Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (66 page)

f a security officer who knew the ins and outs of the building long forgotten by the other tenants of the house; a security officer condemned to protect the place. Under the circumstances, how was I supposed to describe and understand who it was? That man might have been a musician, a technician in charge of the lighting of the stage, or a designer who had experienced the true moments of the stage I had been dreaming of a while ago, who wanted to break with the place but couldn’t do so. Under the dazzling illumination that lit the stage many different characters and features could figure. Then . . . well . . . then the rest was, I think, a question of experiencing, to the extent our capacities allowed, that brief moment of encounter, as one often comes across in such stories. After all, this was the encounter between a person who would like to express his impressions of the spot he knew so well
sotto voce
through his glances, a person who imagined he saw an old idol in an ancient building. In this meeting were two heroes trying to find their places in this reunion, two heroes looking for their places to settle into. We had gone through corridors our usher had not guided us through in order to reach the exit. Was this a part of the game? The man had said that at the exit everybody ran into the door he deserved. Every door we saw, we succeeded in seeing a vision of ourselves as a new man, a new man we were prepared to transform into. However, in order to continue the path we had trodden, we had to risk the possibility of getting lost when the time came, and of being faced with the impossibility of return from where we had ended up. For a second, my glances had turned outside looking for an answer; but, no sooner had I turned back, then I found myself all alone, abandoned. The man had vanished into thin air in one of those corridors. There remained one thing for me to do: to take that step forward. At the place where I had popped my head out were objects displayed for tourists; in that land where people returned and could not help returning, where odds and ends were sold which they intended to take back to the people they had left behind. There was no end to the number of small torsos shaped in the same mold. Mahler had the same smile as the one in the mirror . . . It was a fact, everybody had his own door he ran into and ventured to open. Darkness was descending over the city, which was preparing itself for a new night. I suddenly noticed that I was walking in the same streets that Stefan Zweig had walked and from which he could not tear himself. A poem had been killed off by other people. Memories had been ransacked by people who would never be able to have an inkling of this poem. I strived to grasp and live that poem through my own words and for my own sake. To linger in fantasies was easier than risking certain truths less injurious to man. Yet a man could not always dally in fantasies. Well, it was destined that I should experience my second disappointment in this city, in this world I had created for myself and of whose reliability I was in need. At the end of that dialogue, I had the opportunity to have a short discussion with two young girls studying at the Faculty of Letters in the University of Vienna about our legacies and the possible legacies of some writers. One could acquire clues about the personalities of those people from the books they read or the songs they considered their favorites. This was a little test, probation for those who saw each other for the first time. Among those figuring on my list was Stefan Zweig, naturally. I came to realize that a writer who had made us a gift of the world’s past had been mislaid and consigned to oblivion in that ‘eternal yesterday’ by our contemporary, fashionable appreciation. Whom had he wanted to convey through the stories of so many lives? Had certain figures had to pay the price of their exile for nothing? Mahler and Zweig’s paths converged toward a terminal point, toward a crossroads. We were nearing the end of the twentieth century in Vienna . . . I might go farther, but I had given up. There were many ways of giving birth to solitude.

There was no doubt those photographs had considerably contributed to the long-whispered conversation Ginette and I had held in that café. To what extent had I been able to convey to her the feelings I had been carrying for her, which of these details that had returned to me had succeeded in being transmitted? I don’t think that I’m in a position to provide answers to these questions. I distinctly remember, however, at this juncture, that after a long silence she had said: “I think that you are exaggerating, the importance that this country attaches to her past can hardly be compared to other countries’ attitudes toward theirs.” “Exactly,” I rejoined, “we can’t get rid of the ‘culture’ which we tirelessly try to keep alive as ‘reported speech’; it appears that we don’t want to see it vanish into thin air despite all probabilities. We’re trying to perpetuate those cities by feeding them with our lies. Perhaps we are in need of such lies at a time when we are gradually killing off our expectations through our realities and we are getting more and more disabled as we proceed on toward our fellow beings. We are reluctant to lose our countries. These may be experienced by anybody conscious of these restrictions. No one can appropriate anything anymore to the bitter end; we remain content by mere pretensions.” “I see . . . but, still Zweig seems to be more indispensable compared to Reşat Nuri,” she returned with a smile. I was surprised. I saw that she had derived an impish pleasure from my surprise. One, of course, might throw doubt on the truth of her statement. But what was interesting was that she remembered Reşat Nuri after so many years. She was conscious of this, I’m sure. What was attaching her to Istanbul were Reşat Nuri, and his novel
Shedding of Leaves
