Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (21 page)

We had come to the end of the narration. There was silence. After a short hiatus, Juliet had turned and said: “I wish you knew him.” “Now, I do,” I replied. She smiled. There were tears in her eyes. I have already tried to tell the story of egotistical behavior as best I can. I know. In similar situations there were a lot of recollections—images, and, what is still more important, attempts at evasions that assumed meanings, once they reflected on oneself . . . potentialities that had failed to materialize, that one could not enliven . . . stories that could not be conveyed despite the richness of one’s imagination . . . This is the reason why I want to believe that there were many other personal attachments that that photograph concealed and that Juliet had failed to pass on in detail. For instance, what had been the reason lying behind Berti’s attaching so much importance to Mimico’s mastery of the game of marbles? We could also inquire into Juliet’s concern about her reluctance to talk to Morris at Büyükada. Had Lena truly kept aloof from that photograph that night, as it had been claimed? In which compartment of his brain had Mimico stored the images of women changing their dresses, full of hopes and expectations? Could it not be envisioned that everything originated from people’s desire that everything shown to them become material? And the fear of losing people, or actually of losing a single person, to be precise? Today I’m able to grasp better the value of the story that Juliet conveyed to me through that photograph, regardless of the fact that certain truths were kept undisclosed or distorted while being elaborated upon . . . Haven’t we been told before that justice can be done even to lies after a certain point?

Actually even lies could have been exonerated; the lies, our lies . . . Otherwise, could Jenny claim in that letter that she was a happy woman and could Mimico arrange those dinner rituals, could Juliet dare to openly declare that she had popped into that restaurant at Tepebaşı without any previous intent?

