Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (80 page)

The strange visitor from Tabriz and being able to make a loop to the future

It is true that Avram Efendi had not had the opportunity to reach Abdulhamid, but he had made great strides in the path his master had opened for him and turned to good account the art he had entrusted him with. Later on, he could not help dabbling, even though on a superficial level, in politics, with some trepidation, in order not to offend some acquaintances. But this had been a passing whim in him, a transient interest. Despite his relations, he couldn’t succeed in taking a place among the grandees; he had a more tangible and perennial aspiration irreconcilable with the path that would lead him to the palace while he had been undergoing changes over the years. He felt it his duty to give that unrivaled art he had overtaken from his master its due, and remain devoted to it, aiming at making a loop from the past to the future by transmitting some colors. Every object wrought in Avram Efendi’s workshop had to be a consummate work of art. He distinctly remembered his small shop at Akarçeşme. He had not even turned thirty; he could not possibly have guessed that his lifestyle was to undergo such a radical change at the least expected moment. Nesim had left for Paris in the company of Rachael, thus abandoning Istanbul for a new country that he believed to be more secure. He would never return to Istanbul. He seemed to express his intention to his relatives from the deck of the ship he had boarded as she was weighing anchor and bearing off. He had carried on the carpet trade in that shop at Akarçeşme. He had to deal in something after all. His stepping out was meaningful; it had a subtle meaning that connoted a silent crossover. Having acknowledged certain plain realities, he was impelled by the desire to transmit them to the best of his capabilities. He might fail to be a consummate artist in the end, but he felt it his duty to prove and demonstrate to his master that he could stand his ground. He would stand the test of time and abide among the colors of that world he was resolved not to betray and to which he would remain attached to the best of his ability. His own father had been wary of revealing his secret. There was a shrouded reason for his reticence. He had always expected to be initiated into it by his father and make headway in his company, ever since the moment he had come of age. There were only the three of them. Nesim had gone a step further than him. His father continued to be reluctant to talk. He thought he had figured it out; Nesim would eventually be the inheritor of that secret. But then . . . then the separation had come, the decision regarding the departure without return . . .

Every step taken forward was at the same time a step inward, if considered from this point of view. During those days when the steps had been taken, his father had promised that he would wholeheartedly support him. They had had a talk about his future. They both beamed with delight. They had winning smiles, yet they were tainted with some bitterness; charming and winning alright, but also disarming; smiles open to various interpretations. They approached each other only in this way. In those days, this was how they used to behave toward each other. This had been one of his experiences that he remembered now and then. Certain smiles were of marginal importance and had remained so without change. Certain smiles expressed separations, despairs, and unexpected circumstances, just like touches, some warm, some nurtured by affection in order to survive. One day a strange man had popped into his shop. His manners and glances were disquieting. Under his arm was a rather big parcel, carefully wrapped. He looked anxious as though he had something important to communicate. He spoke in a whisper as though he feared he would be overheard, although there was no one else in the shop at the time. Without revealing his identity, and without being asked how he had found out the address, he wanted to know whether the parcel in question interested him or not. He had tried to keep his composure, making as though he was the self-conscious type, he had made a gesture indicating that he was waiting for his reaction. This proved to be his first trial in the shop.

What had disquieted him was not merely the man’s gestures and mysterious behavior. It was as though no sooner he had stepped in than he had sensed something very important that was to leave an indelible imprint on his life. The man had opened the parcel cautiously, casting furtive glances. It was as though an invisible pair of eyes were staring at them; and any moment now they might be overtaken by people rushing in. However, when the parcel was unwrapped, he saw that there might be some justification for the man’s restlessness. A seventeenth century Tabriz rug stood unfolded before him; the colors, the designs, and the number of knots easily betrayed its origin. Knowledge, the fruit of years of labor in the art acquired in the darkness of history, had instantly revealed to him that he was in the presence of a consummate piece. The carpet had been divided into three sections, the fourth part was missing. He was flabbergasted. The man asked three thousand lira for it. The sum was pretty considerable in those days. After a short bargaining, he had paid the sum. Touching the three pieces for the last time, the man said: “You’ll never be able to guess why it was split up, the individuals who had walked on it and the mystery of the missing part.” He said this in impeccable French, although with an accent. Could it be that he believed that French would be a better means of communicating the gravity of the fact that a relic of high value was being entrusted to the hands of a skilled master? Was there any other language as powerful as French which might have been used to express the seriousness of the trade? Having spoken thus, the man had tucked the money in his pocket and taken a few steps before stopping as though with irresolution, but had immediately after continued his outward journey. It was a momentary vacillation. He might suddenly recoil, declaring he could not part with it. It looked as though he had abandoned one of his vital organs. In that rug bearing the signs of the ravages of time, in every one of the three pieces, the mystery concealed could never been solved by any mortal soul. As he had reached the doorway, the man had murmured, “I shouldn’t be here,” before stepping out in a rush to join the crowd.

Once alone, he had stared at the rug for quite a while. He felt an emotion which he could not define. An inexpressible emotion . . . Was it delight or fear? What had prompted him to experience this emotion? Could it be his sneaking suspicion that the step he had taken might be wrong? Could it be the lingering effect of the man left behind? He hadn’t been able to answer these burning questions; he had had no opportunity to commune with the person within him. All that he could say was that the rug belonged to him henceforward and that the shop was not the same as it had previously been. He had realized that he could not remain sitting there. The day, just another day, uneventful, went by as usual. He could not wait till evening. Having tucked the parcel under his arm, he had repaired home. Upon arrival he saw that his father was not there; in the meantime, he said nothing to his mother about the incident or his experience. He had thought it best to share the piece of news with his father first. For, he alone could empathize with him . . .

