Nurse of the year Mesude Hanım has given everyone a number and she is calling out names. The procedure falls apart after the fifth patient. Now she calls in whoever is closest to the door.

Toward noon the door opens and a dark, middle-aged man holding printouts from the population bureau comes in with a little girl. Clearly they have come for an age assessment report. Village teachers have the new students who have not been issued an ID card come into town to get one. The population bureau requires a report that assesses the age of the child based on bone development.

But of course we always ask the father for the age of his child:

“How old is she?”

Usually there is a pause before an answer:

“She’s got some years on her. She must be six or nine or around there.”

Now I know I’m not supposed to ask whether it’s six or nine.

“Write it down, Mesude hanım … The bone examination I have just done indicates the child is seven years old.”

The man holds out the papers in empty space. Mesude hanım takes them and starts filling them out. I look at the child. Twisting behind her father, she is peering around the room. With those big eyes that look like black olives, she is an adorable, little girl.

“I am putting the age down as seven, Doctor,” says Mesude hanım. I nod my head in approval.

“What’s the child’s name,” says Mesude without looking up at the man.

Not a peep.

He just stands there as if the question wasn’t addressed to him.

“I am asking you for the child’s name. What is her name?”

Coming to his senses, he turns and looks at the girl and then at us. He looks back at the girl and stares for a while. Then with a strange smile on his face he turns, clears his throat, and says:

“Valla she hasn’t got a name.”

A silence falls over the room. Slightly surprised, I begin:

“How is that? You didn’t give the child a name?”

He makes a strange gesture with his head that’s impossible to decipher.

For a few moments we just stare at each other. But my curiosity doesn’t let up:

“But then what do you call her? For example at home … what do you say?”

The man’s face seems to light up for a moment:

“We call this one, dark girl… That’s what we always call her. Dark girl.”

“But she needs a name, no? To put on her ID.”

The man doesn’t say anything … For a while we just stand there like that. Blinking, the girl is frozen behind her father as if something truly undesirable is about to happen to her. Then with the pop of a motorbike engine out on the street, we all come to our senses.

“You give her a name, Doctor,” says Mesude Hanım, worried.

I look at her face with a puzzled expression on mine. Yes, she means it.