Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (16 page)

Jacob had lived on what he earned from this last trade he had practiced, and, according to his own words, he had “exhausted it.” The story of his wealth he had written about to his family was a kind of revolt coupled with an expression of his deep affection. When he had confined himself to his house he said to his daughter, his only confidante, referring to the people he had left in Istanbul, saying that “they needed a dream; for only thus could they put up with my absence,” which was true. This was a sort of a rebellion in a sense; a little revenge taken on those who had wasted so many of his days and stolen his dreams. He could get rid of the exigency of this lie only toward the end of his life. They had moved to a small house with a garden somewhat remote from the center of the town. “Henceforth, I want to live for the sake of my own reality,” he said on one of those days. He had given himself to horticulture. Those were the days during which he had ceased to write, the days he could not bring himself to write; the days when he intended to obliterate all the traces he might have left behind so that he might not be traced by his family. The days he could not and would not write, the days when all the lies he could produce had been exhausted . . . Two years after he had moved to that house, one morning he had suddenly gone the way of all flesh, taking his silences with him. He had collapsed on the flowers he had meticulously grown. Heart attack had been the diagnosis. But, in actual fact—and she knew it well—the real cause was one which could never be detected by an outsider. It had to be avowed. Among the disappointments and deceptions to which he had been subjected, it had been the hope generated by this lie, the motive force that had caused her father, Jacob, whom she had never abandoned, to stay alive. After all, not only had he been obliged to be severed from his family at a critical moment of his life, but also from a woman he could never forget and without whom he could not go on living. This experience of abandonment could be endured only through such a belief . . . In her letter in which she spoke of her mother, Evita said: “I’ve never forgiven her, and never shall I. I don’t know whether she is still alive or not. The probability that she may have died all alone in a remote corner of the world does not affect me at all.” This attitude was a bit surprising and lacked credibility; an attitude that called for another notion . . . Those letters had conveyed the voice of a person who considered cheerful optimism as an integral part of her life. This was the only subject that she was ruthless and merciless about. The only subject wherein she had succeeded to achieve vehemence . . . Yes, Evita was essentially a warmhearted and excessively optimistic woman. She had spoken in her letters of her expectation to meet them one day; she had reiterated, without getting tired of her expectation, that she would either visit Istanbul, the city where her father and her family had resided, or invite her beloved aunt, the only remote relative, to where she was living. However, the realization of such a meeting required her to get her own house in order beforehand, to tidy up her life and save some money. Money for an air ticket . . . either to enable her to pay for a flight in or a flight out . . . That was how Olga had concocted her tale, and how she had lived and labored to perpetuate it through her letters, through the existence of a person in another country who would remember her in every instance. This was one of the rarer phases of her life left pure. Like every other tale . . . Like all our tales . . .

All I can gather from what has been said is that in order to carry on this correspondence she wrote innumerable letters; realistic letters, letters that aimed at comprehension and explication . . . then . . . then something had died all the same . . .

I remember now that I had, for one reason or another, lost track of this contact after a given point. It appears that there are things that I do not know, that I cannot know. I
am
, however, certain that the meeting—so anticipated—never came about. Neither in Mexico City, nor in Istanbul, nor anywhere else for that matter . . . To my mind, this fact is better suited to a credible story. It had been the aspiration of two people who had knocked on each other’s door to stretch a fantasy to its boundaries in order to tell each other of their respective solitudes; this was inevitable and was to be expected . . . We have need for other people’s hours in order to supplement the ones we have lost.

