Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (45 page)

Loving one’s own morning

There are places that invite certain people into unavoidable lives, rooms, and pictures; this reminds you of the story of clouds chasing each other for rain; such moments emerge from different times and spaces only to merge one day. Having graduated from the English High School, Berti had decided to continue his studies at Cambridge where he intended to read political science. According to his own account, what had played a major role in his decision was the philosophy teacher of leftist tendencies, Mr. Page, whose forum On Life had generated a high level of notice and endeared him to a wide audience. The image of Mr. Page imprinted on my memory represents him as a robust and corpulent man with a scarlet complexion, a hard drinker—for instance, one winter day, for a bet, after having consumed forty-two cans of beer at a party, he had jumped into the ice cold waters of the Bosporus and swum for quite a while—whose aim it had been to inspire in his students an interest in cricket which he tried to make attractive to them by the anecdotes he told about his years of professional play as a young man. He had taken into consideration one day to play Elgar on a record player during class. He had resided in Istanbul for a good many years. One evening, while he was dining with a couple of students at Çiçek Pazarı, half-inebriated, he had told them that throughout his life only once had he fallen in love with a woman. They had forewarned Mr.Page that the next day there would be an exam; to which he had retorted that they could prepare themselves for it while they were dining at the table. What he had said had come true; for, they had discussed their subject at the table and been successful at their exam. Well, they had seen him in the company of that woman at Nişantaşı. As far as they could gather, the woman lived in London and came to Istanbul two or three times a year to sojourn no longer than a few days. Much later, they had come by the following information at another dinner table to celebrate their graduation. The woman was apparently married to a prominent politician, a member of the Working Party. Their affair had been going on for years and seemed to continue in this way, trying to experience the continued secrecy in a diverse, volatile, and mercurial atmosphere despite their waning energy that they persisted in trying to reinvigorate; by experiencing the thrill of evasion . . . the thrill that they explored under different climates and diverse cities. Only in this way could they perpetuate this prohibited love they could not exhaust. He had decided to leave Istanbul for another city. He needed this emigration. He was in need of another city, of another sanctuary, in need of a different kind of bondage. Mr. Page had submitted his resignation a few days after this confession on the grounds that he had been appointed to a job in Sri Lanka. He was going to set off on a long journey, once again, involving a new language and new surroundings. Life would be beautified with such new ventures. He had another hope; he would be nearer to Nepal and Tibet, places he wanted to see so much for some special reasons he could not disclose. Upon hearing this, his students had remained silent; trying not to create obstacles that would likely hamper their teacher’s headway in his imaginary pilgrimage. They couldn’t bring themselves to believe in the adventure he was to embark on. According to them, this gentleman who had taught them how to read and recite poetry and how to live one’s life as a poem was sure to go back to London and settle there. His place of solitary confinement should be London and his vernacular should remain his ultimate means of communication. That was destined to be the last evening they would meet; the last of a series of encounters spanning many years, encounters which had grown less and less frequent as time went by. I wonder if Mr. Page had observed that suspicion lurking in his students’ eyes, that inquiring look. After all that he had gone through, all the tribulations endured and all the risks taken for the realization of such an effectual dream, for all the thought and planning that went into making this long journey, he was to be as remote as possible from that woman. They were fully conscious of the fact that taking certain steps forward and having an insight into them was not always possible; they knew that everybody was in need of a last city, town, or village where they could take refuge, but Mr. Page’s fantasy of Sri Lanka had seemed to them a hopeless expedition.

This episode had taken Berti back to a far distant past. We had been on one of our long walks. We had had a couple of hot sandwiches and a pint of beer. It was a sunny afternoon. The shop had been the scene of a long-standing dispute that was hardly ever seen by an ordinary person in his lifetime. The words had eventually been given utterance. We were to haunt the place a couple of times more to share our woes with our fellow beings. I was to taste draught beer for the first time and savor the rich sauce made with walnuts, bread, garlic, olive oil, and vinegar. Berti had settled himself at a table near the exit in order that he could leave immediately when he felt like it. I thought I had understood his reason for this. There were certain places that he was reluctant to touch, to see . . . Those tables were to burn to ashes one day, to leave different images in the minds of those who had been witnesses to the event. When we were back there after a couple of years, new tables seemed to invite new customers. Berti had mentioned for the first time the lobster he had eaten at Christopher’s place. It was plain he had already been there several times in the company of Jerry. This had been the first and last time we spoke about it.

