Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (56 page)

Another detail, deserving attention in the meantime, which a great many people may let go unnoticed, was the fact that Juliet had not prepared artichoke, her specialty, that evening. The table was strewn with the ordinary Passover dishes—leek pastry, spinach pastry, boiled eggs, chicken and lettuce. Despite my frustration, the evening would stay in my memory as a memorable event. We were but three around the table, only three, like in the old days. As I was serving wine, I had been careful to abide by the requirement of the ancient tradition. It was a memorable night, a memorable night indeed! Once again we were experiencing the melancholy of swapped identities. A memorable night, a night to be a source of inspiration for the composition of a memorable song! The only witness to our cause was our story, which we could never get rid of.

Could you play the role of Nora?

Our somewhat fortuitous preparations over the course of those two years, during which we stood separated, without anyone knowing, certainly had their part to play in the enjoyment of that night, making it an event that would stay with us forever. To be prepared for such a night you had to have perfect confidence in what you believed you could share with others and were capable of getting back in return, even though from a distance, with two individuals whom you believed existed solely for you: that was the kind of night that was arising . . . However, it seemed as though in this waiting there lay concealed a deadly sentiment, the boundaries of which could not always be tested. It was your waiting that was involved, your own waiting. The waiting that carried the traces of nightmares which you could not avoid in spite of your efforts to the contrary, those nightmares laden with those things that the words had withheld from you, those nightmares with the traces of the suppressed cries they contained that you could not bring yourself to disclose to anyone. The waiting was your pursuit of sleep in that bed on those nights; the waiting was your escape from the sun on those mornings. It was, in a way, your fresh pursuit of yourself that you had lost in a story. The pursuit was injurious; it might remind you of once gathering blackberries on a deserted side road. Under the circumstances, the bitterness one had suffered and the scarring it had left would make the waiting worthwhile. The waiting justified all these episodes. Such were the episodes I felt disposed to narrate, to share with those two people whom I have held in such high esteem throughout my life. Contingencies had once again breathed life into expectations. Expectations had once again been tempting fate; beyond this was an ordinary and dull life that anyone was free to enjoy; a dull, flat, inane and vapid life not worth being told. The points at hand, the real points, belonged to others.

Two years had elapsed in the meantime . . . two years . . . or was it longer? Was it? The fact was that I needed those two years in order to retrieve that separation more clearly from my imagination. Anyway, this is no longer possible; I can no longer recollect them! A man forgets what he wants to forget in the long run. All that remains is but residue; a residue . . . in which, now and then, we hunt for the past; when we pluck up the courage to do so. There are times when we desire to return from where we have wandered, while at the same time we feel a need to stay. We suddenly find ourselves desirous to return to the place we had always coveted and for which we had been waiting; even though we are unable to define the places we have abided; even though we could not clearly define, as we would have liked, the meaning of our arrival or departure. I’m being guided to that night once again by that woman who occupied Juliet’s body, for my sake, for our sake. That woman was brought to life that night, through her smile, through the legends carried by her voice. It was plain that we could not escape what had been fated to us by the bitterness this had caused. However, the price of the said bitterness had already been paid and had been welcomed with a gratification that would enable us to look at life with renewed vigor. We had understood once again that our mutual sentiments were destined to remain unchanged. We were carrying the scarred wounds of the days we had left behind. All things considered, events had evolved and come to a head within and without us at the same time. We had to understand this sentiment and try to place it in its proper place in our lives. Reprisals would take place on different nights in different rooms . . . on several nights in separate rooms . . . with a view to being enraptured once again with the dawning of the day . . . with a view to imagining once more the splendor of the vermilion of the aurora, the resurgent sea, the balcony of a perdurable house, or a long, very long walk. Reprisals implied nakedness. We were aware of that. To be treading on this thorny path was something with which we were familiar; we had tried it before in defiance of our diffidence. What we had been conscious of would, in the first place, draw us closer to ourselves . . . closer to ourselves to begin with . . . to ourselves and to our solitudes. However, in order that we could do so, I suppose we were in need of some well-deserved victories that would make room for us in the same snapshot alongside those we were likely to meet along the road. Just a number of victories . . . even though this aspiration may seem too irrelevant, futile, and meaningless to others . . .

Juliet had played her favorite hits on the record player. I can still hear them now. “Tonight,” she announced, leaving the dinner table, “is my night, my program; no listeners’ choices; you’ve got to put up with the hits I’m going to play!” Among the records she had put on were “Strangers in the Night,” “Killing Me Softly,” and “Green Fields” by Johnny Guitar. Among the other hits played were songs which failed to revive scenes from other movies in the imagination . . . those moments were pregnant with memories that seemed to have been consigned to oblivion by Berti. He also had participated in that wry rejoicing that marched with a deep bitterness within us.

