Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (11 page)

Niko the Stoker

Olga had said that Uncle Kirkor had put away the backgammon board sometime after Niko’s departure, never to touch it again. This did not appear strange to me; it was an act that befitted him perfectly; after all he ought to react in some way or another. This didn’t happen immediately, however. The meaning of a particularity of a given experience could be perpetuated only in conjunction with the man with whom that experience was shared. A particularity of a given experience could not be re-experienced with another person, once the person, with whom the said experience had been shared, was no more. Nothing could supersede that experience. There was no other way to experience the said particularity having been immortalized for that particular person. Yes, for that particular person . . . not to soil with a new person the days lived jointly with the old. This was directly related at the same time to one’s awareness of oneself, to one’s self-defense—the need to find self-justification and worth. In those days when you have the perception of being sought after you might think about changing your attire once more. You might inquire how many snapshots had remained from those times of which you were proud. Under the circumstances, I believe I can understand better now why Uncle Kirkor had preferred to bury certain memories in his heart. Such tactile feelings must remain bound. Yes, those feelings must not be impaired. The snapshots must remain unaffected. That was the reason why we had made a point not to pass by ‘that street’ after the loss of ‘that woman.’ This was the reason why the finishing touches had to be put on the story of those backgammon games, so that they could be viewed from this particular angle. The witnesses were aware of this. They slammed the round pieces so strongly in the heat of the game that the pieces were frayed. Those passionate moments, the state of euphoria infected the onlookers who forcefully connected with the players’ emotion, sometimes reaching such a height that the general feeling was that a brawl between the fans of both parties seemed imminent. This demonstration pointed the way toward the losing party treating the winning party to revelry in one of the taverns at Balıkpazarı, or, occasionally to a water pipe session at one of the joints under the Bridge. Sometimes a frenzy overwhelmed the bystanders. Among the onlookers there happened to be greenhorns as well. In such competitive games, the onlookers usually watched each other, or, more precisely, watched as if they were the players themselves.

The evenings passed under the Bridge were the evenings during which there usually reigned a general silence, a general reserve; the evenings during which the actors performed, or were caused to perform their parts, most probably, on a totally different stage . . . Would it be possible for someone at home picking up the scent of fried fish to suddenly be carried away to scenes seemingly sunken into oblivion, scenes poorly enacted, and trapped in the past? Perhaps.

However, regardless of what had transpired, Monsieur Jacques, who had visited the same places long after those evenings had passed, managed to reignite memories in my imagination. The memories of the open-air movie theater he had been running somewhere near Kadıköy in a block of flats, a vestige of the accounts of Toros the Cameraman, who often spoke of Sylvano Mangano in her film
Bitter Rice
, which he had copied and reproduced without having duly obtained a license during those cold winter days, in those good old days, the number of which he ignored, in a mood similar to what those rundown open-air movie theaters might have felt like during their demolition, thinking of the dilapidated state of the home he could not repair because of his destitute condition, immersed in his reflective solitude. These memories are as vivid in my mind as the impressions that a long conversation would create in reproducing the human faces lost in that refuge, the refuge the stage actors found in each other.

Uncle Kirkor and Niko had made a point of smoking a water pipe with double flexible tubes. This had a simple reason apparently. When the ember was low, someone had to manipulate it in order to keep it going. The practiced hand knew how to do this. This gave a special pleasure to the water-pipe smokers. For this reason Niko had taken charge of handling the tongs that would keep the fire blazing. Uncle Kirkor occasionally warned Niko to be vigilant and not let the fire go out. To this warning Niko retorted affectionately, saying: “By God, it won’t.” The same remarks were repeated every evening. It’s a fact that certain clichés are
de rigueur
in rituals. One day Uncle Kirkor made the remark: “The mouthpiece fits your mouth quite well,” in his broken accent. To which, Niko retorted, pointing to an angler: “Oh bother! Kirkor! Look at the fisherman, he thinks he’s skilled merely because he caught a single horse mackerel!” In order to catch the meaning of such altercations one had to be familiar with the jargon used in that world, with such teasing and mutual asylum—the
Weltanschauung
that reigned there. Afterward they kept quiet for a long time as though they were far away, as though they lived in distant realms . . . Uncle Kirkor used to make occasional remarks to Niko, saying: “Nicky, are you aware that we are drinking like fish? We are petering out.” Upon which Niko stirred the ember to keep it aglow. Toros, under the impressions and observations he had, appeared to have shot the best film of his life, intending to put it on in his private movie theater which he did not want to share with anybody, keeping it solely to himself. Secluded in his corner, befitting the world of the water pipe, without giving thought to the fact that these words, these ‘designs’ would assume completely different meanings once reproduced and shared . . .

