Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (52 page)

At present I happen to be somewhere quite removed from those representations, where the story has called me. The new places I was supposed to see and explore greatly contributed to my understanding of the places from which I had moved away. One could have an overall view of disparate things and juxtapose them in new and unexpected combinations. There were instances which justified Juliet’s behavior. There had been times when I thought I had had an insight into Berti’s motive for undertaking those long walks, times when I felt lonely and remorseful, times I couldn’t possibly talk about to anyone. Those were the times when I deemed myself justified in my actions and wished that this self-assurance be embedded in me. That was my time. New places had caused me to take stock of certain things which I had failed to see before. Berti and Juliet happened to be cast in that truth they desired to represent to me in that little play they enacted, a truth expressed through mimicry. I had shared different secrets with them at different times. These secrets were pregnant with surprising, enigmatic stories and heroes. In other words, the secrets shared were from a different time, a fact they knew all too well. What they did not know, and preferred not to learn, were the details and the extent to which they unmasked them by reflecting their images in the mirror. They had reserved a place for me in their life as a man who knew how to lend an ear to them and keep their secrets. The strange thing was that the other family members had also adopted the same attitude. Under the circumstances, I had to learn how to play that role as best I could with the touch of a hero destined to narrate the story of certain people, that long story, which reminded me now and then of other fictions. Berti’s invitation to his place after all that had happened carried a special meaning. We had to protect what we had experienced from sinking into oblivion, what had truly been lived. Under the circumstances Juliet’s womanliness had occupied a place of its own, despite certain reservations. The truths were the truths that we whispered into each other’s ears in a different tone and impressed upon each other accordingly. She had grasped the meaning of this expectation as much as I had. Her contours that evening reminded one of a woman who was immersed in the process of forgetting. They fitted her identity as an ex-player quite well. “All right, I’ll come,” I said, “But, we must buy some flowers somewhere; I know that Juliet loves flowers.” “Indeed! There is in fact a flower shop nearby,” he observed. The flower shop happened to be right there, aiding us with our story. I had bought a bouquet of gillyflowers disregarding all the likely blunders arising from this choice. It was my intention to return to that house with the scents I was once fond of. As we stepped out from the shop the poem produced by those small images crossed my mind once again. The poem represented our efforts to get used to the little deceptions that stemmed from that time, allowing us to cling to something. The poem was our renewed lie . . . Life was being penned for others in totally different versions, with totally different expectations. The same might hold true for a few words inscribed in a language we were not familiar with on a stone tablet. Have we been knocking on the door of the same house over all these centuries? We had taken a few steps when Berti said: “Nora has left.” His voice was tremulous like the voice of an agitated man that betrayed his inner struggle, that had been lying concealed and had not yet found expression, about a truth he would have liked to disclose but was unable to do so. He was staring fixedly in front of him. He seemed to be looking within himself for a fault. There was something wrong in all these things. But what exactly? He looked like the harbinger of bad news; of bad news intended for a dear friend. Under the circumstances everybody would be living once more in their own solitude as though they wanted to experience the same words and feelings, reminding them of other heroes of other stories relating to the same figures. “I’ve been intending to tell this to you for quite some time now . . . It was a terrible shock for Juliet; she said bitter words and had to face scathing retorts; she felt that all she had done for her daughter had proved to be ill spent. Well, as a mother, she had her failings. I tried to tell her, to make her understand that what we thought we had been doing for Nora was actually performed to gratify our own egos.” “After all,” I said, “Nora has done what you would have done yourself. She chose her own life. The only thing that differs would be the way you’d choose to arrive at the same end. You’re two sheep of the same flock.” He said: “She would not hear of my admonition. Rosy wept a lot . . . Poor thing . . . She felt helpless . . . She’s always been a poor thing, you know . . . ‘Enough!’ she yelled, ‘Stop trying to humiliate each other! You’re not going to be pulled asunder, are you?’ But her voice was hardly audible in the din they made. That evening she was with her fiancé. She looked happy. Personally, he has not impressed me. But what can we do? It’s kismet, as they say. My father is of the same opinion but looks resigned. ‘Never mind! Leave it to time!’ he says. You know him. Juliet, on the other hand, has something on her mind, of which she does not speak. To my mind she has not given too much thought to it, not as much as she should have done. She had a preference for Nora and she never tried to conceal it. This is the reason why I exercise my discretion for Rosy. Yet, I think I cannot accentuate my devotion as I ought to. I tried to have a talk with her. ‘You know, dear, you can tell me, if you feel out of sorts for some reason or other. Come on, let’s have a heart-to-heart talk together.’ I told her. ‘I’m fine daddy, don’t worry about me!’ Well, she’s trying to make her own path. So, we’re by ourselves tonight, just the three of us. Just like in the old days, in the good old days . . . ” Yes, just like in the good old days. These words . . . had they been the lyrics of those old songs that invited us to partake in those deceptions and delusions that had lulled us? Just like in the good old days . . . We were perfectly conscious of the fact that the past was past and no past experience could be resuscitated no matter what one did. No word, no talk, no look, no touch could henceforth be the same . . . No night, no dawn, no summer evening would be the same . . .

