Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (41 page)

My daisy sea

Everybody had grown old in their own fashion at the place where they had always been; everybody was resigned to listen to the resonance of the sounds and voices that arose from within their own depths. For, there were moments when certain latent representations passed judgment on people and established close links between them. Lily complained of recurrent dreams marred with nightmares which frightened her to death. Madame Estreya had remained pent up in her confined and distant world of sentiment. Her visits to those who had silently denied her once had, despite the changing conditions, grown less and less frequent. Monsieur Jacques, withdrawn to his autistic world at home, was in pursuit of absolute stillness. The woman with whom he had shared a long life of innumerable devastating storms and meaningful reserve and sacrifices, lay ill, and was getting prepared for a journey quite different from those she had undertaken so far. Madame Roza was well aware of all these developments, of the facts which could not have been given utterance; it was as though she lent an ear to them trying to hear sounds of a different kind. After she had encountered the hard fact that had induced her to blurt out “Why me?” she had found herself engaged in a new and fierce battle of existence in her capacity as the matron of the family. It was the last pitched battle to be fought; she would no longer receive any further wounds on the battleground. She had made a point of not exposing her grievances to view. Yet, her throes increased. She could not help watching her body waste away with every passing day. She retired to her room on certain evenings saying that she needed some rest. This was new for her; never before had she reverted to such an expedient. Did this mean that she was suffering from a budding illness, a sort of solitude difficult to describe, one to be endured through storms that were raging in one’s heart? Was this a new bone of contention between her and her ineluctable fate? When I take a look, at present, at what has been experienced retrospectively, I can plainly see that she had been virtually abandoned; she might, at a pitch, resign herself to such a state of abandonment, of depletion and prostration, had she not been faced with the difficulty of displaying to her loved ones, to those whom she had been devoted to for all those years with a deep sense of responsibility, certain scenes from her last battle which she would have preferred not to divulge. It looked as though she retired to her chamber in search of sanctuary. The mastectomy she had had last year had failed to solve the problem. The results showed that there had been metastases; the disease was spreading to other parts of the body. The medical profession had proved to be inefficient once more. Doctors were silent about the number of days she had left. “Chemotherapy and radiotherapy would no longer help her, all that we can do is to soothe her pain,” said the doctors.

The image of Madame Roza from those days is still fresh in my mind. A TV set had just been purchased. This object, which, in time, would have revolutionary effects on the domestic lives of the great majority of people, had, for the moment, created for the privileged class a new diversion, and had been an important factor in bringing together the family members who were clustering in drawing-rooms to watch the black-and-white transmissions on a single channel on certain days of the week. I had been a regular visitor during those hours, especially to watch the general knowledge quiz. Monsieur Jacques who had been reluctant about this ‘box,’ which he deemed to be a token of wealth, and who would find nothing of interest in it for a good many years to come, used to react against this new contraption by dozing off, even though he kept denying this fact. Minor altercations involving ridicule were not rare among the family members. Berti had managed to get in some good shots on his father who had been roused from his sleep when the flash had gone off. “What’s that? What impertinence!” he said as though he wanted to rebuke him. But, having witnessed the mildly humorous atmosphere, the laughter caused by the good-natured joke, he would reply to his son by bellowing “Goof.” Amid the contrasting bitterness, that evening was to remain fixed on people’s memories. I wonder why certain incidents, though dull and insipid in themselves, occupy important places in people’s minds? Why certain moments give rise to indelible impressions. The relevant matter here was the phenomenon of reunion; a reunion anticipated without any set purpose, one that had occurred naturally. However, there seemed to be something lurking behind this reunion, something vague that was likely to remain doomed to obscurity forever. What on earth could it be, the thing that reminds us of certain aspects of our life regardless of our predispositions? This question, though transient, struck a chord in me that would re-emerge every now and then. What has remained in my memory from that evening are but pieces of information; certain moments that I can recall refer back to the snapshots in hand, to my wish to recollect the incidents of that evening, and to my nostalgic regard for them; those are recollections I find hard to give voice to at any given moment.

