Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (81 page)

At home, he felt that he could not hold the promise he had made to Setrak Efendi. That evening he had to break the news to his father as a belated newsflash, belated but fresh in meaning despite all the tribulations involved. Then they went on speaking of the past and the good old days. They had no other choice but to cling to what the past had in store for them. “I wish Kevork Efendi saw the acme of perfection his apprentice had attained,” said his father. The rug he had resuscitated was now in a museum in London! A handful of people would know it . . . very few people . . . and, who knows, perhaps no one would ever know anything about it in the near or far future. What a transformation and process of resuscitation it had undergone; the very name of Ali Burhan Usta would cease to have an echo, let alone the man from Tabriz and the story of the rug before it had come into the hands of that stranger. The important thing was that the rug was there in a museum. His father’s smiling face may have expressed the fact that his pains and patience had been eventually rewarded . . . He had a recurring fancy which he could not put in any particular frame, a recurring fancy that had undergone transformation over several years. Every piece of work that came out of Avram Efendi’s workshop was a masterpiece. Every one of those rugs should be considered as a piece of art and should remain so and be remembered as such. It was a dream, a cherished fancy; however, his father had another fancy as well which should not go unnoticed, a dream he had shared with many people, a dream infinitely reproduced. This dream gathered meaning. He clung to life firmly as though he was going to die any moment, he wanted to lead a better life. To live to the bitter end . . . to live in defiance of all obstacles; even though this concern may sound strange to the ears of other people . . . even though this concern may not be appreciated fully by others. His daring ventures and aspirations might seem to the adherents of some judgements to be banal and hardly viable. To live for him was having a little drink, just enough to put him in good spirits and make the best of the opportunity presented, and, last but not least, those little pleasures that women had given him, the casual moments of unassuming love he had experienced with his partners. Between the different attitudes which determined the direction that certain lives were to take, it was not possible to trace the demarcation line between the boundaries. The idea of penning—within predetermined boundaries in the hope of attaining certain realities—those lives and the areas that those lives gave rise to, might turn us into slaves of places unacceptable to us. In human beings, who sheltered within them more than one person, we couldn’t always claim the right to declare the reason why particular people differed from their fellow beings and with the people they ended up merging with. Nevertheless, when I think of those dreams, I’m inclined to believe that Avram Efendi contained within him two different personalities, living in symbiosis under the same roof. The first of his reveries seemed to reflect his Eastern character, occupied in weaving a weft from the past into the future, while his second dream, a life-affirming message, had a wider context that comprised leading a life of debauchery in nightclubs and cabarets which reflected his Western character. He had known how to let them coexist in peace with each other. As a matter of fact, both his personalities had wanted to understand the mystery of life, spending efforts to remain faithful to it.

Slight tipsiness and modest partners . . . This was where his mother had stepped on stage in order to support the family. Madame Perla had understood the kind of man she had married and would remain married to. It was the custom of Avram Efendi to get up early in the morning to open the workshop before the arrival of the artisans; putting an order on things that had to be performed on that particular day when they arrived, he gave them the necessary instructions and left the premises. Nobody knew where he went, why he went, and whom he would visit. Now and then he returned and tucked under his arm were a couple of carpets or rugs to be mended, he was sometimes cheerful, which indicated that he had had a good day. He examined what had been performed over the course of the day with great diligence. The real work began only then, the fine art in other words; the touches that followed were his exclusivity . . . The hours he had spent outside were destined to remain undisclosed, so were the evenings he spent in his chamber under lock and key.

In addition to all this, he was a performer in mime. During the evenings, when he returned home gleeful, he used to invite his relatives, artisans, and a couple of neighbors he loved into the well heated hall in his house around a huge brazier and perform the role of a public storyteller and mimic. He had a vague memory of those evenings, evenings during which peals of laughter reached the heavens, evenings when he loved life all the more. Performances were often quite impromptu. He used to make his wife sit on the stairs as he serenaded her, using made up French or Greek words, of which he did not have even a smattering, a broomstick serving as a guitar; he even hatched diatribes with words of his own invention, which he claimed to have received from the classics. Those moments reflected the happy married state of his parents. It had been rumored that this master of secrets, who tried to make the best of his life, had been seen a couple of times at Şehzadebaşı in the company of a certain lady, in those hours during which he absconded without informing anybody of his whereabouts. However, these were but rumors, a widely disseminated belief having no discernible foundation or source. Nobody had dared to investigate the matter any further. As a matter of fact the very name of Şehzadebaşı associated in one the image of those doors that opened to another world. At times, they went to see Minakian Efendi. He also recalled
fin-de-siecle
cabaret singers whose names he could not remember. For the child of those bygone days, what was important were the little incidents on the road to those spectacles rather than the spectacles themselves. Certain details were still fresh in his memory. They used to hire a paddleboat at Halıcıoğlu, a skiff in other words, which took them across to Unkapanı. The skiff was equipped with a lantern. His mother used to spruce herself up; once across, they took a phaeton at Unkapanı which took them to the theater. The same skiff waited for them at the wharf to take them back. The sea was so calm, he remembered, during those hours; they hardly heard the sound that the wide flat blades made on it; the oars that moved in cadence. The sea looked like a sheet of silver during the moonlit nights. They crossed the inlet in silence, gliding on the silver surface. One could see the scintillating lights reflected on the water, those lights that never quit his imagination. He used to lean against his mother’s bosom and close his eyes and doze off. The splashing water lulled him to sleep. He knew well in whose soul he was residing during those hours. It seemed that in this feeling of confidence another fear was also concealed. His mother’s glances were penetrating enough to discern her field of vision; those glances of which he had kept the memory of expressed understanding and were ready to speak through the silence.

