“If it’s going to be expensive, I’ll have this one replaced, you know that? I mean if you really want to know, that’s just the way it is. When they gave me this they told me it was good, got it? But that’s not how it is. This one’s sick. Always sick. So instead of wasting my money on this, shouldn’t I just get a new one? That’s what I’m saying. Better to just get a new one.”

I examine the patient. Her body is weak, dehydrated. Seemingly oblivious to the examination, she calmly waits, her head still bowed. I can’t find a logical cause for her complaints. But I’m thinking about what I can do for her.

“Your wife is in fine condition,” I say. “She should take these pills … Vitamins … Look, it will do her a world of good.”

Reluctantly he takes the prescription. He’s clearly not satisfied. He looks at the woman. He looks at me then down at the prescription. He says something in Kurdish.

“What did you just say?” I ask.

He waves his hand as if to say, “forget it.” But I insist:

“Tell me, what did you just say?”

As the man makes his way to the door, I hear the woman speak for the first time:

“He says you can’t make a whistle from dry wood, doctor.”

The man leads her out.

*

We have come to Yerevan to promote our movie Once Upon a Time in Anatolia. It’s competing in the Golden Bear Film Festival. Yerevan is an ancient city filled with stone buildings. The festival organizers are always stuffing us with food and drink. When we get a free day, we head to the street market. I want to buy a whistle. In front of a stand, I’m looking over the objects for sale, trying to spot the good ones. A dark, big-boned salesman is quietly sitting on a stool behind the stand. I notice that he’s listening to me speaking with my friend. Smoking a cigarette, he’s mulling something over. He can’t help himself and he looks up and asks:

“Are you Turkish?”

“Yes … So you speak Turkish?”

Without feeling compelled to answer, he says:

“Where from?”

“Istanbul.”

“Istanbul … Istanbul …” he says a few times, and then as if speaking to himself he says:

“Hrant …”

The word tumbles out of his mouth, neither a question nor an answer. Just like that, a breath, a sigh: Hrant.

Strangely ashamed, I try to carry on the conversation.

“We love Hrant … He’s a brother.”

A sardonic smile steals over his face.

He is silent for a moment. Looking at his handmade whistles on display, he says: “You can’t make a whistle out of chestnut.”

I go back to my hotel with a dark feeling in my heart. No longer a young man, I despairingly race back to my childhood.

Glossary

Glossary