Yes, the quiz shows, they were forms of entertainment often found on the TV at the time in which members of a panel competed answering questions. Madame Roza was pleased to see me giving correct answers to puzzling questions. And when I failed to provide answers, she, far from reproaching me, remarked that such programs were meant essentially to instruct people, in addition to their being a form of entertainment, telling me about the
quitte ou double
program on Radio Monte Carlo she had once listened to at a family gathering. She had so many things to say about those programs. Here was another instance of an adoption of one memory for the sake of another. She remembered once a contestant that had carried the day, answering all the questions put to him, winning the sweepstakes; but what had caused a stir was not the prize he was awarded but the comment he had made after the applause had ceased. The question was: “Who was the Prima Donna at the premiere of the opera put on at La Scala?” to which the contester answered: “Maria Callas.” However, when the cheers subsided, he added that he had given that answer on purpose as it was what everybody had expected him to say; otherwise the right answer should be “Leyla Gencer.” This had created considerable uproar among the audience. The subsequent investigation had proved that the claim was in fact correct. This incident had wide repercussions all over France and had eventually found its written expression in Paris Match. Madame Roza could not quote the exact wording of the gentleman’s remark, unlike other key moments she could convey to people which she kept in the store of her memory. She might have missed the gist of the joke and the crux of the incident was likely to have gone through alterations over time because the years that had elapsed in the meantime may have superimposed neologisms and novel features to the report. Yet, the essential thing was the existence of those moments, of the places filled by those moments laden with meaningful recollections. This exercise of memory had brought tears to her eyes. Madame Roza attached great importance to erudition. Her erudition far surpassed her husband’s or her brother’s. This was probably the reason for her father’s reliance on her, in whom he took great pride. Such had been the sneak previews of the TV quizzes in that house . . . A few snapshots and a couple of tidbits . . . to show people the fact that somewhere in the past certain things had been enacted, thus giving oneself a grounding in order to bear what one had to go through more easily. In other words, those evenings had varied moments, touching moments. Everybody who lived and who was obliged to live in that long, blind alley felt the need to probe deeply into themselves. This is the reason why I have always wanted to lend credence to the importance of those brief moments when Madame Roza was peeping through her little window at what she had left behind for me. This act that occurred during the evening paved the way for the emergence of a joy which I can express only now despite my grieving. On my way to that little house I was unaware of the closeness I would share with the others. I’m inclined to believe that a day will come when I’ll be able to define the nature of this joy more clearly, and be able to take new steps forward toward the person hidden within me. The only thing that had not lost its character was, I think, the taste of that specially prepared white coffee. The fact the memory of that white coffee still lingers on my palate despite the lapse of a decade is testament to my desire to reclaim what is lost to that distant past at all costs. There are moments in one’s life when one connects to an aftertaste or scent that abides in one’s memory, of which we do not want to be denied and which we cannot rid ourselves of. There were impressions that lingered, concealed behind seemingly ordinary and all too familiar representations. Regardless of the associations that this gush of enthusiasm might lead me to, this distinctive taste, which even caused me to take delight in milk, was attributable to a special concoction, the flavor of which I could find nowhere else. I’d heard the word ‘chicory’ for the first time in my life there; however, it would take me years to have an insight into the exact meaning of the word thanks to the research I carried out. Chicory was a thick-rooted, usually blue-flowered, perennial herb native to Europe, it is widely grown for its young leaves which are used as salad greens while the dried ground roasted root of it are used to flavor coffee. How relevant is this information at this juncture? I really don’t know, nor shall I ever be able to find the right place for it. What seems of vital concern to me is the magic of this key word that carries me back to those days, along the path I am supposed to tread. Madame Roza used to dissolve the chicory tablets she bought at the Çankaya Food Market at Şişli in hot water—the properties of which had an overwhelming effect on me at the time—which she continually refer to as ‘Neagora,’ its former nomenclature. She diluted the solution in coffee as was necessary, preserving it in a large infusion bottle—the origin of which she made a point of keeping a secret—which she then placed in the refrigerator, mixing it gingerly with milk when it was to be served. The portion of the additive admitted during the process remained constant. The chicory is beyond my reach now. So much the better, in a way . . . I realize now that certain truths exclusively belong to particular places, and should do so, in fact. My finding delight in milk undoubtedly had latent meanings which lay deep within me. I was to experience the same delight years later after tasting Juliet’s white coffee. However, my overall experience with milk had failed to prompt a love for it in me, and, what is more, a love for people who liked it. It seemed to me that that love concealed an ill; an illness I have always found difficult to define. I had come to this conclusion through a warning given to me. Lineaments, scents, and words are all mingled now. Had I been afraid of probing into certain truths? Perhaps I had. However, these are particularities that can find their true balances in other stories and places. What I want to stress here is the fact that Madame Roza continued to concoct her white coffee even during the days when she had finally resigned herself to her fate. During this process she appeared to be in a sort of trance; her stare lost in the distance, not uttering a word. So far, she had never settled accounts with Monsieur Jacques. It looked as though certain words had failed to find their place in certain instances. One wonders if the true words had lingered there. There are certain women whose fighting style and manner of lovemaking one cannot imagine. I figured Madame Roza was such a woman. I could not imagine who or what she might have been staring at (her looks were diverted into the distance), nor what time and space she had been regarding. Once she had mentioned a person she had recalled from her childhood days. It was an old man, a vagrant with tousled white hair, begging for a drink. They called him
‘Bohor el Mintirozo’
(Bohor the liar), as he was a notorious gossip. Among the accounts he gave were unexpected deaths, women cheating on their husbands, buried treasures unearthed, houses deliberately set on fire, etc. Despite his untoward reputation, he somehow managed to find people to believe him. Although they doubted the veracity of his accounts, people who were either gullible enough to be duped or people who allowed themselves to be duped for the mere pleasure of having something to believe in. To live on imaginary truths had become Bohor’s philosophy in life. He was not only the village idiot, but also its storyteller. The local people had a need for such a figure. One day, he said that he was going to Istanbul to see a woman he had been in love with while in his teens for the last time. Nobody believed him; as they had interpreted this as another product of his fevered imagination, giving rise to another false effusion. However, no one saw him thereafter. Had this been the only truth he ever offered? Madame Roza was concerned about this as she realized that Bohor would be one of the people she would feel nostalgic about whenever she chose to revisit the past. She was resolved to find him before she reached her final destination and ask him: “Do we not all need to make sure that certain legends buried within us remain safe and sound in our confrontation with the truth?”

