Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (51 page)

Then he had waved his hand and parted after saying: “As I’ve said; I’ll come back, even though it may be in a distant future . . . I’ll be with you in my new guise . . . for life’s sake; rigged out with a little joke.” A little joke . . . These words would, in time, fit Gordon among the figures of that photograph which I have the habit of ignoring. For life’s sake, a little joke . . . Could this be linked with Marcellina, in one way or another? There were stories which we refrained from disclosing to certain people; which we found extremely arduous to take the lid off of . . . Gordon and I, we had exchanged meaningful glances for the last time, at least as far as this story is concerned. My glances were supposed to confirm the pledge I had given him to keep his secret. At the same time, this marked the last moment of the dialogue we had dared to engage in, which we had tried to carry within ourselves to quite another arena. We were henceforth doomed to stay within the enclosure of this secret, which would trigger my very return to the secret time and time again. The serenity that Gordon’s face reflected, the serenity which I had anticipated to observe, sparked off a special meaning generated by our shared fate. The story unfolded elsewhere, of a woman who lived far away and led a life unconscious of my existence. Who knows, I might one day decide to set off in a cloud of dust and follow the path that would lead me to her. I’m trying to convince myself that I have finally succeeded in causing the individual toward whom I had been called to share a similar destiny to empathize with this sentiment. What I had experienced reminded me of a completely different story I had entrusted to other totally different people in a completely different place, although under different circumstances. Could this be a play in which we were obliged to act, in which we would be mere spectators on different stages, whose secret bonds between the acts and scenes we could discern only when we moved far from the actual episodes? What energy had crossed the paths of Marcellina and Anita, on a shared ground of destiny? Could this be that feeling of revolt lying in our depths which I am convinced I’ll be able to disclose as I see fit one day? Shall I ever be able to put in an appearance before an audience equipped with what I have been bequeathed by these people? I wonder where or with whom I’ll be carrying on my existence or in whose story I would like to continue to live? Shall I be able to make these stories credible enough? I haven’t found the opportunity to discuss these details with anyone. There was another detail from whose boundary we returned, from which we had to return. A detail from whose boundary we were compelled to return that we failed to insert into our story, a detail concealed which could not have been unearthed except through Berti, in view of his past experiences. How was one supposed to complete that excavation? Which photograph was that detail concealed in, and in whose custody did it lay? To this day I have failed to find an answer to this question. The answer is still important for some people, I know. Yet, at this juncture, there is no way to proceed other than to nurture some hope that a new anticipation or eventuality may appear, despite all that I know, or, to be precise, despite all that I feel. It was not for nothing that Gordon mentioned that he would return to Istanbul when the time came in the guise of an individual who had undergone a transformation . . . to return to a new city in the garb of a new man . . . these words must have been analogous somewhere in the future . . . to return to a new city in the garb of a new man . . . What we had tried to communicate to each other may have been that hope.

Gordon would, in the meantime, remain stranded.

Then, in another solitude, we would proceed, traveling on a beaten path toward a house familiar to us . . . on toward a familiar house, in stereotypical steps. Having left behind the self-same individual in differing solitudes with different associations, we were heading for Nişantaşı, in our capacity as heroes of a story being written in bits and pieces, trying to find our true locations and to remain therein to the bitter end, and, what is more important still, striving to understand and express ourselves better. I had tried once more to place Berti somewhere between my fantasies and errors. This was my way of dealing with something I liked to carry around with me: my play, my solitude. “He cuts the figure of an intelligence officer . . . I mean . . . Well, skip it!” he said after a long hiatus. At such awkward moments speech failed him and he became charming. “You heard him, he is internationally engaged; what more do you want!” I rejoined. We had continued to walk. I believe we were in need of different fictions and words. We had preferred to keep silent; to cover up certain feelings that rose in us and made us feel like discussing other people’s lives. “What did he tell you in my absence?” he asked. “He told me about Marcellina. He told me that she was a formidable woman.” This had made him smile. Far from being a wry smile, it was like the smile of a boy who had just learned that he had come off an exam with flying colors . . . I knew the boy hidden behind that smile.