Afterward we had parted, although only briefly. I had gone to have a look at the records. The covers of the LPs brought me back to the world I had created for myself in those days. Even today their images are still fresh in my mind. I happened to be immersed in those songs in that brief separation from those whom I had abandoned at the table. Berti, a goblet of wine in his hand, with a blank look in his eyes, was saying something in a low voice imperceptible to me. Juliet was smiling. I had realized. They happened to be in a different time; a time they desired to close off from the outside world and keep closed, which seemed to be something more real, something they considered making a part of them. That very moment, in defiance of our supposed civility, of our shared songs, I had felt like retiring to my chamber whose walls and darkness were familiar to me. I was asking myself what I had been doing there. How did it happen that I’d been taken by these people for a friend, for a guest, nay for a confidant with whom they could share their inebriation, the smell of a gillyflower, the warmth of a palm in perspiration, or a song abandoned somewhere? Even today I am at a loss to understand it. The adage “You reap what you have sown” occupied my mind. As a matter of fact I, for my part, had given those individuals certain things that were a part of the constitutive elements of the story we were obliged to share. One thing was certain, whatever my contributions were, they were not known to anybody outside our triad. Certain little secrets had the guardianship and the charge of protecting not only others but also the timid people within us. We had to learn how to live in the company of our errors. This was the only way to lead us progressively to find happiness.

At present, we happen to be in different places . . . I seem to see Berti smile at those words. I am doing the same, trying to smile. Then a silence ensues. I can almost see the silence. I inquire into the reasons for this; I keep doing so . . . waiting for an answer that never comes . . . I keep on waiting . . . waiting . . . and then . . . then . . . then I give it up.

