A Mind at Peace (7 page)

Taken as a whole, it constituted a bizarre accretion that appeared simply to be the result of intellectual indigestion. Mümtaz realized that this omnium gatherum had been engaged in a hundred-year struggle and a continuous sloughing of skin.

An entire society grew despondent, strove, and suffered through anomie and birth pangs for a century so that digests of detective novels and these Jules Vernes might replace copies of
A Thousand and One Nights, Tûtinâme: Tales of the Parrot, Hâyatülhayvan: Animal Fables
, and
Kenzülhavas: The Treasury of Pleasantries.

A book merchant of his acquaintance made a welcoming sign. Mümtaz approached with an expression indicating “How are things?”

The merchant gestured with his hand toward a series of old leather-bound books, stacked and tied with twine, on one end of a wooden bench. “A collection of old magazines, if you’d like to take a look.”

He untied the twine and handed Mümtaz the volumes, dusting them as he did so. Most of the leather covers were warped, and some of the bindings had cracked. Mümtaz sat on one edge of the bench with his feet dangling. He knew that the bookseller would no longer bother him; in fact, the man had put on his glasses and turned back to the handwritten manuscript on a bookrest.

Mümtaz examined the volumes that looked as if they had been slowly and gradually roasted by fire, and he remembered the last time he’d come to this shop, last May – bliss was in that spring to be alive. An hour had remained before he was to meet Nuran; he’d stopped here to pass the time and chat with the old bookseller, purchasing a handsome and nicely bound
Şakâyık-ı Numaniye
, a sixteenth-century Ottoman biographical encyclopedia by Taşköprüzade with its addendum. That day he’d gone with Nuran to the two Çekmece lakes. Though he’d explored all of Istanbul with her, they hadn’t yet visited the lakes. He thought of the supper they’d shared at the smaller lake, at the restaurant nearly atop the water that invariably recalled Chinese floating houses, of the time they spent together in the stream-side garden of the hunter’s coffeehouse at the foot of the bridge reached by a wooden stairway. In the vicinity, fishermen caught striped mullet as they shouted from rowboat to rowboat in piercing voices. A chorus of cries rose abruptly and men naked from the waist up made several direct and determined movements before the net strung between two boats gradually emerged from the water, glistening like a shield of abundance, with little quicksilver sparkles flailing along its perimeter, and the great haul shone like a mirror held to the sun. On the ground, at their feet, a street dog that had just befriended them wagged its tail and flattened its ears as it begged. From time to time, it strayed from its spot and roamed about, making the rounds, before turning back.

Recently arrived swallows frantically prepared nests at a distance. Rapid, twittering exchanges, whose meanings escaped them, passed at the edges of the bridge and in the eaves of the coffeehouse. Now and then, a swallow, hovering with rapid wing flaps, not unlike a swimmer treading water to keep afloat, let itself drop into the void of the boundless cerulean sky, before soaring up to great heights in a vertical maneuver; then, from a point that the naked eye could no longer discern, glided downward; and just when this trajectory aroused the anxiety of its deadly follow-through, the swoop abruptly straightened along the horizon, tracing curves and spirals upon itself, and as if proving an unsolved geometric theorem, a series of abrupt and interrelated maneuvers followed one after the other, and at last, after escaping this web of its own weaving with a final flap, the swallow arrived at its frenetic and merry nest. Mümtaz brazenly observed the broad shoulders of his dulcinea, her neck, which gave her head the poise of a delicate blossom, and her narrowed eyes, which had become a line of radiance. Last May... when his world was more or less intact.