, in particular. I believe she had been successful in transposing the city in which she had spent the greater part of her adolescence and youth to her other lives thanks to a few specific details. In time I would have closer access to the meaning of these details. She had been able to manifest a resistance along with her attachment to the old values. I was recalling another characteristic of hers; she would never acknowledge defeat. This attitude was only too natural if one considered what she had left behind, taking her past experiences into account. This was the main reason why I had nodded in agreement to her statements without uttering a word. Furthermore, I was well acquainted with the concern of people who were by nature reluctant to acknowledge defeat. You could not shun your image in the mirror. Therefore, why on earth should I make things difficult for her? In this way I can explain the reason for my silent resignation and avoidance in taking stock of her characteristics. I had to know how to get ready for a possible conflict and be convinced of the fact that one day I could say “I’m ready for the challenge” and be armed with the necessary equipment. All I could do for now was to guess what she might be thinking. Based on my past experience, I had thought it practical to remind her of one of the visions of her past. It was up to her to dwell on it or not; she might go back and try to visualize how she saw that little girl from her adolescence, either disclosing it or keeping it to herself. That was all I could do. Regardless we were the co-authors of the story. We were in Vienna. But I had not yet seen that violinist in the Kartner Strasse. “Something within me suggests that you’ll be writing about this city,” she said. “ ‘Maybe,’ I replied, “but later, much later . . . I’ve got other books in mind at the moment.” Certain incidents led us to very different destinations. “I’m going to write about your parents and sisters, first of all. Pay no attention to what I say, though . . . It’s true, this café, this city, our
causerie
may in fact serve as an excellent introduction.” I added. She had not felt like covering up her emotion and had held me by the hand. She was aware that we had set out together in pursuit of a new story.

Throwing one’s fez into the sea

I am firmly convinced now that the moment which had attached me to Ginette at that café was the moment at which I had touched upon that long story. It was as though all those expectations were heading toward that fascinating moment. Different individuals had left within us differing paths for the sake of different fantasies. Differing paths were, in a sense, differing solitudes; it was, perhaps, an effort to rediscover different shadows and eventualities. To communicate something was to expose, to understand and to know how to perceive things. All these were realities we already knew; they were realities we took cognizance of on our way to finding other people. But to what extent could having knowledge of something serve a purpose in a new relationship? Who had been the lucky minority who had been rescued from those shadows by the instrumentality of knowledge? In order that we could shoulder this story, we ought to take into consideration the necessity of putting up a fierce struggle, of setting off on a long return journey, and of following a new trail. Would we be able to carry each other during this building process and hold each other by the hand just like we had done at other moments? A coincidence, a mere coincidence had been instrumental in arranging our encounter in a city where this story would be blessed with a new commencement. Vienna proved to be a new beginning which had been long put off. I had to persuade myself about the truth of this moment just at the time when I had touched upon that story. According to the account given by Monsieur Jacques about his elder brother and about the father of the woman now seated opposite me, Vienna had had a great part to play in this story. It was a night in a bygone era . . . “Nesim had told me how much he loved Rachael on a day now long since passed,” said Monsieur Jacques, “although he seemed to have no intention of returning to Istanbul. It was as though a design was hidden in his words which associated another Istanbul in our minds, one that we could describe. Well, one Sunday evening, the entire family was gathered around the TV. It was one of those evenings when we used to have dinner at Madame Roza’s place during which she served cold dishes. Oh the good old days! It was a delight to collaborate in the setting of the table. The plates were fastidiously garnished with salami, peppery kosher, sardines, roza leaves, peach, apple, orange jams, olives, spread made with fish roe, and dried and smoked roe of grey mullet crowned with brewed stewed tea which was served in tiny tea glasses. Berti, Juliet, Rosy, and Nora, all of us were there on that Sunday evening.” I don’t know what had urged Monsieur Jacques to mention Nesim. We could never have access to that mystery. The mystery belonged to the darkness; in that darkness it ought to find its meaning. That darkness in the text was quite another call . . . It seems to me now more than ever that I’ll be able to transform my text to consist of the accounts of lives transmitted to me over the course of many years by men I’ll eventually, I hope, be able to patch up using all the fragments of their stories entrusted to me despite all the missing elements and prospective imperfections and hiatuses. Because I can now try to visualize what might have occurred there in my identity as a person who is acquainted with the venue. That sentence could also be interpreted as follows: “Nesim would be able to realize better in Vienna, how much he had loved Rachael, that he could not live without Rachael or forego a life with her and that he could not temp fate.” As for the moments lived in Vienna, in that city where he had desired to be able to forget everything, in that city of liberty and dreams which had been for him the symbol of a new life . . . in that city of waltzes reminiscent of the splendor of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, enlivened by visions transmitted to us through a chain of witnesses . . . it was Nesim’s second or third year in the