A Mind at Peace (36 page)

His thoughts turned to bygone seasons, to a time when he’d been given the nickname “Honey-Toned Tevfik.”

“Certainly. It’s no secret that you bear a treasury.” The honor of the moniker had been made by Tevfik’s first mentor, Hüseyin Dede.

Through this recollection, the elderly man grew mournful and said slowly, “May Allah rest his soul. And besides, today you’ll be hearing quite a lot! Mümtaz also invited Emin along with Artist Cemil,” and in a soft voice he added, “I haven’t yet had the honor of meeting this Cemil.”

İhsan, overjoyed: “This Mümtaz is a true anomaly! He’s expanding his entourage to be sure. But how did you get the idea for this?”

“In three days’ time I’ll be moving to Istanbul. Before Nuran goes, she thought we should all gather again.”

“Where did you come across Emin?”

“I ran into him on the street. And he’s promised to play the Ferahfezâ suite.”

Tevfik leaned toward İhsan. “How many years have we turned back the clock, d’you suppose?”

“We exist in a region of timelessness, that is to say, forever in the same place.”

“Yes, always in the same place.” He felt like an aged, massive chinar that reigned over its surroundings. It’d be of no consequence should death catch him in this state. Hopefully he’d pass quickly through that portal, surrounded by everything he loved. He coughed slowly, and made as if to test the cadence of his voice: “I wonder if I can still keep pace with Emin Dede’s
ney
.”
Dying and succumbing to death are two separate things ...
He’d witnessed the demise of acquaintances from a few generations one after another. The forests around him had thinned so this old chinar might stand out fully. The experience was so unsettling that for a time he’d thought,
Maybe I won’t die at all! Maybe death has forgotten me,
and such a thought was becoming of his self-confidence, his bodily strength, and the sybaritic selfishness nourished by them; but for a year now... Thus, he wanted to go up against Emin’s
ney
. Fifteen years ago such a contest wouldn’t have entered his thoughts. With an “Ah!” emanating from the depths of his being, he’d have made the parlor chandeliers where he was being feted chime, or with a single resounding high C, he’d have shattered the glass before him.

Communing with Emin Dede might demonstrate that everything hadn’t yet come to an end. The old man had even brought his
kudüm
drums along.

For a year now Tevfik had been curiously preparing for death. And he did so with the noble composure he’d displayed throughout life. He knew how to assume responsibility for his actions. And now he was attempting to confront fate. Not that he wasn’t afraid. He harbored a great affection for life. As he approached frailty and senescence, he’d come to appreciate the tastes and indulgences of this fluke phantasy, a chance composed of the material. He’d ceded all his visions and his existence became what it was; that is, a body riddled by all manner of disease. And this body wanted to reaffirm its existence.

İhsan: “Suad shall grace us with his presence as well.” Mümtaz’s face fell.

Macide, who’d witnessed this, exclaimed innocently, “Don’t do that, he’s the only person who’s flattered me in my life.”

İhsan, wearing his always saintly grin, said thoughtfully, “I knew it wouldn’t please you. But he does have an unusual appeal and strain of intelligence, though he’s the type who doesn’t know where or how to apply it ... And maybe that’s why he’s disturbed. It seems to me that he’s always banging his head against some wall or other. Apparently he caught sight of you the other day in Beyoǧlu, but you pretended not to see him!”

Mümtaz fumed with spite: “I did so see him, but he was in such extenuating circumstances that I felt I’d be imposing if I greeted him!” Then inwardly,
Let’s see what else I’ll be accused of and how I’ll be belittled ...
He described the encounter in the small tavern, the woman with the mauve hat, the impending abortion, all of it.
It’s as if I’ve fallen into the depths of a deplorable well!

“As he descended the stairs he gave such a caustic laugh ... and the way he wrung his hands behind the woman’s back, as if to say, ‘Thank God we’ve dispensed with that.’” Mümtaz wrung his hands awkwardly. He knew this was despicable. An expression of disgust on his face, he fell silent.

While recounting the story, he hadn’t even once looked at Nuran. He spoke with his eyes trained on the ground; lifting his head from time to time, he addressed only İhsan.

“So that’s how it’s going to be then, eh? Whereas, he’d made mention of your weakness for alcohol. He commented that you probably drank in excess of what was salutary.”