When her stare was lost in the distance, I pictured her imagining the vast green meadows and the fields of daisies that stretched far and wide. Panting, she was heading for one of her islands; she had difficulty breathing and felt a sense of constriction in her chest as she was often subject to fits of coughing. These symptoms reminded me of the asthma attacks I had as a child. I wasn’t the only one who suffered those never-ending nights of silence.

That little lie

These are the photographs dating from the days of Aunt Tilda’s brother’s stay at her home; snapshots I can never forget. Monsieur Robert, deeply touched by his sister’s hospitality, had warmly embraced his little sister and was reduced to tears. He disregarded the risk he ran to distort his legendary image because of a moment of vulnerability. At the time, the hotel room in which we had long talks and the tea hours we shared that enabled us to coexist despite our differences was not yet there. We had not yet seen each other; we had not yet felt the need to mutually open those doors. Aunt Tilda was to tell me about that emotional scene years later, when she eventually believed that I had familiarized myself with her brother. During that time, during which she had invited and received him with all his encumbrances and without reservations, she merely told me the story she had been keeping in her breast, her emotional experiences and joy; communicating to me in Istanbul the virtual image of the London adventure. No one else but Aunt Tilda could depict the flotsam and jetsam of that tale. It was a day when her elder brother was out to strike important deals. We were alone, the two of us . . . As she displayed to me the costumes, shirts, and underwear meticulously arranged in the wardrobe in the room she had tidied up for her new guest with the charm of a naughty girl who was not without a somewhat demure demeanor, she had made the following remark: “As you may well see, they’re all premium products.” She seemed to be vindicating something, to cast away all doubts, more than ever. She had gone into the kitchen to prepare her first meal in many years . . . after so many years . . . to make her guest feel at home. Despite all her efforts, her stoic stance, and her endeavor to clad the days in a different garb, her joy, nay her exuberance, would be short lived; like all strong emotions, this experience would also run itself out naturally. Within six months of his moving into his sister’s place, Monsieur Robert would one day pack up without any pretext or desire to account for his sudden decision and said with an apologetic tone that it would be better for him to live elsewhere. The hotel room at Sıraselviler would be a later growth. Aunt Tilda had at first reproached herself for having failed to have been a perfect hostess, blotting out all other postulations. All she had done had been to express her sadness at his departure, observing that she had done everything to provide for his comfort. Whereupon her brother had tapped her on her shoulder and said that the world they lived in was corrupt and that all the habiliments, illuminations, and dark nights had but one purpose: to cover up the raging depravity. What was going on in the world could no longer be grasped by those who had preserved their pristine chastity . . . Well, this world was calling him. That was all he could say. He felt that the only advice he, who considered himself to have failed to give his little sister what was expected from an elder brother, could offer was to suggest to her to keep her childhood innocence despite all the untoward events likely to beset her. The world was in dire need of people with the hearts of children; more than ever . . . regardless of whether the world was aware of this fact or not. Aunt Tilda had reacted to her brother’s comment with an eerie silence; she had presumed that her brother was quite probably handling important business deals that required an irregular schedule. After all, serious business made one pay through the nose. Her dejection had been compensated, however, as she felt a sort of pride mixed with disappointment; she had thought of film stars constantly in direct confrontation with death . . . She had, in fact, lived many years in their company. This had offered her a crumb of comfort and facilitated her alleviation of this sense of defeat. The truth lay elsewhere; of which she would be confronted much later, when she was to learn that her brother had gone to London without any intention to return home. The fact was this man whom she had idealized was burdened with a crippling gambling debt and was facing ferocious clashes with the creditors who threatened his life. Being afraid that his sister might also be involved in this dirty affair, he had decided to beat them at their own game by roaming elsewhere.