A Mind at Peace (14 page)

“Keep the change ...”

Adile glared scornfully at her husband, and in a soft voice that nonetheless glinted sharply and blindingly with a desire for bloodletting, hissed, “It just grows on trees, doesn’t it?”

Sabih cocked an eyebrow, casting a customary look of sweetness at his wife. He knew the reason she’d be annoyed by everything for the remainder of the day.
I’ll just sit in a corner and stay out of the conversation. Let our hosts put up with her!
Over the years, he’d grown accustomed to his wife the way one might get used to the quirks of an old jalopy. She stalled randomly, occasionally her brakes wouldn’t catch, her gears slipped unexpectedly, and without warning she sped off full throttle. Sabih’s task was to prevent the old rattletrap from causing an accident. In essence she was a fine woman; he’d grown used to her. And their life together was comfortable. Granted, Sabih had achieved this comfort through rather extreme sacrifices. In order to win her for himself, he’d virtually relinquished half his personality.
And I’m not quite sure one can get on in the world with just half a self.

The phaeton driver, pleased by the tip, traced a wide arc, making the wheat-colored wicker seats and pied canopy of his carriage sparkle beneath the sunlight as he brushed past Adile. She fleetingly contemplated whether to take as a personal affront this dynamic turn made by the well-groomed horses in their spring-morning ease, and walked briskly, stepping resolutely with her heels as if she intended to pierce the asphalt that had begun to soften in the sunlight. Before her appeared a very rocky, windy, downward slope that she’d have to descend. She paused and waited for Sabih to take her arm.
In these high heels even!
She’d only yesterday purchased this pair and wasn’t willing to have them torn apart on this stony path:
At least he’s good for something in such circumstances!
Sabih didn’t squander the opportunity presented by fate to make amends. Even though his thoughts remained on the hips of the sumptuous girl – exposed to the bikini line – lying out on a chaise lounge on the veranda of the roadside house, he didn’t neglect to gently squeeze his wife’s arm with provocative pressure and mastery gained from thirteen years of experience.
In any case, we’re paying a social visit ...
And he slowly whispered into her ear: “Mümtaz’s life’s in peril ... What d’you think?” He had no doubt about the effect this single statement would make on Adile. He knew quite well that presently his wife’s face was convulsing in a multitude of small tremors like an oyster squirted with lemon. And simply to compensate for the torment that he’d intentionally inflicted, he continued squeezing Adile’s arm, however much his affection for his wife was limited to such gestures. “In peril! Because it was certain that Nuran had a soft spot for Mümtaz as well.” With hard-hearted determination to take the torment to its extreme limit, he abruptly added, “Or had they met each other long beforehand and were just playing us for fools?”

“In all honesty, I don’t know, but I doubt it ... Is there any trace of such cunning in those two? Not to mention, why should they even attempt such a charade?”

“But were you paying attention? The little girl also noticed.”

“Naturally, the unfortunate dear!” And Adile, her heart in shreds out of compassion for Nuran’s daughter, hung on to Sabih with the weight of her entire corpus. What’s interesting is that at will Sabih can step into the cozy cadence of our engagement ...
strange creatures these women, my word ... I swear that poor fool Mümtaz is senselessly snaring trouble for himself
.

Sabih felt a peculiar affection toward Mümtaz. Meanwhile, running over the strategies for calculating distances that his driving instructor had imparted to him, he gauged the remaining distance between their present location and the entryway of their destination as he gently stroked Adile’s forearm: “Whoa! Go easy now, dear!”

Emma, with the measured coquetry of a woman who’d assumed familiarity with the male soul, expressed her delight: “Oh, they have lobster.” She was on the verge of clapping with joy. “You are aware, Fâhir, that yesterday’s lobster was exceptional!” Her voice was peculiar, like a cucumber marinated in mustard, and her tongue transformed Turkish words with jarring crispness. Despite this, she had almost no trace of an accent.

Fâhir stared at her vigorous chin and stark white teeth with alarm: “And the next course?”