Mümtaz made a gesture as if to say, “You know me better than anyone!” Strange sorrows flowed through him. He thought he’d driven Nuran to the brink of a rift.
Suad, you’re vile ... accursed! But why am I so agitated! How is it that love has abruptly donned its mask of cruelties yet again? He’s confused me with himself, one more step and . . . ,
he looked at Nuran, practically with spite, as if to say, “Let’s see what else I’ll have to endure on your account.”

Nuran’s expression was a picture of indifference. But when she came eye to eye with Mümtaz, she smiled. “What’s it to us, Mümtaz? He’s a perfect stranger.”

İhsan tried to change the subject. “Three years ago this hill was nothing, but now I still haven’t been able to overcome my fatigue.”

“You’re still young,
Aǧabey
.”

“No, I’m not young, and furthermore, I’ve never been young. Neither have you. My father used to say that in our family we’re born head to hallowed ground.” He sighed, “I’m not young, but I’m full of vigor ...” He raised his arms above his head as if doing calisthenics, then he embraced his own chest in a sort of expression of strength, as if squeezing something beside his body. Mümtaz carefully observed the grace of his athletic form. His movements seemed to challenge the flow of time. “For humans this is genuine satisfaction, understand, Mümtaz? Knowing full well what’s ultimately in store yet nevertheless embracing oneself... it’s a simple maneuver, isn’t it? I’m wrapping my arms over my chest. I’m feeling my musculature. Quite simple. And despite the workings of death’s inexorable cogs, I’ve rejuvenated myself. I’m declaring that I exist, but I might not tomorrow, or I might become another person, a fool, a dotard. But at this moment, I exist. We exist, understand, Mümtaz? Can you appreciate your existence? Do you worship your physicality? Hail eyes! Hail neck! Hail arms! Hail seats of darkness and light! I sanctify you in the palace of the momentary, because we exist in symbiosis within the miracle of this instant, because I can move from one moment to the next together with you, because I can connect moments to create a continuous expanse of time!”

Macide heaved a sigh. “Doesn’t existence belong exclusively to Allah, İhsan?”

Mümtaz longed to listen to her voice, eyes closed as he used to do as a boy. He mumbled, “Adagio ... adagio ...”

“Of course, Macide, but we exist nevertheless, we also exist, and maybe because we do, He exists with such omnipotence. Mümtaz, what d’you think of this Macide?”

“Eloquent; eloquent and beautiful ... She’s become increasingly more youthful.”

Macide chuckled. “I think I’ve grown old, İhsan, I’m easily flattered now. On the previous evening Suad – ” Without finishing her words, she turned to Mümtaz. “Mümtaz, you’ve lost a pair of wings today, are you aware of that? But don’t worry about it. If today was only the first time, it’s of no importance. The first three losses are of no consequence, but on the fourth time ...”

İhsan looked at his wife. “Did you make this up?”

“Not at all. Grandmother used to say so. It’s apparently written in the Sacred Book.”

Nuran, reappearing from inside the house, wanted to know what they were discussing. “What’s written in the book?”

“Macide’s asking Mümtaz whether he knows he’s lost a set of wings today.”

“But they grow back three times ... don’t dare be upset on my account, Nuran. My feet haven’t yet touched ground.”

“To tell the truth, I’ve never seen Mümtaz without a pair of wings behind him ... ever since he was a boy. Even those days I’d go pick him up from Galatasaray on weekends, I’d catch sight of his wings before anything else.”

Nuran, laughing: “Oh, Mümtaz,
now
I see how you’ve been indulged!”

Then Nuran grew annoyed, astounded that she was playing the game of guest-and-host in this residence, whose mistress she was not, wherein she maintained she wouldn’t be able to make herself heard.

“We’re experiencing the best of Istanbul days. The fall has been unequaled.” said İhsan, turning to Nuran. “Don’t mind Mümtaz. In fall, with thoughts of winter rains, he’ll grow heavyhearted. Do you know why?” He looked at Mümtaz with affection and laughed. “His covering up too much, wearing too many clothes. When he was a boy, I always advised him not to overdress. People who do end up with overly active imaginations. Mümtaz, on a single God-given day, how many times do you live out the measure of your life in daydreams?”

“Honestly, I don’t know for sure, sometimes five or ten times . . . but no more.”

“Hah, is that so? That means you’ve learned to live in the present. In that case, Nuran has triumphed where I’ve failed. May Allah be pleased with you, dear Nuran.”