Uncle Kirkor’s remark about drinking like fish was undoubtedly referring to the evenings spent in the pub. Those evenings remind me of Niko sticking out like a sore thumb displaying his modest superiority while selecting the appetizers with great alacrity. At such moments, with my head in the clouds, fascinated by the anecdotal legends of Istanbul, I seem to be under the influence of certain ‘cut-and-dried scenes.’ So what? This part of the game, if such a path was chosen, could be the source of acrid joy . . . At such times, in order that I might perpetuate this experience, I thought of their habit of reverting to knocking back a drink at a cheap joint when they were broke, although I was perfectly aware that Niko’s preference was the stand-up bars. As for the conversations going on in that world of exile, closed to some, consciously or unconsciously . . . to imagine those moments is not that difficult if one takes certain liberties with the details. Henceforth, all that remained to be done for me was to compile certain tittle-tattle tales and patch up the story . . . Niko might have spoken about his wife, who had, at the most unexpected moment, abandoned him to go to Athens, and who, in spite of her visits to the aforementioned city felt like an outsider herself and therefore started an affair with a gypsy from Yedikule; about his homosexual son who had been touring the world in the company of an American TV correspondent; about that ‘Casablanca legend’ he could never succeed in smothering; about the possibility of making big money if he risked that journey, by putting into practice certain bright ideas hovering in his mind; and finally about achieving bliss by getting married to ‘that woman’ he believed to be still waiting for him in Thessaloniki.

In the hope that it would slightly dispel his feeling of loneliness, Uncle Kirkor had most probably confessed that he had not repudiated his wife despite her adulteries; he had never thought of divorcing her and never turned his back on her or accused her of cheating. Wrought as he was by the feeling of frustration for having failed to enjoy the paternity of his son, bitterly disappointed in the wake of the accident that had caused him to stray from his professional path of lathe operator by the inadvertency of Kid Arthur—the conductor of the said accident who was fated to die after spending many years in the asylum La Paix in fits of delirium, repeating his name frequently—who Uncle Kirkor felt a deep remorse for having failed to pay a visit to while he was in the throes of death. I know for a fact that every one of these incidents was a little story that might generate a new beginning. I know that these stories were of the sort that many people would have preferred to turn their back on, and might judge them ‘overstuffed.’ But those who had continuously failed to realize their enchantment, during those long, interminable yarns, had many deceptions and frustrations of their own to tell about, and would have liked to recount them, in the faint hope of linking certain nights to certain mornings . . . We can call this nostalgia, lingering in certain people, of inexpressible alienations, as well as the indelible impressions of an exiled individual, who ventured to live in a different Istanbul to the one he remembered, inhaling its odors, voices, features and eventualities night and day . . .