Juliet, with the wine goblet in her hand, had danced by herself to the accompaniment of the music she had forced upon us. “I’d wanted to dance that night all by myself in the very heart of the songs. Dancing drunk, partnered by the years, to and fro with the days and nights. I think I had, or ought to have had realized it.” She was obliged to display certain scenes to us from her moments of loneliness. We had done our bit and put on the appropriate garb. We were three people who had acquired the mastery to touch each other, to play the game according to its rules; we had been doing so for the last three years, playing the same role on the same stage and sharing the same concerns behind the scenes during the intermissions. Juliet had taken to her part in this scene; but the scene was a short one, lasting only for a few minutes; it didn’t run on until the early hours of the morning like in the fairy tales. We were world-weary at the time, far removed from any such fairy tales. Now that I relive the past, a smile appears on my lips. There would be endless nights to follow for us to forget our fatigue . . . Juliet had suddenly stopped short in the middle of her performance at a time when we were being swept away by the fascination she had aroused in us, and, out of the blue she had uttered to herself: “What a splendid performance I had put on in Pirandello!” Who knows, perhaps what she was trying to share with us was a limitation she suffered from, her greatest woe. She was recalling her school years when she took part in dramatic plays. The audience scrutinized her closely. And there was a second figure that shared the same stage in a great many of these dramas. Those were the days during which plays were performed more accurately. They were a couple of young girls—two girls that were making headway and had bright futures. Their teacher of literature was well versed in the dramatic arts and had advised them enthusiastically to choose an acting career. “Leave everything else aside and do everything you can to become dramatic artists,” she said. Juliet had told me all these things one night at the conclusion of a stage play we had watched while Berti was on a business trip to Italy he had extended in order to take pictures. There was a joint at Elmadağ . . . I popped in for the first time that night; I was, however, to pay many a visit there later on in the company of other people, sharing passionate moments. We took our seats at a table near the window. It was my choice. We were exposed to the view of passersby. A funny feeling had come over me; I wanted people—whom I had avoided up until then—to see me sipping at my drink in the company of Juliet. That was undoubtedly a new delusion I had invented; a deception to which I was trying to cling. Deceptions apart, here I was, sipping a drink in the company of a woman for the first time. I tasted lemon mixed with vodka for the first time; it had been Juliet’s choice. Now, whenever I drink vodka and lemon, the image of Juliet surges before me despite the lapse of innumerable years in between. The vodka and lemon was among my methods of time travel; yes, time travel . . . just like in my other texts . . . my other works . . . Juliet had ordered roasted chickpeas; she thought that chickpeas were the best snack to go with vodka, and she was right. Those days were also marked by my compulsive and uncontrolled cigarette smoking; the first cigarette I smoked was Harman. I had chain-smoked that evening in defiance of my previous self-imposed abstinence. The image of Sait Faik, the poet, who lived on the island and was a frequent passenger on board the ferryboats plying between Istanbul and the Princes’ Islands, must have prompted me to emulate him. I had the custom to sit on the deck in the dead of winter and drink a cup of hot tea. I distinctly remember the small open-air café under the huge plane tree and the raindrops pattering on the windowpanes. Life was full of paradoxes. Paradoxes and roads that seemed to be different from what had been indicated to me . . . We had been to see a play by Eugene O’Neill. Juliet knew by her prescience that O’Neill would suit my taste. Years would confirm her foresight. However, all I had experienced that night was mere appreciation, nay, admiration for the performance. The same feeling I was to experience elsewhere at some other time, at a time when we were, and wanted to be, always together with other people. The illumination of the bar and the atmosphere in which I had found myself had greatly contributed to Juliet’s beauty, no doubt. The traces of an old sorrow seemed to linger in her features; an old sorrow which could not be shared with anyone, or which was fastidiously kept concealed. I was to bear witness to these traces not only that night, that night which we had spent drinking till the early hours of the morning, but also later during our times of return. These were testimonies that opened up, or could have opened up to different places. Different places had not ceased to follow us during our periods of longing. There had been a couple of friends who had been chasing rainbows, behind the same scenes, hoping to perform the same roles . . . The stage could be expanded with those chimeras, while at the same time revealing its grim reality. Beyond, were betrayals and wanderers, players destined to lose their bearings with a smothered sound. It was not the stage that was expanding, but rather an illusion caused by those who had exited, resigned to their fate. The cost involved, however, did not deserve mention. Certain stories had already been emptied of their contents. Her companion at school had followed the advice of her teachers and become an accomplished, well-known player. Who was this celebrated actress? Juliet had not revealed her identity during our talks. “I’ll give you a clue to her identity. For the moment, you’ll have to content yourself with this piece of information. Her fame and seaside mansion on the Bosporus consume her colleagues with envy. You can make a hero out of her in one of your stories. She is a writer as well. You may picture her as an author in your tale,” she said once. Why had she thought it advisable not to reveal the name of her companion? Was it because she was reluctant to see her as having a share in her celebrity, or because she thought that the path she had chosen was not a commendable one? Could it be that that individual whom she had abandoned halfway along the road had been dragged by fame to a destination hardly creditable, far beyond what one could qualify with the attribute ‘good’? Could it be a jealousy difficult to acknowledge or a deep-seated resentment which had not found an outlet for expression? Or else, could it be that such a companion had not existed at all? Could we not infer from this that she had had recourse to concoct such a tall tale to compensate for her failure to achieve the success she would have liked to achieve on the stage and make a show of it to people? Under the circumstances could I conclude that I had been taken for a ride? Juliet had loved the plays which she considered part and parcel of her life. It looked as though a deep-seated sorrow lay behind it. This sorrow was her fate; it was the necessary outcome of an inescapable preference, of a point of view, of an attitude whose source was rooted in the past. Yet, it was precisely this point of view, this attitude and the solitude lurking behind the plays that had endeared her to me. It was a harrowing experience, but one warm and full of life . . . To take Juliet for a friend, to acknowledge her as such was easy for certain people yet difficult for others. I had detected in her a gifted player whose accomplishments I found difficult to avow to myself. She had given me something from her womanhood which I could not properly define or exemplify. At present, I’m not so sure if I’ll ever be able to reveal to certain people the perspective of that companionship I have gained from her; moreover, I doubt if I’ll have the capability to do it at all. All that I know and can say is that if there was