Madame Roza’s play

I can now see more clearly the reason why I could never be indifferent to the journey of two people trapped in a fantasy despite themselves . . . There seems to be a parentage in this. A parentage difficult to define and explain; a parental relationship one feels in one’s bones. Many people would be fain to consider this indulgence in fantasy, confining its preservation to one’s imagination, as grim fate. The fact is, however, that after a given point one learns how to endure the realities that graze past us and which we let slip through our fingers and our isolation. One’s servitude, one’s enslavement by the region confined by the boundaries one has failed to trespass, becomes identified with life itself. For instance, the sentimental attachment one has established, with stories which one has related to certain objects, increases even though the said stories are not considered credible by others. One finds oneself in a position to love one’s dreams more and more with every passing day; from which one makes inferences that remain exclusively in one’s own possession, unknown to the heroes of one’s dreams . . . For Olga, who had been waiting for her lover during those long nights in the name of real togetherness, waiting for a companion to share her life with, such was her remote bondage. In time, a great many feelings would be experienced according to their natural course after having been assigned to their proper places, out of necessity, without being converted into that togetherness capable of reproducing not only the questions but also the answers . . . Olga, Madame Roza and Monsieur Jacques . . . The path was one which the meaning was concealed in those compelling necessities for a relationship which was to be experienced, defined and considered by everybody in a different fashion according to one’s respective position. On the one hand, you had Madame Roza, who descended from a large Thracian family, who had firmly grasped that knowledge relative to endurance, along with the need to be discreet and reserved in claiming the dues she had inherited from her family’s tradition and history, would qualify her to be a good mother and particularly a good wife, since she knew no other way. This armor, with which she had been equipped in order to put a bold front against life, had made her into a woman who managed her family haphazardly. As the elder sister, she had endeavored to keep her brothers together and settle their differences. In time, the members of the family had dispersed, had been obliged to scatter. Like everyone else who had had to go through such experiences, she also had her share of grievances she was compelled to acknowledge. Nevertheless, despite all warnings, those brothers who had taken wrong steps and committed great errors in life, had tried to return to her, or at least intended to do so, for a brief period of time. She knew this would happen because of what she had witnessed as they grew up. She had known how to endure this situation, with pride and discretion, without offending anyone. This was a duty she had taken over from her mother at a time when she was loath to accept it, at a time when she was not prepared; a mandatory duty taken over at an unexpected moment, silently and patiently. The incidences that occurred at that time, for duty’s sake, were imparted to me not by her, but by Monsieur Robert and Aunt Tilda, who always spoke of their elder sister reverently. The story was essentially one of those about self-sacrifice. The mother had died and the elder sister had suddenly found herself taking up her mantle within the family. When I consider this unexpected transition, I cannot help believing that, in time, a different feeling, a sort of hatred, must have arisen towards her mother, a feeling embedded deep in her heart. She knew the role in which she wanted to figure; to have been an elder sister, and the early maternity thrust upon her had led her to sway her authority over her father. I am inclined to interpret the way she spoke of her father reproachfully after so many years as an extension of this feeling. According to her, her father had been a gentleman of private means, who had never worked in his life, who had financed the household expenses by readily available money and was interested in appearing young. He had failed to be a successful businessman; in other words, he had never had such an aspiration in life, since the income he derived from the estates he had inherited from his father had sufficed to cover his current expenses. Whenever he was short of money, he either sold one of the estates in his possession or some gold he had stored; thus he had never been impecunious and had never borrowed money from anyone. He did have extramarital relations which might not be considered commendable, of course; but he was handsome according to the standards of the day. In addition, he knew how to look classy in his attire. His amorous exploits were partly due to the lewdness of the women around him. This weakness seemed to be a source of secret pride for her. I had sensed this when she spoke about the occasional illicit relations carried out by her father in her old age. Besides, there was something else that only her father could have done. He had contributed to the rebuilding of the synagogue at Ortaköy, which had burned down on the night of Yom Kippur; this contribution had not only been financial, but also physical, as he carried slabs to the construction site, for months on end, up until the moment it was reconsecrated and made ready for rituals. The name of her father had literally been written on those stones. She was justifiably boastful of him. This token feeling she had been harboring in her memory of that man who aspired for eternal youth was an indication of her traditionalist tendencies despite the education she had received and her conservative character on which she had based her life. She had studied at the Greek preliminary school at Çatalca where she had spent her childhood being controlled by priests, where her attire had an aura of awful sanctity. This choice had appeared to be the best stepping-stone under the prevailing circumstances at the time. Her studies in that school were to open the door to another story in which no one else would have access ever after, to a story in which a child had been killed surreptitiously in cold blood, a story beyond the imagination of a juvenile. After the family moved to Istanbul, she had continued her studies at the Alliance Israélite Universelle where the courses were given in French. Like in other schools whose curricula were in French, the language taught was a grammatically correct one, yet lacking in contemporaneity. The general impression of her generation was that the ‘Alliance days’ were to remain a chapter in her life she would remember as delightful. However, no one at home had ever had an inkling of the true and fanciful meaning of that period. That time spent was still vivid in her imagination; she remembered her success in mathematics which was taught by Madame Gurland, whose name was a source of mockery, and who, with her stern complexion, was notorious in that she never swerved from her principles. She had memorized La Fontaine’s fables and they were still in the store of her memory as well as Victor Hugo’s poems and Rousseau’s ideas about the equality of all human beings. To have sat at the desks of Alliance Israelite Universelle where the Spanish language was spoken in its original accent that gave it a special flavor lent her and her schoolmates, who still organized regular meetings and played cards, a special privilege, of which they were proud. These card games had been an integral part of her way of life. Whenever she felt the need for some encouragement she recalled those meetings; those were the moments when she felt a little bit lonelier than usual, somewhat abandoned; trying to partake of the warm atmosphere of those times. All these factors had not succeeded in destroying her conservative and traditionalist tendencies; nay, they had even served her as nourishment. Such a privilege had to have a