city. Monsieur Jacques was not quite sure about the exact date. What he remembered was the receipt, one day, of a postcard, somewhat different from those they usually received. It was long since expected. Nesim wrote that he was to return to Istanbul soon to fix something he could not, for the moment, disclose the nature of. On the postcard was the picture of a phaeton . . . According to Monsieur Jacques, this picture made all the difference; in other words, Nesim must have concealed what he intended to say in this photograph. The picture of a phaeton . . . On the postcards he had sent before there were only typical views of Vienna. To the best of my understanding this picture aimed at reminding his brother of their common cant; it was the conscious subjective aspect of an emotion the brothers shared. One of them had refrained from giving it an explicit shape, while the other had not solicitously inquired into it. Words for the attention of the general public had no meaning as the two brothers had reconnected in the depths of the illustration. However, what was important was what that return projected. Rachael also had begun to wait for his return. This was the good news she had been anticipating. She would make use of the impetus that this piece of news gave her later on. Yet, in those days, this delay seemed to be far removed from everybody. Nobody was in a position to foresee the complete transformations that were likely to take place in the world. The World War was still raging. His study at the Austrian High School, as it is called at present and which had been once the Austro-Hungarian High School, had been instrumental in attaching him, in contrast to his brother’s attitude, to the German language and the world of the Germanophile. This attachment had extended its influence over certain details he wrote on the postcards addressed to his relatives in Istanbul. This strong attachment could be witnessed by his use of his second name, which he rarely used, originally written as ‘Moşe,’ to be spelled as ‘Mosche.’ This attachment was the reason why he had, having graduated from the high school, left for the capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, with the intention to stay there for good. The natural consequence of this immigration, without any intention to go back to the land of one’s birth, was the compelling necessity to dispose of some of the things that lingered in one’s soul from his country of origin. When I go over his extravaganzas, I think, Nesim could not help setting off on his journeys throughout his life with such intentions. This was fate, it seems; a fate that made him the inveterate traveler of great expeditions despite his shortcomings. As a matter of fact, great expeditions were conducive to nostalgic separations, breaking off relations without the possibility of a return. Great expeditions also implied breaks of towering importance, and losses of life defying narration. This state of affairs led one to a new question generated by the wildest dreams one entertained and proliferated through endless expectations. Which of your dreams that you had fostered in that city of your birth, where you had spent your youth, your miserable experiences you are doomed to bear the traces of, could you obliterate from your memory? Nesim, according to the account of Monsieur Jacques, presented an introverted character bordering on autism. Hardly any information was heard from him apart from the fact that the Opera House was gorgeous, that the pastry was delicious, that the people were elegant, etc., which everybody knew already. He had once mentioned a deserted street, quaint decrepit buildings, and a retired, old, or ageless neighbor of his who had been abandoned by all his next-of-kin, relatives, and friends. He was a man who had taught philosophy at the University of Vienna for many years, crowned with the title of Professor, whose courses had attracted a large audience although his works had failed to enable him to establish a link with the general public. He had been imparted with the news about his neighbor, whom he occasionally visited, by his other neighbors. Durin
g his visits, the man usually dwelt upon something far removed from his old days and experiences; he discoursed on the Talmud, which he was taught in his youth. The instruction he had received had opened the way to philosophy for him, philosophy which was far beyond the boundaries of religious education. It was this instruction that had contributed to his insight into the spirit of the word, to a clearer thinking, and to a better expression of his ideas. This instruction had served him to correctly interpret many philosophical texts of secular origin, and to achieve mastery in German. I cannot formulate a judgment as to the possible rationale behind the account of his narration of all this to me. On the other hand, how could one account for the interest that Nesim had shown in philosophy? It occurs to me to conjecture that in that city to which he had gone to deal in the trade of carpets, he must often have felt lonely at night and sought to gain affection through the past experiences of that neighbor. However, what was more striking was the expression of the last wishes of that man who said that his end was not very far off. To pontificate about the Talmud implied the narration of a life whose track had been lost. New roots had taken root in a new land. Yet, in the land where he was to remain throughout his lifetime, appalling dangers were looming ahead for the Jews. Many a life was doomed to perish in this territory. Europe had no inkling of the day after tomorrow. Nevertheless he could see the disasters awaiting them reflected in the countenances of his next-of-kin and Nesim. His warnings had at the time fallen on deaf ears. When the time came for Nesim to repair to Istanbul, those cities seemed to be heading for a completely different future. I think I can understand the reasons lying behind the reluctance of those people to see the light after so many years. I am well aware how difficult it is to define truth, or what is believed to be the truth, and to look at it from outside