Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (13 page)

A dead end had been the beginning of this incredible story. After some time had elapsed, it was evident that it would be inevitable for him to accept a new life, fit it somewhere between his other lives in the face of all probabilities, questions and suspicions. Schwartz would soon be proceeding on with his own story in the company of different people, in a different tale in which his past experiences and the claims made about his life would represent him like another hero of destiny deserving to be communicated and understood. This story would be jointly transmitted, its inception being forgotten, despite all likelihoods and suspicions. All the same, these measures would fail to prevent the calling into question of certain facts that might lend meaning to that meeting, and would, as a consequence of the conjectures that that meeting would have made, pave the way to completely different lives . . . How true were those accounts and to what extent did they reflect reality? For, Schwartz might well have been a wanderer, a self-exiled individual wishing to lead a life in a different country, somewhere in the exotic East, creating a lifestyle of his own. In this venture, he might have thought he would find a family who would receive him warmly and provide him with food and shelter. Our fertile imagination deprived of all boundaries may lead us anywhere. On the other hand, the story may also have been the story of an artillery lieutenant as it had actually been pronounced. In such a story, the appalling conditions of war, the deafening sound of the guns and the nights full of terror or the picture of a dying companion who communicates to you his last wish before giving up his ghost might well have been the causes of his autism. You might call it a spiritual degeneration, a mental disorder or aberration. Under the circumstances, the story may well have been the story of a soldier mislaid and relinquished, who had begun to indulge himself in eccentric acts goaded by inclinations created by the cruelties of war, causing unrest among his companions in the army division, and who, by a justifiable and confidential order from his commander, had been abandoned to his destiny in Istanbul, rather than punishing him after duly court-martialing or detaining him under strict supervision. We can also interpret it as the story of a life desired to remain detached. If there had been a constructive alternative, would a future like this have found its home in a foreign country as an attempt at vengeance? When one wanted to forget a thing or a place, to really forget it with all one’s being, one usually succeeded over a course of time, no matter what the cost. However, life demonstrated, from time to time, the fact that you eventually passed the examination with flying colors. It would suffice that you did not forget the fact that you could gain acceptance in the lives of certain people in proportion to the merits you exhibited despite all your anxieties and anticipations. My thoughts having wandered in such peregrinations, it occurs to me now to imagine Schwartz as the hero of a story who had, at some point of his life in Istanbul, lampooned himself. This shows that there was in that story a life desired to be omitted and denied. Even though such a life was to be made public, at times interrogated by various methods, or imposed on that amnesiac traveler without baggage . . . It might thus be the subject of a dirty joke that involved shying away from a loved one, eschewing a betrayal; a huge, sick and cruel joke . . . We might also speak of the tragedy of a young man of a romantic disposition who revolted for the sake of an original ideal against his father of conservative views, which he interpreted as his
raison d’être
, the only alternative that had guaranteed his survival despite the centuries long exposure of his race to hardships, bitterness and injustice. In this picture, the father might come forth in the identity of a hero, as a man whose ideal had been to leave his modest textile factory that he had set up with strenuous efforts, consistent with the attitudes he adopted toward every business he handled. Could we embroider a story in which Schwartz, who, instead of accepting the lifestyle that industry proffered him, wanted to spend all his days and nights in that summer farmland to which the family took themselves once or twice a year, where they were reluctant to share the same fate with the people there and were in pursuit of worldly success. He missed those moments, those moments of brief eternal bliss . . . That hazarded, for the sake of realizing his objective, to launch a full-scale offensive against the conditions prevalent in those days and at a time when he thought he was on the brink of a victory that would pave his way to a lifestyle he thought ideal though remote from nearly all the amenities of civilization that the city would be fain to provide him with. He saw his territories occupied during the war by the enemy, irredeemably confiscated by others, by the men of another country in the name of another country, and who had not been given the chance of seeing in this picture his beloved dream of the future and the children that he expected to foster. Could the whole thing have resulted in his aspiration for a willful annihilation of the thing he thought he would be unable to give a proper definition? Why not? Given the fact that we have tried and done our best to lend meaning to the picture of that farmland within us . . . Other probabilities also occur in one’s mind fancied for other heroes at other times. Under such circumstances, other questions might well open the door to other lives and indicate the path that would lead to other stories . . . I’m inclined to say that Schwartz did know the essential questions that should be asked and the real answers to them, despite all that had been seemingly mislaid. However, as far as I can gather, people had preferred in those days not to ask any questions, but to keep them to themselves. The said guest, the traveler of this long path, was doomed to stay where he was; he had figured as a hero in a story in his actual identity . . . That feeling of resignation in human nature inherited from that long history, nourished with the charm of fate, with the existence of that lost world, with expectations built up and put off for its sake . . . Oh that odor of lives heavy with patience and reproduced infinitely! I prefer to believe that no questions had been asked relative to Schwartz; for instance, where he had stayed and what he had eaten in the meantime, that is in the course of the days, the weeks, perhaps, the months that had elapsed between his being misplaced and his arrival at Moses’ shop. Yet, this question was one of the key questions that would have enabled us to have access to that mystery. But they knew all too well that they owed their life there to their abstention from asking certain questions to others; let alone whether they asked them of themselves or not. One should know that every action or choice was preserved in a storehouse . . . There is another reality, a scene of life which I should like to believe to have been enacted. With reference to that scene, I’m trying to revive in my imagination what Schwartz had, most probably, after the lapse of a good many years, imparted to Moses and Eva, by the distortions he liked so much, or insinuations, that is, between the lines, if one may call them that—insignificant details containing pieces of information about what had been talked about. This occurred at a time least expected, when the tale followed its due course, when many a reality had found their proper place and became more familiar with each passing day . . . A time desired to be re-written during the lengthy and wide-ranging talks exchanged and extended in the company of cups of tea brewed on the stove until late at night. Tea, for Moses, was a secret bridge that united his past, his adolescence, with certain decisive moments in his present life . . . The tea, like his memories, had to be brewed every night anew. The cups of tea taken in that house at Kuledibi had opened the door to a different exchange of words among three people, namely Schwartz, Eva and Moses. They had realized during those long talks, after some time, why they had been and should have in fact been together . . . They had never dared to question the reason for this or speculate about it; they might have carried their experiences along with them as a native destiny; however, one thing was certain, they had understood better and better what they were supposed to understand. Olga, who remembered those nights as an onlooker, while telling this story, had wanted to draw my attention to this fact. Based on what she said, I see now that, in the spontaneity that that secret understanding provided, everybody present there had decided to contribute to this story with all his being. It is reported that a short time after his visit everybody there had literally mobilized to find for Schwartz, first a lodging and then a business which might contribute to his livelihood. There was nothing out of the ordinary in this, of course. This action was simply a token of the solidarity between two outsiders . . . A view taken from such an angle that what had been experienced makes the story actually simpler than it appears to be at first sight.