We were passing by the movie theater Konak. I had a memory connected with this structure. Berti didn’t know what this memory had generated and kept alive within me, which was more important still. This episode was exclusively my secret, and was bound to remain so, forever apparently. There, in the dark stood a boy who had experienced an aberration he could never forget, which was deeply engraved on the recesses of his mind. Our stares had been simultaneously directed at the poster, but most probably from different angles. Certain details still lingered in my memory. A French movie entitled
Gifle
was on. I heard the name of Isabella Adjani for the first time. The film was about the problems encountered in the relationship between a father and his young girl who had just come of age. Days one had lived during one’s adolescence were generally forgotten by the time one reached adulthood. The image of the father slapping the face of his daughter was to be forever imprinted on the minds of the cinemagoers. It was a moment of confrontation between father and daughter; an unanticipated meeting, as though it was the moment when they first touched each other. The actor that played the part was Lino Ventura. Berti had a passion for movies; a trait inherited from his maternal aunt. He made no distinctions between films; he tried not to miss any of the movies running in his neighborhood. What was more important for him was the movie theater rather than the movie itself, this was an integral part of his life; the same passion was shared by Aunt Tilda. What puzzled me and was an object of regret was that despite the fact they both were aware of each other’s passion, they had never lived under the same roof for any period of time. It may be that they were afraid of each other’s fervid imaginations, or perhaps they wanted to shun each other’s company for that very reason. They may have been afraid of each other’s imaginative power, or preferred to give vent to their own stretch of imagination, each in his or her own world, as they were aware they could not possibly share with anybody what they felt and experienced within their respective zones of security. I believe we also had the same experience in our cinematic adventure and lived in the same isolation with one voluntary difference. Our divergent looks converged on the same poster through different angles. “I wonder where he is these days!” said Berti. To further enhance my puzzlement as I stood baffled, he added: “I don’t think I’ve told you, have I? Lino Ventura happens to be a distant relative of mine.” My amazement had generated a faintly malicious smile on his face. It was a smile that seemed to betray the apparently huge joke that his cynical, humorous behavior had exhibited. Was this the manifestation of a secret crossing of the family members, a confidential matter kept secret from me? Berti appeared to be pleased to see me struck dumb. I once had the idea to play a trick which I thought would boggle Berti’s mind. The proposed line of action would be the following: Berti would be sitting on the balcony of a villa overlooking the Bosporus in the company of an attractive woman—an authoress with whom I conjectured to discuss the outlines of the plan in question—sipping at his drink while listening to a catchy song. The script would contain an echo of our long walks. To bring such actions—a product of our fantasies, undertaken by both of us in turn—into a state of equilibrium and stability should be considered normal. However, the real meaning of the actions in question would reveal itself to me years later, when I dared to look into the hidden aspects of certain words. On the day I read of the death of Lino Ventura in the daily, I had called him to give my condolences. In the meantime, we had given up going on our walks together. We were living on borrowed time; despite our best efforts and all those things that we had shared in the past, we belonged to other places henceforth; it was as though we took care not to let our voices be heard by each other except on rare occasions during infrequent telephone calls and casual encounters. Some people, regardless of their mutual intimacy, discover that their paths converge. Whatever has been experienced in the past, regardless of the shared days and nights, this common point of destination happens to be the spot wherein all other contingencies seem to be exhausted. One realizes that all efforts have been in vain. The good will, the wishes and the procrastinations fall short of filling the gap that has been formed. Separation guides the relationship to its natural floodplain and transports it to a union in antipodal latitudes. Our relations were to continue to be cultivated at the opposite side of the earth. Upon my imparting him with the sad news, he had lapsed into a momentary silence before he observed with what sounded like a wry smile: “Confound it! We hadn’t been in contact lately.” The trick had quite unexpectedly achieved the desired effect. I had immensely enjoyed the result. I want to believe more than ever that we had indeed relished this experience during that telephone conversation for the sake of those bygone days.