Spring reminds me of separations

There are certain times in your life when you feel that you are being swept off toward an ineluctable fate by which your actual personality, or the person you would like to be, is carried away. These are the moments when you realize that you are inexorably linked to yourself despite all your illusions. You lapse into silence, and find yourself speechless. You don’t want to open your mouth; for you have things that you would prefer would remain undisclosed. I think that these moments were, for me, the moments that revealed my inner child during my lonely walk. Gordon could not have dodged the issue. A bolt from the blue, an unexpected encounter would put us off track, adding color to our wandering . . . Well, it was a sunny evening in which everybody was making preparations for the new season. On such evenings, one perceives the scent of those future summer evenings, harbinger of more radiant days ahead. That scent stealthily attracts you towards it, and you find yourself proceeding with cautious steps lest other people may get a hint of your action. There are times when I ask myself why on earth we keep looking back to the days we have left behind instead of those ahead, despite all that we have gone through in the past. At such times it occurs to me to think of returns, of all kinds of returns, of which there have been some that had enslaved me. I ruminate on wrong steps taken and on ill-matched couples. There I come across songs and delusions that shatter my personality. What is the love that faces you at the least expected moments in a garb you hardly anticipated? I have vague recollections . . . I happened to be in a state which would prompt me to put such questions to myself; to the person I have been on familiar terms with for a long time. It was a sunny evening in Istanbul, a time when the deceptive image of Bodrum was not yet visible and had not been offered to abuse the population. “I’m planning to go to the island earlier this year. I told Juliet. I told her that we had a house there and the weather was fine . . . She told me that my father was getting on in years and that we had to take him with us this summer; she added that the weather was fine all right but not enough to warm up his bones as of yet. When stillness reigns on the island time has a special attraction for him. We all seem to be somewhat out of sorts these days . . . More about this later however . . . This will not last forever, will it? How about taking the ferry on weekends and carrying out repairs at home or tending the garden . . . In summer you’ll be my guest. You didn’t show up once last year. You know well that our door is always open for you. You’ll come, won’t you?” Berti said. “I will, don’t worry. Last year was different. We were all shaken by what had happened. That summer had taken from each of us a part of ourselves never to be recovered.” We had arrived at a critical point beyond which there should be no trespassing; we might make an allowance for a limited number of associations. The matter should rest at the point where it had already reached and not be elaborated further. I saw that he had empathized with the resentment I bore within me as a true friend who felt helpless. However, despite the sentiments that were provoked by that reality we had been poorly conscious of, and had failed to perceive, by that reality which we were unsuccessful in communicating to each other, he, like me, had opined not to trespass that prohibited zone. Time might be propitious to allow us to cross over certain boundaries. The discussion of the bitter experiences we had gone through might be held off for years, by which time other painful suffering may have compounded them. Both of us were conscious of this fact; conscious too were the people who had willingly or otherwise been involved during those days. We needed time. It had not been for nothing that we had shouldered the burden of those relationships that entertained receding hopes in us and were caught up in frantic struggles. We needed time; time which would enable us to use our wits only after being deeply wounded; time which would enable us to indicate in due course the importance of certain touches; time which would allow us to perpetuate our self-reliance. Under the circumstances how far could we depend on the words that told us about our place in life, on words that drew us near to, and moved us away from others? We did have words that had served to communicate our experiences and our aspirations to our distant relatives, while at the same time severing the man within us away from those countries, sentencing us to a sorrowful exile. I’m well aware that there had been a break in Berti’s flow of communication. Here, I perceived a missing link difficult to explain. This was the first time this happened to me. I’m not trying to share it with any of the spectators of my fantasy. I’m obliged to share the same destiny with those who had inseminated my mind with a great variety of stories. At present I feel like I’ll be able to tread that path one day, that true path for the sake of those people. For, certain conversations lead you to your true place as you move forward. Certain talks across the table gain permanence only for you and embody vital forces. You are inclined to believe in magic . . . to deliver yourself up to that magical influence and let yourself be carried off by it . . . even though you may realize that the words uttered by a speaker are transformed over many years into the words of the listener. Berti had told me that evening that springtime redeemed separations from oblivion. He had always sought an opportunity to have a confidential chat with me. We were in pursuit of a voice, a voice that we knew very well. I’d done my best to devote my attention to it. There was a reason for it, to lend an ear, to show him that my listening had become a secret pleasure, far beyond my sense of responsibility. I took pleasure in playing the role of a spectator who occasionally chose to take part in the performance. This was another method of dealing with pain more easily by watching the bitter experiences of other people. I felt at home at the place I had chosen, I had found out the mystery that this section of my past contained, and I had adhered to this belief; I had been able to do that. To believe, to be able to believe, even though superficiality was tantamount to feeling that you were attached to certain things. What I had opted for was undoubtedly