Berti’s glitzy image of Mr. Page contained many ordinary things; a student’s making headway toward his teacher, with all the conceivable associations . . . In the meantime, he was lured into new whims, reluctant to dwell on this characteristic of the relationship he glossed over. Seen in this context, the relationship was nothing out of the ordinary. All that had been experienced at the time was in fact run-of-the-mill performances that were similar to many other episodes. What had been witnessed in that house prior to the Cambridge adventure, of which I was to bear testimony, was actually more or less identical to the commonplace incidents of everyday life for the passive spectator. The initial reaction of Monsieur Jacques to the decision of his son who wanted to pursue his studies abroad was ordinary, as were the words uttered by Berti in return, yet there seemed to be certain truths that lay behind this ordinariness or seeming ordinariness which could not be expressed so easily. In order that we might perceive those truths, we needed, usually, additional details which would enable us to transgress certain barriers. These details seemed to be embedded in those days when father and son were experiencing their first true encounter; they had dared to take the risk of seeing each other, treading warily in feelings to which they were strangers, feelings for which they were not prepared, accepting the full consequences of their behavior. They were touching at a soft spot, one they thought would remain untouched forever. However, one could deny of course that certain storms were going to rage inevitably. This seemed to be the common unchanging fate of those who were pent up in their respective worlds. Today, I must admit that I can grasp, not without great difficulty, the meaning of the whole when ruminating over the fragments that reach me piecemeal. Monsieur Jacques’ adverse reaction to his son’s decision was only too natural if one takes into consideration what he had been planning for his future. One had to face the inevitability of certain things under the circumstances. The ongoing business had to be passed on to someone enjoying a privileged position in the family. This was only logical and there was nothing surprising in it. Actually, according to Monsieur Jacques, his son’s desire to pursue his studies abroad was a normal course to take. He was prepared to make the necessary arrangements. The problem lay in part with the area of study Berti selected. It was Monsieur Jacques’ opinion that he should not be opting for an impractical subject which he would never be able to pursue in life. He might, for instance, study textile engineering, which would secure him a bright future. There seemed to be renowned educational establishments in this line both in England and in Belgium. In the meantime, he advised his son to take stock of his decision by looking at it in a historical context. To what kind of a future would his study of political science pave a path toward? Diplomacy? An academic career? Moreover, one should also keep in mind the fact that the implications that his name carried would come as a disadvantage if he were fostering a hope for a future political career. Being a Cambridge graduate would change nothing. His name was Berti Ventura. For him the path he would tread was predetermined in this country wherein he belonged to an ethnic minority. While discussing this question with his son, Monsieur Jacques believed that his arguments were perfectly logical. He was sincere, without affectation. A considerable part of his existence, past experiences, and
Weltanschauung
were owed to those who had lent him such a sound logic. One might call it conviction perhaps. This conviction roused a high-pitched resentment in him that was not easily expressed verbally. Madame Roza had stretched her protective wings over Berti at the time. “Why not indulge his whim,” she told Monsieur Jacques. “Let him go; every young man must have his fling, after all; he will come back sooner or later.”

This made perfect sense of course. She would have hated to see her son as a diplomat. She had made herself hospitable to her husband’s point of view by ceding to his arguments. One should not forget the hardships caused by the tax on wealth and earnings that was leveled in 1942. He was not expected to know, of course, anything about the bakery at Sütlüce. Leaving all things aside, the very idea of studying abroad gave her food for thought. After all, to be in a strange land, all alone, without any monitor to guide him might cause him to indulge in unwanted practices with undesirable people; unpredictable new horizons might seem attractive to him. Her anxiety, therefore, should be understandable concerning a son living out of her reach in a foreign country; the concerns of someone who had been living for so long in a country reeling from so many human tragedies and deaths; all these things were to the point and had to be taken with equanimity. Notwithstanding all these facts, Madame Roza had been prescient and contributed to the solution of the problem without any serious aftershocks thanks to her motherly affection. She had sensed her son’s determination to leave home for a period of time during which he would create for himself his future prospects. He might have used other expressions to convey his thoughts on the matter. Yet, in essence, mother and son had a great affinity for one another. Madame Roza was a mother who knew her boundaries all too well; this held true not only with regard to her relations with her son, but also with her husband, brothers, and sisters. The reason why every family member held her in such high esteem and sought refuge in her must be down to this warmth . . . . to know one’s limitations and curb one’s excesses . . . to know the boundaries of people and never transgress . . . to know how far one can go with certain individuals . . . How could one ignore the power of intuition in such situations? Madame Roza’s exercise of her intuitive power on her next-of-kin implied an esoteric ascendancy hard to define. She was one of those who held sway over people without making them conscious of it. This command may have exercised no significant influence over certain developments in her life; yet, she had an unshakable confidence in time. This firm belief had shed light on her most difficult times.