Fathers, Daughters, and Mute Songs

1

When, where, and behind which window had I last seen Madame Eleni? When had I last experienced the pain of being unable to touch, simply to touch, someone from a distance? Was it yesterday, a couple of hours before? Twenty-six years ago? Or . . . It is high time now that I, after all those stories, acknowledge the fact that I feel now and then constrained to continue dreaming of those little eventualities, despite all the losses I have suffered and to go ahead and take the risk of not being able to return. I always wanted to go down to that labyrinth of death, to go down, descend to the depths . . . Whose life was it, that life that could be discovered in that immense darkness that pervaded everywhere? To whom was that victory relevant? It seemed that certain people had always been waiting for others in that realm of darkness. Certain people had been waiting in the hereafter; or at least it would seem so . . . The problem lay in that the intention never yielded progression; the step forward could not be taken; one could not believe in the existence of a coast other than his own . . . Plays continued to be enacted for other songs despite abeyances; songs continued to be sung although we knew that they were chanting untruths and were justified only by their creation . . . plays for which we could find no name and which we could not be bold enough to watch properly till the end without asking questions, to wait until the curtain fell, to make a systematic inquiry into words that we preferred not to remember, for words that remained with us in all their depths, for relationships that abided within us, relationships that seemed to have come to an end only to come to be reborn one day, for fantasies into which fresh life was breathed, for the heroes of our imagination, regardless of whether we wanted them or not. These plays, those tales of life beyond the grave that assumed meaning with that human being whom we prefer to believe alive in that labyrinth of death, having no direct connection with Madame Eleni. Perhaps by doing so I’m trying to remind myself of the lives which I could not fully live, as well as certain people and relationships which haunted my every journey toward recollection; to remind myself continuously, to be able to think that there is no genuine demarcation line between the past and the present. Am I doing this hoping that some day I will take that step? Maybe I am. As a matter of fact, I remember Madame Eleni whenever I think of that step, of that step which has not been taken as of yet. Here is the starting point of the story, I think; this place or this line of separation: a handful of photos which feed that memory, the photos that find their meaning there. At this stage I can recall, for example, the light of that old apartment which had previously opened a good many stories for me. Those who had caused the embers to glow happen to now be in different countries, in different times, living different destinies. Different countries, different times and different destinies; just like in the case with Şükran who had dared to take that step toward a brand new life in order not to breathe the air of that room which smelled of cooked food and wherein affection, hatred, disappointments and penury, even eroticism coexisted . . . Just like in the case of other people living in the margin of such lives that cannot make themselves heard as they would have liked to. They lived in an apartment that kept alive and concealed in its nooks and crannies certain peculiarities and objects which could enable me to pursue my path toward more stories. In that apartment I had lived as well; I had tried to find meanings in those voices and noises and steps according to my inclination. Those voices and sounds call me back to those lives on certain evenings. They are behind the door; their door . . . The odors of beans with spinach or of fish frying in the pan . . . That the charwoman did the chores was evident from the parquet polish; floor polish was applied using an old stocking. This meant turning an old stocking to good account. Could one associate that smell of polish with the arousal of my sexual instinct? It was possible, wasn’t it? We possessed feelings which changed according to our idiosyncrasies that did not require any explanation; these feelings contributed—with what other invitations enlivened within us—to our other flights. The floor polishing had to be carried out with a dry and soft piece of cloth. Mathilda was highly pleased to see us perched on a piece of cloth, hopping on the recently polished parquet as though we were on a dance floor. The delight of Madame Floridis was no less. She wasn’t content with watching our steps, but contributed also to our rhythmic movement by clapping her hands to the accompaniment of a cadence to accelerate our tempo. If I remember correctly, it was there I had learned my initial figures. The twist was not only in fashion at the time, but also suited the objective perfectly. On such evenings, Sandra looked very beautiful and Madame Floridis was full of pep, despite all her past cares. However, all these were now part of the past; they were being recalled to life and shared now in a completely different apartment, within the context of a thoroughly different story. Madame Mathilda’s world, tinged by Turkish films shown on
Kervan
, by Zeki Müren’s songs and by the singles which she listened to while engaged in daily chores or cooking in the kitchen, was a thoroughly different world. I can still imagine her talking through the light shaft with her neighbors. This was a preamble to her daily chores: the running films, the meals to be cooked that day and the preparations for the coming holiday were on the agenda for discussions. Film stars were, for her, members of her immediate circle. However, there were other people about whom judgments had to be passed; people at the top of her usual agenda, people that one envied, admired, sometimes victimized . . . After all, everybody had the right to defend his lifestyle or to justify it. Those images, those morning talks that added meaning to those images bring me back not only to Madame Mathilda, but also, through another window, to the faces that have become blurred now, the wry smile of Şükran who had taken the risk of living her life in another room. With her thick rimmed glasses, long wavy hair, full breasts and wide hips, Madame Mathilda commented on Şükran’s glances in her vernacular, saying:
“
No me estan plaziendo las miadas de esta ijika
”
(I don’t like the looks of this girl). This was not merely a derogatory remark, but there was also an allusion to a secret concern in her expression.
“
Ia tiene una, Un chauffeur parase
”
(I think she has a lover, a car driver), said Madame Chella whose remark was somewhat more disparaging.
“
Los vide dos vezes serka del grocery. Si los aferra el padre te cura ke la mata” (I’ve seen them twice at the grocery store; if her father sees them together, I’m sure that’ll be the end of them). Madame Chella didn’t know that he was head over heels in love with Hüsnü’s daughter and that, come what may, he wouldn’t let her go; despite the fact she was in a position to understand and empathize with a story of such discord, when one could not help but recall her own past experiences. Yet, she was averse to displaying such acts of good will. She was in need of proving to herself firstly the superiority of her financial power and then of her social position in comparison to thousands of other people, obliged, like Hüsnü, to live on the bare necessities of life. “At least so much was necessary,” one is inclined to say, when one feels one has to go on living, and to forget about one’s distress by observing those people deprived of expectations. Her long-lasting widowhood, the sorrow she felt for her unmarried daughter, already past thirty, and her attempts at covering up her exposed household must have ruined her. These must have been the factors that caused her spitefulness. This picture could be seen in nearly every climate, at all times, around the world.