evil; an evil I, now and then, took notice of during my reminiscing. But I had no other choice at the time. Eventually everybody was doomed to live with what he deserved. “My separations from Marcellina and Ginette had coincided with such occasions. Those days and those women had been different. But seasons look alike . . . ” he added. There was no doubt that those days indeed brought new things. As for women, had they been really different in their manifestations? If one considered femininity and the meanings attributed to it, were women really at odds with each other? That evening I had been pursuing a woman with whom I was in love, enamored with more fervently then ever, who now seems to be gradually vanishing from my mind. This was a woman whose traits escaped me but whose presence behind a screen was indisputable, whose taboo would one day be revealed to me, I was sure of it. Was this a dream, a movie in which a comedy was being enacted? Was this dream no different than the songs we lend an ear to only to forget shortly after? I am asking these questions without seeking an answer. Answers can only be provided by those who still imagine themselves listening to that song at night in the company of that woman. I may have felt compelled to say, “Juliet was not so bad after all,” to involve our women in our journeys, even though each of us had different inclinations. The place which had been left vacant by those women who had formerly fled but were presently trying to put in an appearance on the scene, was occupied by another woman . . . In reply to my suggestion Berti said: “You’re perfectly right there. Juliet
is a nice woman. I’m much indebted to her.” He had resumed his boyish air. “How about coming to us tonight? Give a call to your people and tell them you’ll be late. You don’t want to remain outdoors for long, crowds upset you; you rush back to your den to lock yourself in like a misanthropist. The timing couldn’t be better! Come, let’s have dinner together for a change: Juliet will be preparing a delicious meal; the
entrée
will likely consist of duck with lime sauce served with artichoke bottoms filled with baby carrots plus leeks baked in Caerphilly sauce! On our way home we’ll buy some salami, a spread made with fish roe, snacks from the delicatessen; anything you want.” A silence had ensued, after which he added with a plaintive voice: “Believe me, Juliet has missed you so much! Only the other day we were speaking of you. She said: ‘He used to visit us more often and didn’t spare me his compliments. Well, we are still up and about. Tell the good old boy that our relationship had not been so cheap! If he expects to be my lover, let him behave decently!’” He was no longer the boy of before; he was a hero of a spy movie that shuttled between adolescence and estranged adulthood . . . It was evident that his intention was to drag our relationship back to the former warmth that the three of us had created. In this affiliation the key person should be Juliet without a doubt. His words took on that shape. I should deem Berti’s call only too natural considering what we had been through. He had already crossed over certain boundaries despite our dodging and hiding. The time we had grasped by both hands was likely to upset certain people and make them envious. The time in question comprises certain things in our very depths far beyond the love that I could not and did not define; certain things that deserve the attribute ‘original,’ very different, if we consider our boundaries. On one of those nights when we had gathered together our shortcomings, dreams, and resentments about ourselves and others, I had told them an anecdote from my childhood and made them laugh. I had a train which looked almost exactly like a real one. The train fell over a bridge I had built between two chairs. Among its passengers were a mother and a small boy. During a series of accidents the mother and the boy were killed alternately. Our house had a big garden. I used to fill the pool with water and tried to make my train float but could not help seeing it swallowed by the ocean. I was all alone when I did this. All the details are still fresh in my mind except for the final destination, the train is now lost. A day came when I realized that the train had left my life for good. Having heard this, Juliet, with her matronly behavior had approached, not without a traditionally feminine poise, and sat in my lap putting her arms around me and whispered: “You know what; you are a stout-hearted fellow! Why don’t you kidnap me! I’m ready to elope wherever you take me. We could perhaps unearth that train after all . . . and once we spot it we can board it and away we go! You’ll have rescued me from this dreary life.” “Wait! Not so fast! It’s alright with me; so much the better in fact. I’ll be freed from this yoke! But beware! I like you. I’d hate to see you seduced! The woman you set your eyes upon is not the woman you imagine her to be; she will mortify you! Understand?” said Berti. This short ‘sex play’ was enacted in that house on many an occasion in improvised versions. Roles were cast as follows: Juliet would be the woman always ready to leave her husband and throw herself into the arms of the man who would offer her a life of exciting sexual adventure; Berti would cut the figure of a despondent man ready to sacrifice everything to get rid of the woman with whom he had been with for so long. The play might well have been staged just to arouse certain latent feelings, as it had, to my mind, an informative character as well. We were free to go beyond certain boundaries: when we felt drawn to each other, we were free to take the required steps. A touch of prostration must have been concealed in our smiles. What we were after was to strengthen our belief in ourselves rather than to represent the experiences we tried to communicate to our spectators. I think I had the greatest need for this as someone who had not yet established his role and who had recourse to return to his store of fantasies in the hope that this would give a cue to what he was supposed to recite. In that section of the play Juliet had gone near Berti and turning to me had pressed her body on the man whom she loved and said: “That’s the reason why I love this guy, just because he’s not wise enough to love me and fully appreciate my value. Well, such are women, my dear! The time will come when you’ll see it for yourself.” Those scenes went on taking place in this fashion.