Berti had overheard his parents arguing in their chamber over his desire to leave from his bedroom; he listened silently without making his presence felt. This verbal strife usually took place at night when certain effects were believed to be carried more easily. Madame Roza’s sway had been tested during those nights, and was revealed more tangibly. Berti had found a guardian angel in his mother once again, at the least expected moment, in the midst of a wrangle that had caught him unawares. Not long after, the path was clear; the path that had been trodden by many different people, in many different manners, and which reminded him of many different anecdotes and associations. The said dispute that had taken place between him and his parents had been his first serious miscalculation. He would have to face many other quarrels at other times in the future. These were to open the door to certain adversities, resentments, introspections, and hard feelings rather than being conducive to new hopes. However, in order to experience these feelings, they first had to be harbored somewhere. During his first major argument, Berti was imagining that he could take steps toward a thoroughly different place. This was actually a story fancied to have taken place at other times whose heroes were strangers, an ordinary story in which every hero lived his own delusions and carried his own deficiency without having an inkling of it in the least. The expectations of an individual under those circumstances, I could perceive reflected on the countenance of others. What Berti told me about those days was nothing new for us, in fact. One desired to be conscious of the originality of whatever one had left behind somewhere. One felt the need to tell anybody willing to listen about this originality. I was familiar with this need. That is why as I listened to the narration of this story I had the impression of listening to a familiar voice. This had allowed me to empathize with the incidents that had taken place in those days. I happened to be on the stage. The history was an old one. Berti was convinced that he was being guided by hope. The year was 1954. Jerry was but fourteen years old. He was as happy as a lark when he had heard the news. He had been the person that Berti had missed the most while in Cambridge.

Berti’s Cambridge seemed to be a small town, a relic from a fairy tale; a town resolved to make its presence felt throughout history, not letting the unforgettable episodes from an exciting past sink into oblivion . . . Now that I am in the mood, I’m prepared to write the stories of those who carried with them their tales relating to the cities that have remained indelible in their memories. Odessa, Alexandria, New York, Istanbul, Vienna, Paris, Colombo, Rio, London, etc. . . . Those individuals had memories relating to those cities which they kept undisclosed to the end of their lives. These memories were their respective treasures that should be revealed and resurrected for their own sake. The leisurely strolls that Berti and I used to take in the city seem rather hazy now; I feel myself in no position to tell what particular images of Cambridge are buried in those meaningful memories. All that I can assert at present is that those recollections invite us to a common ground, the only difference being that each of us has access to it from opposite directions. I must say that in order for one to have an inkling of that, one has to have certain facts in perspective. The tale that Berti had transported from Cambridge to Istanbul was one whose origins went back to a secret disappointment. The tale in question spoke about a youth who was taking steps toward a city in which he hoped to realize his ambitions and aspirations. We had wandered through the streets silently, furtively, sub rosa. He had arrived in the town on an autumn day after a relatively short train journey. The first thing he had done was to put up at a small hotel. The hotel was run by an eccentric individual with an accent that betrayed his Scottish origin. What was particularly interesting about him was his true vocation; he had been a poorly appreciated Professor of astrophysics. On the third day after his arrival at the hotel he had invited him to his room, which contained a powerful telescope. The large cardboard hanging on the walls contained intricate figures and formulae. “I’ll discover one day the remotest star in the universe, the star that nobody has ever set eyes upon,” he used to repeat every now and then. To be able to see the remotest star nobody has ever set eyes upon . . . This unreal fancy existing only as the product of a wild and unrestrained imagination was sheer poetry, a proem to a poem. Can one ever posit that such a chimerical conception might have a potential truth in it? The question had been left unanswered. As a matter of fact, he had been to the Professor’s room once more, long after he had settled in the halls of residence at his college. The door was opened by an attractive young woman who told him that the man had transferred the hotel to her and had not left any address. All that she knew was that he had packed up and left for Scotland, as from there, on higher ground, he believed he could have a clearer view of the universe. That was the last of him: by the way she also had an accent similar to the Professor’s.