“
Ia se lo dishe al padre,
”
said Madame Mathilda,
“
Le dishe ka haga attention. Ahora te la yevan, te la kandireyan, i despues vites ke se hizo putana
”
(I’ve told her father. Be careful, I said. They may take her away any moment, deceive her, and make her a whore). Madame Mathilda was of a milder disposition. In addition, she had in her store of imagination hundreds, perhaps thousands of movie impressions; hundreds and thousands that supplied corroborative evidence to substantiate the actuality of the episodes devalued by others claiming that such actions were only seen in films. After the lapse of so many years, I can ask myself now, whether, if the conditions had been different, could I have written a scenario inspired by the woman concealed in Madame Mathilda? To imagine the feasibility of such a prospect, after the disappearance of so many scenes lost in the meantime, is beyond all possibility. What was more distressing still was the reoccurrence of that affliction to which she had had a presentiment. This undoubtedly was a foresight, one that had its origin in the storms that had been raging within her. Everybody preferred to remain a mere spectator to the fate of other families, not to let outsiders trespass the limits drawn by their own families, in order to protect the sanctity of their households. To prefer to remain aloof and keep everybody at a distance and consider it a merit; without taking stock of the fact that a man thus becomes isolated and vulnerable . . . All these things were undeniable at the time and still are at present; however, I feel I am bound to say that in the light of developing events, everybody felt himself to be at a loss. Although I’m not old enough to establish certain links between certain facts, the events themselves are still vivid in my imagination. Şükran was to launch herself on a venture, on a new exploit, with that man that Chella had seen, taking steps toward her true life . . . on a Monday morning, at a time when everybody was about to start their weekly labor . . . abandoning her family, her clothes and all that remained from her childhood, with a view to realizing her dreams . . . without taking with her anything except her own self, and leaving behind a few words in the janitor’s cubicle, reminiscent of the verses of a poem . . . “I am going and won’t be back. Try to forget me; I’ll be doing the same.” Hüsnü had carried this short note of his beloved daughter, Şükran, around with him. When he showed it to me many years had already gone by, many long years. Those few words jotted down expressed not only a rebellion, but also a deception, and a hidden apprehension. Şükran’s story was one of a person being dragged along . . . of a defeat, of a drifting, as far as we could gather of course. Years had gone by before we heard anything from her. News came one day that she was working at a nightclub. Hüsnü began tracking her, making the rounds of all the nightclubs in Istanbul, denying the existence of the night lights, trying to soothe his yearning for her, replacing it with a hope, faint though it was. He had asked everybody who he believed might have had some sort of a connection with her, without fearing humiliation or becoming an object of ridicule . . . He waited for doors to open, wishing for a new salvation . . . One day we came across a piece of news in the daily. Şükran was found murdered in a hotel room along with a man who was said to be her fiancé. It was claimed that it was a
crime passionnel
. The killer was Şükran’s former lover. In his deposition the man said that he was not sorry for doing it, that he had committed the crime in full consciousness. It was premeditated, in order that everybody might rest in peace . . . Such had been the account marked in police records; such was the reason why this piece of news in the papers would remain in the stores of the readers’ minds. For the general reader not involved in affairs like those experienced by the characters (the true spectators of the incident) this was but stale news that had appeared in one of the pages of a daily. There was also a photo of Şükran that appeared in the column of the newspaper. She was smiling as though she wanted to cover up her grief. The picture was one of those representations in which the figures intended to show by their smile that they were happy at the moment the camera’s shutter flashed . . . What remained for us was to visualize the last room, the hotel room, into which certain steps had been taken. From one room to another . . . what had changed in the meantime, what could ever change? After such a long time had elapsed in between, I’m still trying to find an answer to this question. The images that surge to my mind are the changing of bed sheets once a week, a room that had been a witness to a good many flights, erratic scenes of love and of
coitus interruptus
. A ramshackle hotel room at Sirkeci . . . That’s all. Şükran’s expression in the photograph was much different from that which had unnerved Madame Mathilda, those looks of a young girl who had believed that she deserved a different life. Now that I have known an infinite number of characters in my life who make love for money, I can imagine that her looks tried to express things far surpassing the expression of her eyes in that photograph, pregnant with meaning. Should we seek the gist of the matter in our failure to grasp those meanings that that expression warranted? When I go over the events I witnessed and the acts I performed, the answer seems to be positive. I’m inclined to think that Hüsnü, despite his good will and best efforts, had experienced a mental torment of his own. There was no doubt that it had been he that had perceived the meaning concealed in the eyes of his daughter who had forsaken him. There was a reality behind this affliction which he could not possibly change. This state of affairs brought him to a spot quite different from the place where other witnesses stood, where they preferred to stay and take refuge in. Actually, certain people have never been successful in building bridges. This might be interpreted as another way of putting up with life and of convincing oneself of being superior in strength. Could it be that witnesses would be transformed to mere spectators as days went by if the paths were to become thornier? The witnesses in the apartment at Şişli were to prove their status as spectators by calling on each other less frequently in the apartments into which they had moved, eventually ceasing to do so for good. Other daily lives belonged to other places, to other people . . . As long as one lived and wanted to live in other districts, streets, towns or cities with other people . . . Şükran’s straying to those paths might well have been anticipated. The incident had been an ordinary one. Everybody had his own outsider within him. Everybody had an outsider within him, be he conscious of it or not, be he able to identify him or not . . . Such was the case with Hüsnü and others who brought that apartment back to life and who were obliged to live a certain period of their lives within a community. This story was an ordinary one, a trivial one much elaborated upon . . .