny eyes in a manner as if they smiled at her.
Every morning her mother got up with a drowsy, dull face, went straight to the kitchen, took a piece of bread, walked through the rooms one after another, opened the windows, crumbled the bread and put her head on the window glass with her sleepy face and observed the sparrows pecking crumbs one by one.
The noise of beaks from the sparrows pecking the pieces of bread was mixed with the sound of tapping keys coming from the other room and turned into a very horrible music.
She suffocated.., stood up as a hunting cat, walked slowly to the window with a quiet motion, cautiously turned a bar and opened a leaf...The sparrows were rather near; ignoring her, they jumped chirping up and down.
She reached out her hand for the handrail. The sparrows flew to the sky like a fountain.
Her palm wasn't empty. Finally she had caught one of the sparrows.
Its warm, soft body tickled her palm; its nimble, pea head turned round, its black eyes silently stared at her, and the sparrow seemed to smile again. The black, venomous anger circulated in her body and flowed into her palm that had taken the sparrow. Her palm was so pressed that the sparrow's lifeless head crooked back and her tiny eyes closed.
She looked at the dead sparrow turning its face up and down.
The sparrow's recent smile was still on its face. She took the sparrow to the kitchen and threw it into the bin. When she came back to her room, she felt her knees trembling. She sat on the sofa and stared at her hands - they were trembling too.
Soon her father came in. He was upset again and seemed drunk. With an unshaved face, he kissed her, then passed to his usual seat in front of the television and sat in the armchair.
She sat beside her father, leaned her head on his chest. His father had sweated his shirt.
- Too cold at home,- father said and kissed her on the head.
He smelled sweat.
The sound of the typewriter quited the next morning. The TV tone wasn't heard either. There seemed to be nobody at home.
She stood up, put on her slippers, and went out into the entrance stretching herself.
The door of her mother's room was open. She stepped forward and looked around.
The room had completely changed. The typewriter had disappeared. The typewriter table had been moved aside, and leaned as a deadwood against the corner. And the mirror mother used to look in for hours wasn't there either. As a whole, there seemed to be nothing reminding of her mother in the room. Her armchair was in the middle and now her dad was sitting there. Touching his hand to his hairy face, he smoked, felt her come and sat up. Then she noticed his red eyes.
"Where's my mummy?"
Her father shrugged his shoulders and gazed at her with an unhappy face.
"I don't know", -he said. Then the father and daughter embraced each other tightly for a while and sorrowfully nodded.
Silence settled in front of the window, and the sparrows did not call.
She turned back to look through the window and got it...Her eyes were filled with tears...
Her mother had gone away with the sparrows...