Autumn hung before their eyes fully ripe, like a large, golden fruit. They partook of it and all its particularities, wanting to make it part of everlasting time or, in other words, of memory.

“If you lowered this wall, would the Bosphorus be visible?”

They all turned toward the garden wall. The reddish ivy that overwhelmed it evoked a small, insular evening. To conserve this exquisite twilight and the warmth of the memories it roused, Nuran quickly answered, “No, it wouldn’t. The house isn’t located on the ridge. In front of us is a small plateau upon which rest the neighboring houses; after that, the downward slope begins.”

“Nuran made a worthy design for the garden.” Mümtaz’s eyes filled with affection as the couple recalled the semichildish composition of the designs that had lain on the table. “It upsets her that she’s two years older than me, whereas I at times love her like a child!”

Tevfik grumbled, “If you want to see the view, you can go outside. If you want to gaze at the Bosphorus, go down to the shore! The garden’s better this way, İhsan.”

İhsan: “Yet, your seasonal flowers are few. You’ve been snared by roses.”

Nuran, who’d dreamed all summer about planning the garden, looked about. For some time now she’d meditated over the first day she’d come to this garden, the apiarian buzz, the passing downpour they’d watched from the picture window, and above all the night entwined with bizarre emotions evoked by knowing Mümtaz; the night, a springtime hurricane. Ladies’ voices distilled from Debussy’s music scattered in her memory like the white petals of wild roses.

“Our climate produces wonderful seasonal flowers, all variety of Rose of Sharon, evening primrose, morning glory, Caracalla bean blossoms, and begonias.” He raised his sights toward the sky. “This light shouldn’t shine without blossoms.” Then he asked, “What was the name of Cem Sultan’s mother?”

“Wasn’t it Çiçek Hatun, Lady of Flowers? Anyway, how did the journey to Bursa go?”

“Yes, Lady of Flowers, a nice nickname. Nice, in fact, quite beautiful!”

Nuran blushed and with a childish lilt said, “We were meant to go, too. I’d very much like to!”

“Let’s go then . . . the season hasn’t yet come to a close.”

Instead of answering, Nuran made a doleful gesture with her chin as if to say, “Under these circumstances it’s not possible. We’ve locked lips within mirrors of the past ... None of our desires will manifest with any facility or felicity.” İhsan paid no attention to them as he chased his thoughts.

“In the fifteenth century, had Cem Sultan succeeded to the Ottoman throne or had Mehmet the Conqueror lived twenty years longer, what do you think would have happened? His untimely death amounted to the greatest of tragedies. History dictates that lengthy reigns are always beneficial. For example, consider the rule of Queen Elizabeth or Victoria. Of course, if the conditions are right! Had Sultan Mehmet reigned for twenty more years, perhaps today we’d be a nation that had lived the Renaissance in its time. A bizarre wish, isn’t it? Time doesn’t flow backward. Even so, one succumbs to visions moving from the known to the desired.”

“Even stranger is how we’re unable to transform our lives despite all this accumulated experience.”

“Had Mehmet lived ... but he did not, and Cem Sultan was unable to triumph in his struggle for the throne. All the frenzied commotion, even betrayal, the desire, hope, and agony reduced to nothing but a small mausoleum. He rests beneath an ordinary dome together with his mother amid an array of tiles. But their remains, along with hundreds and thousands of others, made Bursa what it is. I visited during its most sublime season. Granted there was still considerable heat. But in the evenings the air cooled. I was mad for the flowers. Everywhere, they made the music of silence or a musical idyll.”

Macide temporarily quit her blue voyage: “İhsan, do you remember the solitude of the evening lightning, you know, when we looked out from the Green Mosque . . . and later, the morning star?”

“Macide adores the firmament,” İhsan said.

“As long as the skies aren’t cloudy... I can’t tolerate cloudy skies. At such times I always turn inward.” She’d uttered this softly, as if for her own sake. Her disposition revealed the distinct bow of cut flowers wilting toward vase water. But the autumn light in this garden, transfiguring it into a lute and filling it with music, wouldn’t allow Macide to indulge in melancholy. Resisting this required an emotion quite different than melancholy or misery, one of those despotic desires that occluded and erased everything. She turned her face back again toward the skies, to the sole and elegant, metaphysical and grand leaf of the firmament, losing herself in a venture of the infinite.