One of the assembled texts was a divan poetry collection by the thirteenth-century mystic Yunus Emre that had been copied in an amateurish hand; the annotations, however, contained
gazels
by Ottoman poets from Bâkî, Nef’î, and Nabî to Shaykh Galip. Toward the end, on a few leaves, in various hands, appeared a number of remedies calling for black pepper, cardamom, rhubarb, and the like. One of them written in kermes crimson ink was entitled “Lokman Hekim’s Medicinal Taffy.” Another involved filling an onion with cloves and heating it over an open flame to make an “Elixir of Life.” The other text was a songbook: Melodic
makam
progressions and composers’ names were penned above the songs; all of them contained the intervals without omitting a single note or syllable; they’d been transcribed onto pink, blue, white, and yellow leaves, with the chalk lines still visible, in an orderly pointed script like tongues of fire. Near the end, some amusing couplets had been recorded. Next came a series of recorded births and deaths beginning in the year of the Hegira 1197, or A.D. 1783. What naïve attention to detail and ceremony. In A.H. 1197, Abdülcelâl, a son of the owner of the volume, after being indisposed for two days, passed away on the seventeenth night of Rebiülâhir toward dawn; thank heavens a few months later his daughter Emine was born. These personal events made for an extensive year; the same man opened a saddle-and-harness shop for Emin Efendi, his “milk brother” breastfed by the same wet nurse; as for him, he was appointed to the Kapanıdakik directorship after being passed over for years. The most significant event in the next year was the initiation of his son Hafız Numan Efendi into the field of musical arts. Their neighbor Mehmet Emin Efendi would oversee his practice. Who were these characters? Where did they live? Before lives he saw no need to pursue further, Mümtaz closed the volume.

More peculiar was the third volume, most of whose pages were blank, giving the impression that it might have belonged to a child. Toward the middle beneath a title written in an odd and amateurish hand, indicating an illustration of an ostrich or “camel bird” in a tree, was a picture that resembled neither camel nor bird; and beneath it, a convoluted design smudged out by wetted ink. Many dates were listed here as well. But none of the writing made any sense together. Perhaps it was a workbook for practicing penmanship in script; and in all probability it’d belonged to an older man who’d learned to read and write late in life. Almost every line was repeated a few times in an unskilled cursive: “To our guide in pilgrimage to Holy Mecca, the Water Bearer Esseyd Muhammet Elkasimi Efendi.” Later on, the address became more detailed: “To His Excellency Esseyd Muhammet Elkasimi Efendi, one of the caretakers of the Sacred Kaaba, son of Jeweler Mesut Efendi of Bâbünnebi in Holy Mecca.”

And a few pages farther, beneath a rather extensive register of expenses, appeared the following: “Being the date of His Excellency the Benefactor Naşit Beyefendi’s appointment as fifth secretary of the private royal chambers ...” And farther on: “On this morning, His Excellency the Benefactor Naşit Beyefendi, whose appointment to fifth secretary of the private royal chambers has been announced by imperial writ, bedecked in the uniform of the office, embarked toward the imperial palace for the sake of initiating his obligations. May Allah, Exalted and Almighty, forthwith bestow His glorious divine guidance and assistance.” A full musical ensemble from the mid-nineteenth-century reign of Sultan Abdülmecit blared within Mümtaz’s mind. Farther down the page, in a very thick pen and in a hand that couldn’t quite keep control of itself, appeared a couplet:

Next came a magick potion prepared by boiling in the middle of the night the shell of a baby turtle, the water of seven springs collected in a glass bottle on the fifteenth of the month, forty pomegranate arils, saffron, and black pepper; the concoction was to be stirred with a freshly cut cherry twig while reciting an incantation, before letting it sit under the sun for forty days. And after that, he read an incantation meant to be recited forty times for forty days to enable one to wander about unseen.

On the facing page appeared six words in crimson ink that didn’t belong to any recognizable language: “Temâgisin,” “Begedânin,” “Yesevâdin,” “Vegdasin,” “Nevfena,” and “Gadisin.” An explanation below stated that repeating these words seven times before bed would cause one to dream of an object of desire. And further down the page was a long description of the pronunciation of Keldanî script. Mümtaz muttered: “Temâgisin, Begedânin, Yesevâdin, Vegdasin, Nevfena, Gadisin.”

It saddened him that he wouldn’t be explaining these absurdities to Nuran. Mümtaz was Nuran’s purveyor of esoterica. He loved to bring her resolute skepticism and steadfast rationalism face to face with odd anecdotes he’d culled from here and there. Had it been last year, Mümtaz would have told her how he’d opened his mind to forces from beyond regarding some or another issue, then he’d have gone on to describe the dream that came to him after having repeated this incantation seven times. In conveying such nonsense, Mümtaz was forced to maintain complete sincerity without a smirk or guffaw. The charade would continue in all seriousness to the end amid Nuran’s demure smiles and expressions of astonishment, and eventually, annoyed, she’d either put a swift end to the joke – opening up a delicious horizon of remorse sometimes lasting for hours – or else she, too, would simply join in the game.

Thinking this now verged on the pathetic.