through a different point in time. In other words, the interpretations I’ll make will be the expression of myself rather than the description of those people. Therefore, I do not intend to proceed any further at this juncture. Yet, all things considered, I cannot help being obsessed by a question, a key question likely to contribute to my solving it; whether that return, that unexpected return, had been Rachael’s doing, or was this love but a mere side-note? Had those who had been eyewitnesses to this incident wished, in defiance of those days, to observe the commotion that this love had caused among the family members? It is doubtful if Monsieur Jacques himself had an inkling of the answer to this question. Nobody could provide a satisfactory explanation for the reasons conducive to Nesim’s sudden departure from Vienna, nor to the exact role of the Professor in his life. Now, as for the gossips and rumors that ran after his arrival in Istanbul . . . No sooner was he in Istanbul then he had gotten engaged to Rachael, and a short while after that he had been enlisted in the army. First the return home from Vienna, then the engagement, and to crown it all off the enrollment . . . These vital decisions likely to direct one’s path in life had been taken rapidly, more quickly than anticipated. Why the rush? Those were the days in which everyone heading for a different target had high hopes for the future and felt on the eve of a new era. The city was striving to preserve her traditional territory and looked askance at the adventurers. As an enlisted man, Nesim was assigned to a post at the Customs House in Sirkeci, where he had established important links with Indian officers from His Majesty’s army. Had he a plan of action in mind that involved a possible post-war re-establishment of relations with the West that he had to forego because of his irrevocable departure for Europe? Upon this unexpected inquiry of mine addressed to Monsieur Jacques, the latter had retorted, not without some unaccountable resentment, saying in a veiled style that every house had its secrets and that appearances should not be deceiving. I had surmised that I had opened up after many years a subject preferred to be kept buried. I had realized once again that I had been barred and could not cross over the boundary delineated by the past of other people; if I still insisted on forcing my way beyond said boundary I would be left in the lurch and what steps I ventured to take would quite possibly lead me to the wrong destination. This was one of the rare questions I would have liked to ask about that man from the distant past. In this long odyssey of mine I had decided to wait and see the fragments patch up slowly over the course of time. I had perfect confidence in the place I had chosen for myself. This was the only perspective through which I could observe those men; they could show me their insularity only in this way. There was no other way for me to keep track of their steps. Everybody needed a listener, after all. We could not escape this fact in the history we tried to write. We would not and could not possibly kill our witnesses and spectators. Every one of us was waiting for a listener ready to lend an ear in earnest. The point at stake might be lying in our inability to listen properly or cause other people to do so. Perceiving the boundaries drawn between us meant our prevention from crossing over them, thus injuring each other. That is why it was of great importance to recount the exact times when questioned. You could not possibly have an idea of the things people would be disposed to divulge, of the anxieties and perplexities they would face. Monsieur Jacques might have been reticent about the real reasons for his elder brother’s second departure. After having welcomed innumerable illicit relations, Vienna might have barred the way to her own reality. Different languages might have opened new paths for different people. All these eventualities could be predicted and considered worthy to be taken into consideration. The stories of adventurers lost in foreign lands that had shaped lost people would be recorded as little legends. There would be no end to the stories and fantasies; they were inexhaustible so long as the power of imagination existed. However, when the venture was making headway toward those countries or to the new age, these eventualities could only be taken into consideration up to a certain extent in the case of Nesim. For, the spot where days had dawned for some and waned for others never to be reborn was the exact spot where he had transmuted into a real tragic hero. To have a clearer insight into this I would have to have recourse once more to the testimony of Monsieur Jacques. Under the circumstances, all of us were compelled to understand or at least try to understand the situation, which was one of the paramount requirements of our responsibility, to understand and to discover oneself in the texture of the story and to express it. According to Nesim he was a typical Ottoman. This attachment had turned him into another day’s and another man’s fight. There was no mystery in this experience. The collapse of an empire was tantamount to the destruction of a country and of its cultural values. Upon the declaration of the republic, Nesim had felt himself an exile in his own fatherland. This implied the obligation to live in a foreign land. These days coincided with the days of the disintegration of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. A history was being consigned to oblivion by others. Those were the days of destruction, the days of devastation which heralded the gradual abandonment of the earth not only of an era but of a world of conception. This desolation pointed to a betrayal and apprehension of failure to find one’s compass in an uncertain future. There and then, more than one person would be enjoying this experience. How could one dismiss a world built on ruins while at the same look to preserve identity and values? Nesim would be reluctant to recognize this world and would decide to depart for another in the company of Rachael, heading for new ho