more special place than the one fostered by her traditional education. At this juncture, there was a particularity which should not go unnoticed. Having been obliged to fulfill her maternal duty at a very early age, she was obliged to leave school before completing it; had she continued her studies another year, her position as a graduate would have certainly been an asset just like it was to her other school friends who had attained high positions. This may have engendered in her an inferiority complex. The days that followed may have directed her toward the attainment of different values. I think, however, conservatism was in her veins, and provided her with energy. This attachment to socially accepted values was a consequence of the conditions of the world in which she was confined. Otherwise, she would not be so particular about religious days; nor would she stress, especially on the occasion of such holidays, that this attitude had contributed to the survival of the Jewish race, saving the whole lot of them from extermination; nor would she prepare delicious traditional cuisine she had learned from her mother, like beans with spinach, leek meatballs, squash pastry, among which was also
almodrote
; nor would she consider, not only as a token of ascendancy, but also as an assurance for rainy days, her mink coat, her diamond ring and her golden necklace of which she was proud of in terms of length and weight. All these things, these ‘little lives,’ had sufficed to make her a seemingly good spouse, a good mother and a good elder sister. The fact that this had earned her the nickname of ‘Churchill’ for her tact in handling her brothers, along with her physical resemblance to him, and the words of Monsieur Jacques, years after, in remembrance of the dead, namely, “Roza was different, she was an angel,” were well grounded. Nevertheless, for me, what had made her the Madame Roza that we knew as such was Olga’s entry into the scene. This ordeal was more trying than the twenty-day military service; than the days that Monsieur Jacques had mourned for Nesim; than those interminable nights during which the long-lasting illness of his elder years had given him so much pain. She had sensed at the very beginning that another woman, Olga, was no longer simply an employee working in the shop of her husband, but a woman who had sneaked into her husband’s life. She had sensed it, and understood the whole affair, but had to acknowledge, after the inevitable storms that had raged in the house, that her husband belonged to her after all, and so, she had felt obliged to accept everything as normal, thanks to her husband’s preference to stay at home every Friday night; thus she had connived at this illicit relationship with patience and forbearance in the hope that at the end the victory would be hers. He was well aware of the comfort that married life procured. As an individual in need not only of his wife’s congeniality, conservatism and the confidence that she inspired in him—like the other heroes and heroines of insular lives—but also for her faithfulness to memories past, he could not venture to be deprived of such a comfort. The building up of a new life on the ruins of such a sanctuary was certainly out of the question. That was the concrete reality she plainly saw. However, in this struggle, wherein so much hatred had been present against all expectation, there had been a part she had been reluctant to see, to understand, and perhaps to inquire into. Barring all the appearances, had her husband really remained faithful to his family or to the woman whom he did not want a better knowledge of at closer range? This question could be answered neither by herself nor by Monsieur Jacques, nor by any other person . . . For, such a question might breed other questions; new and dangerous questions that might shatter the foundations of certain things . . . Such cross-examination may not have been indulged in, due to the failure of taking this step . . . In this testimonial project, my contribution had been to that extent only. The questions of the heroes of the story may have remained exclusive to themselves. Actually, everybody seemed to have lived this adventure within their own interior space, at their pleasure, without making any comments to anyone . . . In other words, the problem had been solved by certain shortcomings. This was another form of
de facto
perhaps. Just like in the case of the consequences that other illicit relations bring about. Just like the protection in the case of nearly all relations that assume meaning through servitude. How many people had once known somebody who had taken such steps and asked those same questions that would open brand new doors for them . . . the people who asked the questions or those who had featured in such questions? This certainly demanded courage and involved risks. This indecision would develop chronically in you and gnaw at your very foundations. Yet this cross-examination was a way out for Olga who had been caught in a dilemma, for Olga who had to put up a bold front against loneliness and had to solve all the problems that she faced in life herself. It was the curse of circumstance that had faced her. She could express herself in a different fashion from the other hero and heroine of the story, namely Madame Roza and Monsieur Jacques; this had led her to greater losses and greater gains simultaneously. Yes, to greater losses and gains . . . That was my own illusory conclusion . . . maybe a concrete reality had found expression in me as a result of my affection for her. You may call it sentiment if you want. For, Madame Roza had in the eyes of Monsieur Jacques, a spouse, a faithful spouse at that, while being a true woman at the same time, in other words, the epitome of all the merits generally required in a woman. Something one had lost or had failed to find in other women. Olga had to believe in the veracity of this. That thought, that place she had preferred to stay might eventually turn into somewhere which would enable her to provide answers to certain questions, a place to remain ostensibly intact, where she desired it to be displayed through such a character . . . Despite all defeats, destitution and deceptions . . . Aspiration for this place was perhaps the right of every one of those actors that had a role in that relationship.