Photographs did not always speak

The penetrating glances of his mother . . . had her eyes got tired in the end and had to close their lids, diving into the depths of the darkness? It was so sad to think of this, after so many years had passed. As far as I can remember, those glances had a tremendous impact on the artisans in the workshop. In this diffident behavior, one might also see reserve and affection, as well as the atmosphere that reigned in that large hall. The major reason for the amity that had developed between Madame Roza and herself over time must have been due to these glances. The friendship and goodwill, especially as characterized by mutual acceptance and toleration of potentially antagonistic points of view, had a common basis built up by self-sacrifice; self-sacrifice and mastery in the art of mutual love and affection. She could not allow herself to be torn asunder from there, from her home, despite Olga’s insistence, as she dared not to struggle against those glances. His mother had an innate pragmatic knowledge of life; she dealt with problems in a sensible, practical way instead of following a strict set of pre-established ideas suggested in books. She was illiterate. What she could read, truly read, was the distresses of the ones she loved; the conscious subjective aspects of emotions considered separate from bodily changes. What she could write, truly write, were the impressions she had left or would have liked to leave in others. Under the circumstances, solitude and loneliness might be redefined. Freedom from affectations and its reliability might be redefined and reassessed. The mother was illiterate alright; she had not read a single book in her entire life and had to keep detached from society. This was normal practice at the time for those cooped up in their homes. The
Alliance Israelite
schools had not yet made their entry into Istanbul. There was no Jewish
lycées
. There were devotional colleges where the enrollment of girls was out of the question. The paths for girls led nowhere; the doors for girls remained unopened. There were no other alternatives. It had occurred to him that the success of this woman—who had instructed her sons and the group of people she felt affection for about life, and who had based her life on sound logical premises—might be due to her ignorance, although in no way did she hold arguments in defense of her innocence. However life had also shown her the different aspects of illiteracy, which had taught her to consider other methods, canons and criteria for the validity of thought.

Madame Perla, like all mothers, who had not had the opportunity to go to school, was greatly pleased to witness her sons’ receiving an education in a good school. She asked them to repeat their lessons to her although she was in no position to understand what they would be saying. To listen to them calmly gave her pleasure. She had the air of intimating to them that she was being instructed along with them. It was also important for her to inspire them with the warmth of motherly care and attention; it was perhaps an ordinary chapter of a well-known story. All things considered, to enjoy such an experience during the length of one’s lifetime was a bonus.

In the mother’s establishment of a balance between kindness and authority without giving offense to anybody, as a means of self-defense, her efforts to compensate for her shortcomings had its part to play. The individuals who had failed to perceive this petty detail accused her of arrogance. The person she had married had been impressed by this behavioral trait of hers. Theirs had been a loved-up marriage, a marriage that was marveled at by the community, or so his father had told him. He saw her for the first time in the house of a relative and no sooner had he seen her than he had believed to have found in her a woman with whom he could have a lifelong connection. This may have been an anticipated and premeditated occurrence. As with all love affairs and passions, this was an emotional experience that had been brewing in him for quite a while. In any case, this was a love with all its
desiderata
related to its origins and secret dealings. They had had a small talk. On the eve of that new era, of the approaching new period in history, everybody was feeling emotional. They couldn’t ask for more in the midst of the crowd of visitors in the house. Yet, even that small talk had sufficed for his father’s setting off in pursuit of that conceited maid. Eventually, customs and mores were strictly abided by; the inquiry carried out regarding the family background and their past life had informed them that this maid, as beautiful as a pearl, led a life of purity and innocence in a house whose doors and windows were closed to the outside world. The family lived in Ortaköy. They were strictly religious people. Following that decisive encounter the family members had paid a visit to that house and the hand of the maid had been asked for, according to the standard formula of tradition. After a few introductory remarks about the weather and the latest news, about the past and the future, and the solemn declaration of intent from both parties, the maid’s parents agreed to give their daughter away in marriage, mentioning the key word ‘kismet.’ They remained betrothed for some time before the marriage was consummated. Everything had thus been in the proper order, immaculate, and innocent. Perla had made a point of being spare with words at the beginning, preferring to listen and understand what Avram said. She could declare that she loved him at first sight only after the consummation of their marriage. That was
de rigueur
at the time. There were still many years to come before Avram was apprenticed to Kevork Efendi. During the period preceding their formal union, Kevork used to cover the distance between Hasköy and Ortaköy on foot in order to pay a visit to Perla, planning on that long walk the workshop he would set up in future. Perla’s dowry also had contributed to the opening of this workshop, in addition to the know-how transmitted to him by Kevork Efendi. Following their marriage they lived about two or three years at Ortaköy, moving back to the house at Halıcıoğlu once their business began thriving.