He suddenly stopped at a juncture in his thoughts.
Why am I mocking these people? Is my anguish preferable to their lives, filled with countless opportunities for escape?
But did such means of escape actually exist as he’d assumed? Were they living the wealth of possibilities described in these books and others like them? Even if this were the case, wasn’t he himself escaping? Wasn’t merely sitting in this shop at this hour an escape? Amid a widening web of troubles, he did indeed want to steal this hour, and he’d stolen it in plain sight from İhsan and his family. Granted, Mümtaz hadn’t been living a regular life since the beginning of summer. Particularly in recent days, his sleep had been disrupted. The few hours that he could sleep with difficulty passed in eerie, nightmarish dreams, and he woke from his slumber even more tired. Worst of all was the difficulty he had maintaining his train of thought. As each idea inched forward, it became a vision of agony. Today even, as he walked down the street, he realized he was spontaneously making hand gestures. During such times Mümtaz’s companions suggested that he was trying to purge himself of certain paradoxical thoughts through actions and terse mutterings.

He examined the volumes, recalling again the May morning of a year ago. Summer flourished within him like an apocalypse. Next came the days he believed had poisoned his entire life, including Nuran’s exasperation, his own fears and anxieties, and his feeble and exhausting insistence, each with its particular memories and moods. He knew he couldn’t stay here any longer. But he couldn’t stand, either. All he could do was gaze about as if asking whether a more excruciating form of this torment was to come.

The bookseller raised his eyes from the manuscript: “The outlook is pretty bleak, isn’t it?”

Mümtaz didn’t have the wherewithal for a long conversation: “We’re tending to a sick relative at home ... It’s been a week now that I haven’t been able to read a newspaper properly.” He was lying. It wasn’t that he hadn’t read the paper. He’d just lost the strength to contemplate the news. Without even forming any opinions, he simply memorized chronologies of events as if learning a lesson by rote. Interpreting, not to mention discussing, incidents that occurred in such rapid succession was an exercise in futility.

They’d talked for years already anyway. Everybody, everywhere, at every opportunity, for years, had discussed this possibility. All variety of opinion had been expressed and all eventualities explored. Now all of humanity faced a reality of horrendous proportions.

“I don’t know if you’ve seen the banks? They’ve been packed full for days now.” As if it had just occurred to him, he asked, “Who’s sick?”

“İhsan.”

The shopkeeper shook his head: “He hasn’t stopped in for quite some time. It isn’t just coincidental then. I hope he regains his health soon.” He was visibly upset, but he didn’t ask about the illness. Mümtaz mused,
I guess he considers this a family secret.
As if to explain that a person without troubles didn’t exist, the shopkeeper said: “Both our children were called up.” He sighed. “Honestly, I don’t know what to do. I’m at a loss. My brother-in-law fell from a horse back home and cracked his ribs ... My wife’s in such a state.”

Mümtaz knew from firsthand experience about the endless sympathy of men who wanted to console others through tales of woe.

“Don’t worry, things will improve, it’ll all get better,” Mümtaz said as he left.

These were among the stock expressions that he’d learned from a past generation. Maybe for this reason, with a curious stubbornness, he’d been reluctant to use them for years. But now, in the presence of this man’s misery, they came to the tip of his tongue.
One civilization’s philosophy of everyday life,
he thought.
Each experience invites one of another variety. That means our heritage not only contains miseries and sorrows but also consolations and methods of perseverance . . .

Çadırcılar Street was bewildering as always. On the ground before a shop whose grate usually remained shuttered, waiting for who knows what, were a Russian-made samovar spigot, a doorknob, the remnants of a lady’s mother-of-pearl fan so much the fashion thirty years ago, a few random parts belonging perhaps to a largish clock or gramophone, together with some oddities that had ended up here without breaking or crumbling to pieces somehow. A traditional coffee grinder of yellow brass and a cane handle made of deer antler were prominently displayed. Leaning against the shop’s rolling shutter rested two sizable photographs in thick, gilt wooden frames: pictures of Ottoman-era Greek Orthodox patriarchs from the reign of Sultan Abdülhamit II or a little afterward. Their medals, garments, and emblems were identical to those that appeared in the newspapers. From behind well-polished glass, through the vantage of time past, they gazed at the objects spread out before them and at the street crowds temporarily obscuring them at each surge. Perchance they were most pleased by the roar of life sounding so many years later – by the therapy of sun and sound
.