To my mind, at present, what has actually remained from that evening is neither Berti’s experience at the time, nor his latent identification with Lino Ventura, nor the common impression that this little trick had generated. As far as I’m concerned, what has remained with me from that night was the movie theater I miss. The movie theater in question, alas no more, had connotations that went well beyond that dark moment within me. This movie theater with its spacious flight of steps and walls carved in high relief must still be fresh in the memory of the moviegoers. Konak was the name of the movie theater which had not been demolished; the bookshop too was spared a few yards away. I’m aware that all these reminiscences have nothing original about them, in that they can be observed nearly everywhere in the world, in any climate. The fact was that certain corners and landmarks of the city continued their functions elsewhere for certain individuals. The solitude that remained would still be the same solitude; no hope, no evasion, no truancy brought it change. I would realize this better in another movie theater while watching a spin-off about yet another movie theater. Man could not easily accept being deprived of certain things he had been accustomed to. One had to learn about dying in order to be able to live with death. This may have been the reason why that boy afraid to lose his toys kept surging in my imagination.

We stood before the bookshop, scanning the titles displayed in the window, “I read a story a couple of days ago,” said Berti. It had been Berti’s custom to buy British newspapers and take them home with special diligence; he took great pleasure in carrying them with such pride. As far as I can remember
The Guardian
was his favorite paper. I don’t know if this choice was the reason why he preferred to keep it rolled up. What I was sure about was that he never read it. He was a bit of a show-off, you know. To act the showman, to adopt extravagant and willfully conspicuous behavior, to seek to attract attention to things he wished not to be consigned to oblivion were, I think, among his distinctive traits. Could it be that in sharing the story he was said to have read, he was displaying similar mannerisms? Maybe. In think I can understand his concern. “The story itself has nothing extraordinary about it; it is one of those stories that we come across sometime, somewhere, quite unexpectedly. Claptrap eloquence, you know. However, I have it enshrined in my memory; never have been able to forget it, in fact.” His words had reminded me of an evening in the past. Berti continued: “The hero has a Brazilian lover whom he had met during his years of study in Paris. The woman is married. But the love that has kindled seems to be genuine. Strong are the ties between them. Notwithstanding their mutual passion, they are obliged to return to their respective homes; the man back to Istanbul, the woman to Rio. Their correspondence regularly continues up until it gradually peters out. Life had pulled them asunder. After the lapse of a good many years, the man sees her one night in his dream and tries to communicate with her (and to other people besides) the grief he had felt over his failure to accompany her to Rio; to the city of his beloved. He complains about his frustration concerning his attempts at leaving Istanbul and about being cooped up in the house keeping his elderly maternal aunt, obsessed with a Paris she had never seen, company; trying to draw an analogy between her dreams and his own fantasies of cities he embellishes in his imagination, doomed to remain ever inaccessible to him. Inaccessible cities, lives spent to no purpose, loves thwarted . . . A hit-and-miss story, marked by a lack of a definite plan or method, a sustained purpose; there are too many ‘ands,’ ‘ifs,’ and ‘buts’ all right! I’ve got it at home; I may give it to you just to browse through at your leisure. You may well guess why it affected me. Sometimes one is surprised to see the uncanny similarity between certain lives,” he concluded. He looked a bit absentminded and tired. I didn’t have to mull over the fact that this had nothing to do with the effect of the season upon us which we could not ignore and which all of us had to resign had its influences. “All right, I’ll read it; I’m sure I can spare some time for it,” I said. He had patted me on the shoulder with a broad smile. This smile seemed to cover up a modest victory, another aspect of that joke; years had to go by before I had an inkling of it.