When his father arrived, the beams of the setting sun lighted the carpets; it was the end of the workday. The carpets and rugs changed their hues at this hour. He had gingerly opened the parcel without saying a word. His father had tried to focus his eyes on it, trying to read the history recorded in those pieces, experiencing the poem of that touch. However, the silence was broken soon after. That minute seemed never to come to an end. People who have past experience in waiting know well enough how interminable one minute can seem. “You can leave it to me, now. The day will come when you’ll never be able to recognize it. But, mind you, you’re not to ask anything in the meantime, understood? You’ve made a tricky job of this. I wonder how you’ll get over this. Yet, if I were you I’d have done the same,” said his father staring at the three pieces that had come in so unexpectedly. He had not asked who had brought it to the shop, under what conditions, and the price he had paid for it. The important thing was the restitution of it. What mattered now was the skill he would harness to make it viable beyond all subtle differences and probabilities. He had sneaked it into his private chamber without letting his workers see it. That was the only room under lock and key in a house in which only by his express permission one could enter. From that evening on he developed the custom of taking his usual dose of raki at his workshop, and with some cheese and fruit work till the late hours of the night without having to justify his absence. In rare instances, he called in his skilled worker Ali Burhan Usta, senior master of his workshop, a tight-lipped man reluctant in speech. As a matter of fact, his father had never considered him an ordinary weaver. A relationship had developed between them, a solidarity which involved sharing many a secret of the trade. This privileged position of Ali Burhan Usta had earned him a sort of immunity in the house, if one may say so. No one could say anything to him, or ask the reason of his occasional unannounced absences. He was well aware of his responsibilities; he knew what job awaited him and the times he ought to be present in the workshop. Behind his extensive and recondite knowledge of the role he had been entrusted with this rug lay his age-old experience in the field. He had been present during the process of resuscitations until the early hours of the morning. He used to smoke opium; it had become the
sine qua non
of his life. One day he was found dead, lying on the carpets in the workshop. He had no family; his funeral was arranged by the Imam Hulusi Efendi who used to drop in now and then. His death had left a deep scar on the soul of his master. This was not simply due to the loss of a reliable and skilled worker. Life had showed its absurd aspect once again in the form of a wild-goose chase. He had not had the chance of seeing the
opus magnum
in broad daylight. Part of the warps and wefts in the woven fabric belonged to him. The rug would reach its ultimate destination as his work; although everybody would be aware of this fact, the fate of the silent, reticent, and anonymous creators entombed in a work of art, their touches and patience mixed with untold dreams and souvenirs would remain buried. The actors of the works we scrutinized stared at us from a distance, from an angle we would never be able to spot; it required the power of our imagination in order to appreciate them . . . In those actors were hidden the other words we could not find. They were the multifarious facets of our past, invisible to our sight. We had to take notice of the fact that in order to be able to feel we ought to be aware of the things we had lost.

You were in a sea of silver

Almost a year had gone by. One evening, his father called him to that chamber. A rug of a brand new appearance was spread on the bench. First, he had looked at the restituted work of art as an outsider; words had failed him in expressing his impression. Now he remembered only the beatific smile that had grown radiant, illuminating his entire countenance . . .

They had taken the rug to the shop the next day. His father had asked him only then the particulars of the rug’s past. A tight-lipped, reliable man had to be found for its sale. This was not an easy matter. In such cases one could never tell who might tell what to whom. Nevertheless, after such a long professional career, his father would be able to find the right man. As a matter of fact, his imagination conjured up the image of Setrak Efendi; a man well acquainted with the world’s carpet market, who knew the process of how rugs and carpets would find the right customer who would be willing to pay the highest cost for a piece of true value. He kept his antique shop near the Pera Palas Hotel where he frequently received foreign customers and showed them valuable rare objects hardly offered to ordinary customers. No sooner had he heard the news, than Setrak Efendi had shown up. Having pulled down the shutters, they had displayed their pride and joy; without any hesitation Setrak Efendi had paid the twelve thousand liras asked for such a piece.

They would not meet again for many years; good days, bad days, days of misery, days of simple joys and serious difficulties ran their courses. Both the workshop and the little shop at Asmalımescit were far away now. A new path had been traced for the family. They had at their new home a few carpets they had snatched from the jaws of the flames, which they had succeeded in transporting to their new lives, to their last days, for ultimate eventualities . . . Setrak Efendi was in no better state. He had transferred the ownership of the shop to two bothers from Kayseri. The rugs had gone their separate ways, to experience their new adventures at different places. Perhaps that was the reason why his links with the past were being severed . . . His hands were trembling; he had developed a lisp; and he kept blinking . . . The alcohol had begun to show its effects; the aftermath of many years of addiction, many years of prolonged abuse . . . Years had dragged many a stranger to places unanticipated and unexpected . . . they had made small talk and spoke of their difficulty in keeping up with the times. The exchange of words between two acquaintances standing in the middle of the street had been restricted naturally. References had been made. It was good to hear that Avram Efendi was still alive and had a fairly optimistic outlook on life; it aroused one’s envy. As for the losses he had experienced, the tribulations he had had to face, their encounter under these circumstances; he had better not tell his father about it at all. No, he was not going to tell his father, he promised. He would keep this encounter and what had been exchanged between them to himself. Then he had asked him about the rug. Setrak Efendi had smiled at this inquiry. “It’s now in a museum in London,” he said with a smile. “In London, in a museum . . . ” It was a wry smile, a wan smile which concealed at the same time a kind of pride. The strange thing was that the heroes of this story had desired to exchange secrets. Each secret denoted a different time. This story had been recorded based on the words and secrets they had exchanged. You could feel yourself in the picture if you took the trouble to go over those simple joys and times.