She answered wearing one of her most endearing smiles: “Let’s think about that after the lobster.” But remembering how bored – naturally, like all Turks – the man with whom she lived grew waiting at the table for food, she added: “Maybe a schnitzel or a steak.”

“Fine, a schnitzel or a steak for you.” He turned toward the waiter: “Which do you recommend?”

The Greek waiter momentarily turned into Buridan’s ass, immobilized between the superiority of schnitzel and the nobility of steak.

“But it won’t do if you don’t have any.” Emma’s voice verged on shattering out of compassion like a piece of glass in fire.

In response to this affection and its cold assault, Fâhir tensed with a shiver emanating from his coccyx.

“You absolutely must have some!” Emma insisted, displaying maternal tenderness and canny concern – for every man was partly a child in need of guidance: “And this morning you forgot to do your calisthenics!”

On the beach in Constantsa, around the time they first began these calisthenics, neither her voice nor her insistence bothered Fâhir overly much. Back then the interest that she showed in him excited him, and he found unimaginable pleasures in this measured and controlled friendship.

“Fine, I’ll have some too!” In this way, at least, he’d prevent her from talking. And with an odd determination, which she, too, noticed, he buried his head in the menu and tried to avoid seeing Emma’s teeth, her sturdy body, her broad chest that defied masculine strength, and all the features of this top-notch machine of gratification that had at one time driven him mad with pleasure, and now did so with impatience and even anger.

Since returning to Istanbul, Fâhir had grown alarmed by Emma’s teeth. These pearly whites, unblemished and stark, resembling a mechanism that churned incessantly inside its rather exaggerated facial housing, left him with the impression of some sort of grinder that could reduce whatever it encountered to a pulp. This grinder would pulverize the lobster and afterward chew up the Viennese schnitzel. Ever so slowly ...

“Wine or water?”

“
Rakı.
”

Fâhir, truly caught off guard, gazed briefly in astonishment at the woman sitting opposite him. Emma, however, had lost herself in distant seas that stretched out in tropical azure between the first mimosa blooms.

“You’ve never had a taste for
rakı.
”

“I’ve gotten used to its taste now!” Then she faced Fâhir with a gaze of affection: “You are aware, I’m an Istanbulite now!”

Emma hadn’t grown accustomed to
rakı
at all. And she didn’t want Fâhir to drink anything, perhaps simply as an exercise of her own authority. But the encounter at the ferry landing with Nuran and, particularly, with her daughter, forced her to forgo some of her principles for a few days. In case of any eventualities, she thought it best to appear more ingratiating and docile for a spell. Till she came to better know the wealthy Swedish yachtsman whom they’d recently met, she needed Fâhir’s attentions. She repeated to herself:
One month at the least ...
Yes, she needed to remain close with Fâhir for a month at least. And then a Mediterranean voyage on a private yacht with such distinguished guests ... Not to mention that it was just the season.
Athens, Sicily, Marseille ...
She didn’t think about anything more. Because whether summer or winter, whatever the season, above all, she longed for Paris. She ought to go there, certainly. The previous trip to Paris, which she took before meeting Fâhir, was a waste. A miserable room, a humble restaurant that resembled something of a neighborhood kitchen, the tinkling of a piano coming from the next room till the evening, a few pieces of furniture bought on a limited budget ... Doubtless, she’d enjoyed herself immensely in carnal terms; but even for that, she could no longer stand certain deprivations. Not to mention that the time had come for her to settle down and start a family. She didn’t want to miss this opportunity. But fate always played odd tricks on Emma. This time around it happened as well. The elderly and wealthy Swede hadn’t just arrived on the scene alone. In tow was a young, dark youth who happened to be the yacht’s captain. Worst of all, this young man behaved as if he knew all of Emma’s proclivities by heart, arranging trysts for them, which she couldn’t bring herself to resist, and after giving her a languorous, lingering glance with his black, olive-shaped eyes, seeing no need to stand on formality ... This was how it had been last night at sea. How quickly he’d taken advantage of the general state of drunkenness, the moonlit night, and the silence. Along with being angry at her own shortfalls, she was happy to recall that intimacy again, and closed her eyes.