His mother’s visits to her birthplace grew less and less frequent. “My family is here from now on” she used to say to justify her exiled state. Nonetheless this attitude that she had adopted, or should we call it disloyalty, appeared to have another facet not openly confessed or avowed. The point in question seemed to conceal a bitter experience she tried to repress. The truth, the real truth never came to the fore. The reason might be the oppression she had suffered at the hands of her parents. His father had heard from somewhere, or made as if he had . . . that his wife was not the daughter of the fanatically religious couple living in Ortaköy. Thus, she had been brought up in the stuffy atmosphere of a cloister; and, in the first flush of her youth, she had been the object of harassment by her father. To what extent had Perla put up a fight against his attacks? Quite possibly, this was mere supposition or rumor, a malicious, nasty, scurrilous rumor whose source was destined to remain a mystery. Anyhow, his father had preferred to give credence to it for some reason or other. Was this subject, a subject which was likely to have serious consequences, one of those that had been discussed at great length and tried to be elucidated upon, or just a casual one? He could never learn. His father had mentioned this rumor in his old age, only on one occasion; long after that fire . . . as though he was referring to an insignificant incident, an unimportant incident or an incident that had, by then, lost all significance. This probability, the abandonment by her original parents and his mother’s efforts to cling to her family made the whole affair noteworthy. Nevertheless, certain subjects, subjects related to the past, could not always be made the focus of profound investigation. One was brought to a standstill by unforeseen events. One thing was significant, however; on that day when the maid’s hand was asked for, her so-called father, who had been accused of being the cause of the harassment, had showed no resistance whatsoever. In addition to all these adopted attitudes and reactions displayed, what was still more interesting and thought provoking was the sudden departure of the aged parents for Jerusalem, to the Promised Land, a few years after the break-up of their marriage. He had never seen them nor met them. One day, he had found a photograph in a drawer; he had asked his father the identity of the figures in it. He was then told this funny story. The tremulous voice of his father had apparently betrayed that the suspicion was still lingering in his mind about this allegation. They were viewing the people in the photograph from that angle. The picture represented a woman with large breasts and a man with a long white beard. One day, they had suddenly declared that they had reached a ripe old age and that they intended to immigrate to Jerusalem, to the Promised Land, so they could die there. Perla had not been upset by this piece of news. She had tried to put up a listless appearance. Nevertheless, they corresponded afterward for quite a long time, his father serving as secretary. Strange though it was, the reading of letters was a job for a man, while dictation of emotions and sentiments were the women’s affair. It was though a tale was being told to them from afar; a tale that suited the flow of time well, suiting their imagination. However, a day came when the letters ceased to arrive. Had that end been experienced in a silence that a different world had brought along? This question had remained unanswered for a while yet. Then, a woman had emerged out of the blue who had introduced herself as a neighbor of that old couple. She said she came with an important piece of news. She looked anxious. She said that her neighbors had disappeared. Upon the arrival of the English, they had departed saying that they were going far, very far away. They gave the impression as though they were fleeing from something, as though they were forced to. That was all. It had been two years since she had last heard of them. His mother had remained unruffled at the news and had been exacting not to hear them mentioned anymore in the house after the visit of that woman. Her composure might be an indication of the fact that the old pair had never been of any consequence in her life. This was another sign indicating another truth. Yet, no one had so far touched, even dared to touch this aspect of the truth. Silence had an indispensable facet that had to be fostered and protected. One would have liked to know the reason of the visit of the woman and the manner by which they had disappeared. Yet no one was inclined to put forth such a suggestion. All that had been learned was the fact that answers had been provided and reproduced in hushed silences in different photographs without finding any verbal expression. Once again, the different photographs happened to be distributed. On the other hand, one wondered if those photographs were genuine. Was this story a true story? It was never made clear. For children, this story remained as a tale from distant lands.