Carlo’s Ships

Moses had a friend by the name of Carlo, a pilot who navigated ships into and out of the waters of the Bosporus; he boasted of speaking thirteen languages in addition to Yiddish. His breath stunk of alcohol throughout the day although no one saw him tipsy. According to reliable accounts, this somewhat different man who was convinced that real adventures and loves could only take place at sea was enamored in his youth with a girl by the name of Sylvia who was of Russian stock, like he was himself . . . His affair with her had started at a reception of which the subject was the lack of taste in matters of gastronomy of the Jews of Polish descent as compared to the Jews of Russian descent. It turned out that he and that girl had been of the same opinion. This common trait had brought them to each other. Certain companionships, or virtual images that give one the impression of grazing contacts, are always ready to flare up in the presence of a shower of sparks. It didn’t take them long to consider marriage. Wedding preparations were made, mutual promises were solemnly exchanged. But, at the least expected moment, Carlo received a letter of
adieu
from her, a letter written from the bottom of her heart . . . One of those letters one hardly ever expects to receive that opens the door to disappointments that last for a lifetime. The disparate heroes of the story had had, at all events, a meeting point, where they inevitably got together, despite their being worlds apart through their different languages and times, playing the roles of the actors of small scenes of betrayal that were to be equally shared by all parties. In her letter of
adieu
, Sylvia, for reasons she could not divulge, was going, as she had been obliged to go, to Argentina. She was the only woman who could extend a helping hand to her father who had lost all his wealth and honor. Life sometimes invited people to take part in hazardous associations. This was an ordeal that an individual had to endure, at the end of which, depending on precedence, a man received an injury he had not deserved, a wound destined to remain fresh throughout his life. This may have been the reason why what was called remorse became his constant companion. Hope for pardon was the sole solace after having shared his experiences with other people . . . No sooner had Carlo got the letter, than he had rushed to her place; it was in vain. She was nowhere to be found. He could learn nothing from her neighbors. He felt that everybody knew something about her actions, but somehow preferred to remain silent. The next day, he went down to the waterfront. He walked along those streets throughout the night. He visited the places where Sylvia and he had been together. Finally he saw her in the company of her father aboard a ship about to weigh anchor. Both father and daughter were smartly dressed. They waved to each other. “Don’t ever come. You won’t find me in the big cities. Even if you do find me, I won’t be the same,” said Sylvia. While saying these words, she appeared to be concealing a deep sorrow behind them. Her father was holding her by the arm while her head was inclined down to her breast. Carlo said nothing in return. Not a single word did he utter. He was employed at the accounting department of a big maritime transportation company. He loved to watch the big vessels sailing through the waters of the Bosporus. This interest attracted him nearer and nearer to those ships. To his boss, Monsieur Lazzaro, who had been a father to him in every respect, he had confided, saying that after his separation from Sylvia he could not continue working behind a desk, that the sea called the man inside him and communicated to him his desire to become a ship navigator. He explained that as he owned a small vessel of his own, he knew the job and that it would not take him long to get accustomed to this new venture. He asked Monsieur Lazzaro, who had among his acquaintances people of some sway, to be influential in arranging this job for him. Monsieur Lazzaro thought that only this last point was correct, to be in any way convincing. He was in a position to do this for the sake of someone he loved as his own son. Yet, he was not so sure about the correctness of this decision. He had prospects of promotion in the company he was employed with. Would it be pertinent for him to venture on such conceits? Carlo insisted saying that he no longer needed much money, and that the only thing he desired henceforth was to be able to gaze at Istanbul from a different angle. They had had a somewhat lengthy discussion. Before taking the decisive step, Monsieur Lazzaro, decided to have a talk with his mother. As a matter of fact, he and she had been exchanging many confidential correspondences . . . What they had exchanged might shed light on the reasons of Monsieur Lazarro’s affording protection to Carlo, who had been orphaned, including the assistance he contributed to his tuition. In the meantime, Carlo had already realized that he had to leave their presence while they were having a discussion on those private and important subjects. Carlo did this. After a long while, they came out and told him that they would be doing as he wished. The result of this was Carlo’s exercising the duties of a ship pilot for a good many years to come . . . in order to be able to stir in the wind of ships sailing towards his land from the remotest corners of the earth; in order to be the first to hail that ship that would have brought Sylvia back to him . . . However, Sylvia never showed up. Nobody knew how she lived there and under what conditions.