any achievement on my part in this relationship, it was my stroke of genius in winning her confidence. Thanks to this I was able to penetrate into her secret chambers and learn secrets that even Berti did not know. Nevertheless, despite all the confidentiality and special privilege I enjoyed, she refused to give me clues relating to that companion of hers; she preferred not to. Now, who on earth could that woman have been? She was most probably a well-known part of the intelligentsia interested in culture, literature, and drama. I have perfect confidence that a day will come when I’ll have an insight into her identity. When the day comes or when I feel ready to take on other lives as well . . . When the day comes and I can visualize Juliet in other lives and other stories . . . To cut a long story short, I want to give credence to the existence of that woman. A voice within me whispers that in that woman are stored private things related to Juliet. These secrets happened to stand behind the scene. As for her acting . . . well, she had performed in a few plays that were staged by the Jewish association and the audience had always given her a round of applause. Not only had she acted, but she had also assumed the charge of training talented young people.
The Rosenbergs Should Not Die
,
The Price
,
Death of a Salesman
, and
Andorra
were among the plays they put on stage. Then . . . then we witnessed her as a cultured and trendy lady who was also a perfect cook. Everything had a price; therefore her confidentiality also required a charge. While discussing her remarkable performance in Pirandello’s play several years later, Juliet did not merely cut a dashing figure of a young talented lady, but she also wanted to express the fact that she had had to abandon her expectations, her life somewhere, somehow along the way. “I very much deplore the fact that I missed the opportunity to appear in the role of Nora. Certain things had gone wrong; utterly wrong,” she said later.
A Doll’s House
. . . She had missed a role she could not bring herself to forget; especially when she presumed the impression the play could create in certain people. I might well empathize with her regret, this sense of defeat she had experienced. This regret, this defeat needs an outlet for expression. The paths might well guide one to other spectators. The paths were known; they were not beyond one’s ken. The nights and their baggage should not be ignored; illusions that only the night could effect; nightmares and hallucinations that obsessed us. However, what was essential was not finding the paths, but the reflection of her deficiency in her life, and the direction toward which it guided her. She was resolved to name her daughter after her lost heroine. In my mind these efforts were not in vain. If one considers traditional restraint, this was a modest revolt. Two days after the birth of her daughter, she had announced to Berti that she intended to name her Nora, disregarding the general custom and what one acknowledged as normal. The suggestion was met with some diffidence and a hint of questioning. The reaction was to be expected; it had shown understanding. Everybody knew; it was axiomatic; the second child was named after her grandfather or grandmother. However, Juliet had said that this was a token of recognition to an old promise that had been made during her life. This revelation was followed by the account of an incident she had withheld until then. The episode in question went far back to her adolescence, her coming of age that involved pains, apprehensions and expectations. The period in question contained memories that seemed to merge with reality; Nora was the name of her best friend. A fatal illness had shattered her; she was heading for an inescapable death. Juliet had been by her deathbed until she died. It had been Nora’s last wish that her memory be preserved, at least by a few people. So, she had given her word. “Nora will rise again one day, believe me!” she said. “The thing I deplore most is that I’ve not been able to give birth to a child,” said Nora. To which she had retorted by saying: “Your dream will come true one day, never doubt it, it’s a promise!” Nora smiled and said “I’m on my way to the womb of a new mother!” These were her own words. Unforgettable words, destined to stay permanently inscribed on her memory . . . The story was a melodramatic one likely to affect many a listener. This episode contained a promise made not only to one person but to life itself. Under the circumstances, the decision had some justification. But to what extent was what had been recounted true? Had Juliet chosen to hide behind this story to impose her choice? I know for a fact that this might well be a kind of skill enacted for the sake of others. As far as I can guess, she had confidence in this skill. To hold on to her dreams to the bitter end, to be reluctant to share them with anyone, to convince them of a lie and a dream they would fail to understand; were these things to be treated lightly? She could avenge herself on those who had pooh-poohed her acting by returning to it, her potent and most offensive weapon. To be frank, I don’t know how this idea, this possibility, came to my mind. It is natural to project one’s own merits on other individuals. To externalize and regard as objective or outside oneself sensations, images, and emotions is an action we often have recourse to. Under such circumstances, the attainment of reality gets more and more difficult. However, after our talks, I believe I had come to know Juliet to the extent that I should be allowed to invite such suspicions. If we force our mind, I think, we could easily recall those places that our suspicions led us to, and which caused us to stray from our path and to lose track of one another, now and then. It wasn’t for nothing that the importance of personal and private histories had been stressed with special emphasis. Finding the truth and erring were equal possibilities. Whether I was justified in my suspicion or not could only be decided by the hero of the said suspicion. Under the circumstances, I saw no other way than believing in the future at this juncture. I, for my part, have always thought that this choice was closely related to the hero of that revolt and thus promoted the nurturing of hope within me. Juliet had an outstanding account with her father that had not been settled. Were one to consider on many occasions and in various different instances (especially with regard to the acting profession which fired her imagination) her mother had become for her the symbol of death and murder. The timing was perfect! Madame Beki’s name would exclusively and eternally be kept alive in at least one of her relatives. A gift, considered valuable by some, which would have been withheld if not for this secret deed: they would be all square to a certain extent; they would have to be. I believe Madame Beki had, as a mother, understood the meaning of those little silent murders. As far as I could learn, she had not reacted to this decision, and, preferring not to speak out about it, had contented herself with a few words saying: “It’s the choice of our children; it befits us to spare our words and acquiesce.” Her facial expressions were apparently quite unflattering. She seemed to be somewhat disillusioned, but stood dormant, something hardly to be expected from her cantankerous nature. These were Berti’s impressions of those days; or maybe he had just preferred to relate them in this fashion. When he had listened to his wife’s account of Nora, who had to depart this world for another for which she was not prepared, without having experienced many a pleasant episode, he had pledged his support to her. He had taken part in her revolt in other words. Nora was raising her voice in mutiny once more from another realm with completely different sentiments. Nora was returning to find herself in an alien community with a different vocabulary. The play had been enacted, eventually! However, the play had been instrumental in leaving the house wide-open to a new altercation. What the consequences of it would be could not be foreseen at the time by anybody. The cast would learn gradually how they were expected to act. The curtain was being raised. The scenery was being set up and rambling monologues were being rehearsed. A piano had to be hunted down; a piano on which a few tunes were to be played before being suddenly muffled. The piano would have been borrowed from another story for a very brief space of time.