An exile difficult to explain—wherein everybody lives their own estrangement in a different way despite sharing a common bond with those of their homeland—a tie that cannot be severed. Actually, in case one prefers to linger in that world, nourished through fantasy, it will be a long story which may enable the discovery of other lines of enquiry. Seen from this angle, despite all the accompanying adversities, it is worth suffering to the bitter end. Yet, one can’t live in reality to one’s heart’s content. To what extent this exile had been voluntary could never be articulated; you could not even imagine it. However, it was going to turn for Niko into an exile whose boundaries could be delineated more easily as a consequence of the renewal of the residency permits for Greek nationals that allowed them to continue living in the country during the sixties. Was this the end of that Istanbul tale of which the origin was unknown, lived by two people, never to be narrated in history books, which might seem to certain people as an episode in a legend lost in the darkness of the past? Those who had the privilege to have seen those days claim that Niko had gone to Athens with a mind to one day return. Had it not been the same for those uprooted from their homeland because of ethnic considerations or professions? Hope for a homeward journey . . . in order for one to carry the burden of life and postpone the crack of doom easier . . . On one of the days on the eve of his departure when Monsieur Jacques had visited him to buy a drinks cabinet with a mirror inside it, equipped with a mechanism that switched on a light bulb when opened—the odor of which bore witness to its use as a well-stocked treasury of drinks and a dressing table—he had said to him: “It’s a legacy of my father.” He had with some pride indicated to him the old phonograph records with ‘His Master’s Voice’ on them, making the remark: “Dating from the time of Monsieur Schur and the Geserian Brothers,” records he had entrusted to a friend whose name he did not mention. Monsieur Jacques had witnessed that rich collection of records that had not been inherited from his father alone, but also consisted of records he himself had bought throughout his life: Seyyan Hanım, Hafız Burhan, Münir Nuretting, Suzan Lutfullah Hanım, Neveser Hanım, tangos, Greek songs, Neapolitan songs, etc., all of these were entrusted to this anonymous individual. Taken into custody by the said person . . . with a view to returning them, of being able to return . . . with a view to seeing to it that the records might feel at home in their new location . . . However, the person they had been entrusted with, and the locality where they happened to be, have not been discovered to this day. The words exchanged between him and Uncle Kirkor at ‘their last supper’ also remain a mystery. All that is known is the fact that from that day on, both Olga’s, and, according to various witnesses, Uncle Kirkor’s introversions had somewhat intensified; on the other hand, the latter, who had not been frequenting his wonted pub for a good many years, had resumed his practice of celebrating certain days he deemed worthy to be remembered, or for smoking a water pipe clandestinely while he waited for Niko. Olga had heard him say to Monsieur Jacques one of those days, when the thought of being forsaken weighed heavy on him: “Decisions relative to the critical moments of my life have always been made by others.” If one lends credence to what was being said, he was in a dejected state; lonely, in despair and lacking in self-confidence just like the moments of expectation leading to the hours of water-pipe smoking. I believe that this moping, and especially this despondency, caused him to stay away from the pub for quite a while despite all sorts of thin excuses. Although he stayed away from the pub to compensate for this defect, he had not failed in guzzling a small bottle of raki with fish he himself fried at home nearly every Sunday. This ritual seemed to be the manifestation of a memory he did his best to keep fresh in his mind which he was loath to see consigned to oblivion. This was the story of an attempt or a wish to perpetuate a recollection or a ritual among his other associations. Niko had obliterated all traces that he might have left behind, he had neither written a letter nor sent a word. This had naturally given rise to all sorts of rumors about him. According to one account, Niko, unable to bear the absence of certain individuals he cherished, after having imbibed considerable quantities of alcohol, had committed suicide, throwing himself into the sea at Piraeus, confident that his body would be cast ashore; yet, according to another report, having settled accounts with his wife, he had gone to the USA to marry a rich widow who owned oilfields and had disappeared among the billionaires. Yet another story claimed that he was brought to Monsieur Jacques by Alexis the Bartender; according to this rendering of the story Niko had gone to ‘that woman’ in Thessaloniki, but had been repudiated by her for his having waited too long. Having gone mad at this cool reception, which had ruined the dreams he had been embellishing all these years, he killed her and spent his remaining years in prison smoking cannabis. Had Niko been the principal actor in either of the stories mentioned above? I wonder. To the best of my knowledge, Niko had preferred to keep aloof in order to be able to put up with his yearning for a life he had been torn from against his will. Uncle Kirkor’s attitude was no different. His rarer visits to the pub might be explained by his reluctance or concern about running into certain people. It was an elaborate deception. The conversation seemed to be at quite a different level of frequency. However, it seems to me that what particularly delighted Uncle Kirkor was this ritual at home, where he could turn his incarceration into a viable lifestyle, an unostentatious liberation. What remained for Uncle Kirkor was to justify this little ritual by talking about it or sharing it with certain people or reproducing it in some sense. His elaborate narration of how he had purchased the fish he fried on Sundays, how he prepared the salad and its dressing, and how he absorbed alcohol, most probably resulted from this need. He never neglected to boast about drinking a whole bottle of raki to its dregs, as if to give it its due. When I asked him when he would be kind enough to bring some stuffed mussels from home he kept silent. How could I have known that he could not possibly ask his wife for such a favor, that this might be interpreted as a silent revolt against his marriage that was harrowed with absurdities and senselessness, that he had actually been missing that ‘lost taste’ with an ever increasing appetite, one he had identified with his mother to whom he felt he was approaching and would have liked to be reunited with. Once, we were having dinner at Kireçburnu; it was an autumn evening. Madame Roza, Juliet and Berti were at the table; there were also two other individuals whom I do not want to mention, and who will never figure in this story from here on. Monsieur Jacques’ gaze was lost in the distance, he may have been looking at those big boats coming from Russia, or perhaps from Ukraine, having weighed anchor at the Odessa harbor, whose gangways happened to be astern. He had a sad countenance. I knew why. I knew who he had in his mind. These boats carrying different passengers arrived in Istanbul from the same direction . . . Among the snacks that had been brought to the table was also a dish of stuffed mussels. “The mussels are delicious!” I said; to which Monsieur Jacques had retorted saying: “You should taste the stuffed mussels made by the Armenians; they are excellent cooks! Kirkor’s mother never failed to supply us with that delicious dish whose flavor I could find nowhere else. Kirkor used to describe in detail, with great relish, how his mother prepared it. Poor Silva, alas, she wasn’t fated to see the marriage of her son. That had been her greates
t wish in life . . . after that unfortunate accident . . . However, during the last years of her life they had made up; they were reconciled at last. Madame Silva was a very fat woman, obese and heavy. Was it a heart attack or asthma that had put an end to her life? I don’t know . . . Kirkor couldn’t ask Ani to prepare stuffed mussels for him after she came to know him. That’s rather strange . . . I think he thought stuffed mussels as a dish symbolized a warm home . . . Oh Bother! May she rest in peace!” These had been the words that Monsieur Jacques uttered that night; only these words, nothing else. His gaze was lost in the immensity of the sea. That was one of those nights during which nobody felt in the mood for conversation, when everybody’s imagination was wandering somewhere else, when everybody knew that they would be lingering at the place their imagination had taken them. Berti asked at a late hour of the night: “Ever realized how every one of us is a child, in essence?” That was the proper sentence to best express the hours we were passing. I don’t know whether this was a source of remorse or pride. To this day I cannot decide. The story of a life full of deceptions, senselessness, and, especially, of absurdities . . . This was, in a sense, the summary of Uncle Kirkor’s life.