But she didn’t waste time with this vision of contentment. These were all passing fancies. She mustn’t lose sight of essentials. Right now, that was Fâhir. She was quite curious about the effects of the morning encounter on him. She’d only been able to see Nuran for a minute at most, and she was jealous from her vantage in life as a paramour. Nuran exuded more beauty than her in a different, deeper way. Despite this, she wasn’t curious about her; their presences were foreign to each other. What frightened Emma was the daughter herself.

“You are aware, Fâhir, you behaved atrociously with Fatma!”

Fâhir assumed a voice that she didn’t recognize at all: “I know ...”
This is the third time! Always, “You are aware.
”

He was oddly upset. Never before had he found Nuran to be as beautiful. She was neither the Nuran that he’d seen during the months of fatigue during which they’d arranged for their divorce, nor was she the fiancée who appeared like a white dream behind the mists of years. She was a different woman altogether, one he didn’t know, a complete stranger, a woman he didn’t recognize despite having lived with her for a decade.
I was so surprised that ... I wasn’t able to speak properly with Fatma ... I acted as if she were someone else’s child.
But was this the real reason he’d behaved so coldly toward his daughter, or was it because of Emma and his fear of aggravating her?
I’m so weak that I’m susceptible to any base folly . . .

He raised his head and was met by Emma’s eyes, which seemingly read from memory everything he’d been thinking. She said: “I understand, Fâhir, if you want to make up with them. I’d never want to come between you and your daughter.” And in order to emphasize the resoluteness of this decision, Emma, as if announcing a general strike in the midst of the day shift, rested her fork at the edge of her plate. Her entire face bespoke forfeit and reverence for human emotion. With a habit that came from a lifetime of only pitying herself, her expression changed and contorted.

Emma never asked. She just took. Her experiences as a fallen woman had absolutely forbidden her from asking for anything outright.
Take it, grab it, lay siege, don’t let it catch its breath! But above all don’t ask!
This was her motto.
Begin with friendship! Always be understanding and patient! A man should sense that you understand him. Then spread your wings, don’t give him a chance to catch his breath . . . but ask? Never.
The rich Swede was gradually sensing in his flesh Emma’s understanding, her wise compassion, and her generous companionship.

Fâhir gazed at Emma. “What does this have to do with anything, now?”

She understood that she’d made a faux pas. She shouldn’t have mentioned anything about the matter! She bowed her head and continued to devour her lobster. Tonight, she had to speak in frank terms with the Swede.

For a week Fâhir had been contemplating what Emma had just suggested on her own. But he couldn’t manage to decide, being too insecure, too bound to habit, and because the life into which Emma had initiated him was too exceptional. Not to mention that he had no idea how Nuran would react to such a proposal. Nuran had earlier given him repeated and numerous chances to make up and put the past behind them.
What’s really hard is leaving Emma.
Not because he loved her, but because he’d always been a slave to his baser desires. He’d never been a man of determination, nor had he been wise enough to leave her at the right time ... Not to mention that Emma could display this very determination in his stead. Maybe she’d truly grown tired of him.
Who knows, maybe ...
He thought about what he could recollect vaguely through the drunken haze of the previous night. The South American captain’s chin, hard as a straight razor, and his penetrating glances, appeared. For a time, he and Emma had vanished together. He couldn’t manage to extricate himself from the bridge game.
Who knows, and maybe . . .
and like a fresh knife wound, he suddenly recalled memories that constituted the paradise of his life; Emma’s full gallop to ecstasy and the frenzied clench of wrestling holds. He raised his head in anguish. He watched, as if witnessing a genuine wonder, Emma’s thirty-two teeth grinding up the lobster before her, slowly, quietly, almost as if she were reciting a poem by rote, her eyes exceptionally innocent and languid. The best course of action would be to abandon these meaningless thoughts. He raised his glass. As if to remind her unfaithful lover of the wonderful times they’d once shared, Emma awkwardly repeated the first phrase she’d learned in Turkish:
Şerefinize efendim,
“Here’s to your honor, sir.”