Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (49 page)

What had happened there at that time had dragged Monsieur Jacques, who had brought the issues to a climax, to a secret alcove. It was as though a sentiment, preferred to be left in the dark, had been given utterance through a completely different means, clothed in silence or hidden behind a laconic expression. Had Berti exercised his discretion in opting for the opposite coast, viz. beyond the wall, his life might have undergone a radical transformation and demonstrated to him how his past steps had been disastrous and devoid of all meaning. One of the important pawns in the game had been moved somewhat cautiously. However, it had to be admitted that over many years he had developed his skill in the game and had acquired considerable foresight in moving the pieces with great shrewdness. Father and son had run into each other unexpectedly at a crossroads, to be precise at a blind alley, at each other’s dead end. One could describe this game as a silent death bound to remain hidden only in glances. The stories recounted in other lives, books, and pictures had been the previous witnesses of this death. Olga, just like Marcellina, had been a mere onlooker who watched and was compelled to watch the parties move their pieces in this game of death, the parties who approached each other for the sake of their secret. What was even sadder was the fact that even in such mawkishness, a true aspect of the father and son relationship had remained eclipsed and barren.
Piece touchée piece jouée
was
de rigueur
. This rule had to be applied to the letter. They were the protagonists of a story in which certain burning questions had to be veiled; it was a protracted meeting in the distant past through years and years at a time when a loss could be risked after a series of demises. This was due to the necessity of paying respect to death tolls . . . just like the figures acting in the same play for the same objectives. This was the price of living in a sanctuary, of the saving of one’s life in due conformity with one’s own criteria.

Berti’s other problem, similar to the problem of many of his kind who could not do otherwise, had its origins in the fact that he was blind to the inferno behind that paradise which he believed he had lost, to real life in other words. According to him that was a place where he thought himself happier than in the overpopulated city, in that city where he was compelled to live. He had been incapable of taking stock of the reality there, of this essential element; either then or any time thereafter; if the reverse had been the case, he could have had an insight into its reflection in distorted mirrors, which would have enabled him to endure life, at least the daily difficulties, more easily. But the fact was that he had grown accustomed to this lie. Could this be another means of clinging to a branch without feeling the obligation to define what it was attached to? By the way, did we not have a similar feeling at times for the people nearest to us, whom we thought to be nearest to us? Was not our inferno concealed in those steps of ours we could not properly explain? Had we not been looking for ages now for our paradise in the glow of another age whose appellation had long been a thing of the past? The story of this dull, persistent, and sometimes throbbing pain which accompanied the experiences we had gone through lasted in certain hearts for years, intermittently in different guises up until that magical moment of which we suddenly had a glimpse into the fullness of time. That precipitation which one could observe in love-at-first-sight had its exact foil when one falls out of love. However, in order that we could understand all this we had to be sufficiently bold, brave, and courageous to lend an ear to the voices in those secret alcoves in the chambers of our heart. This was the moment when we were disposed to be familiarized with those foreign words, when we could protect ourselves, having been masters of ourselves in the background of a long and common past. I’m ignorant of the fact whether Berti had come upon these questions or eventualities when he returned to his past in the course of his introspective odyssey, heading for this relationship he had had to leave behind in the hope of consigning it to oblivion, but which he could never hope to achieve—at least by my expectations—since he could not help but objectify it. At the time we happened to be poles apart. I realize the distance that separated us more effectively now that I am trying to lend credence to what we had gone through. I have a feeling that I’m channeling a secret of his, inaccessible I think to many people, for all practical purposes. The path that led to that secret was strewn with gravel not to be displaced. After that separation, Berti had not set eyes again on Marcellina, who had ushered in his life a completely new era and kindled an inextinguishable fire. Not to be able to come into contact with those familiar objects anymore like in the old days . . . postulating that his beloved continued to live in one of those lives in one of those worlds, especially during his solitary hours . . . swept by a series of questions involving such words as where and how. He had in the past had access to representations that had nourished this feeling which was to continue to be fed so long as those deficiencies lasted. I had tried to visualize those representations; at the locations where those things took me I seemed to detect the traces of blissful moments which could not be relived or recaptured. Where were those bicycle rides now? That conceptual thinking that linked him to his former tutors and fellow companions in the name of an unshattered and different world. Where was the river that the boat rides on? In which nooks and crannies of these photographs had they hidden themselves? Did words succeed in bringing about stealth as well as explicitness? I might entertain the hope of attaining such targets had other
quodlibets
been offered for argument. Regardless of what these photographs concealed, it was obvious that certain things had been left behind for good in the distant past, certain things with changing terminology and affects over time. Berti might be chastising himself against a backdrop of that eventuality he had lost forever in the past. During his meditations in those evening hours he had ended up by committing himself to the idea that he had to remain faithful to this separation and accept the road ahead as it was paved and resign himself to that fact. He couldn’t help thinking this way. Once stowed in one’s memory, nothing could be deleted. So long as you were in a position to recollect those photographic memories, you were sure to feel yourself indebted to those you had left behind through the looking glass. It might so happen that you would discern the smiling faces of the figures behind that mirror. Could one interpret those as being the moments you felt to be nearest the target?

We were partly our photographs

How could you have foreseen during those nights which song, which word, or which representation was destined to set you off on that journey you had been putting off for so many years? You could never give a proper depiction of those nights. Only your own imagination could prepare you for that journey . . . equipped with the memories of old fictions or films which you would like to communicate to certain people . . . as you are in the process of consigning the former masked visages of your old imagination to oblivion . . . Berti had succeeded in going to Cambridge several years after, after a tide of about twenty years. We were not yet coeval with this event. All I knew about this journey had been communicated to me afterward; it was the seventies. It was evening. I was perfectly aware of the fact that certain representations, whose true meanings and idioms lay concealed in esoteric recesses, came to light when a story desired to be narrated often underwent alterations and changes of identity. This is the reason why I attempted to convey certain thoughts and reflections of certain representations in a garb one would have liked to identify himself with. Cambridge reminded me of that person, of his memories and the journey he took, not of a town he was familiar with. He had visited that town on and off for business purposes spending no longer than a couple of hours there; which particular business led him there he would not be in a position to say now . . . Upon his arrival there by bus he had thought that the town had been considerably altered, but, contrary to his expectations, he had not been moved in the slightest degree by what was before him. It appeared not to be the same city in which he had once roamed on sunny afternoons. He found himself staring at the river. A group of young people were training for the boat race. A girl passed by riding a bicycle. He thought about the fact that this girl would not have been born at the time of his love affair. He was feeling estranged from his surroundings; it looked as though he was faced with the shadow of a person unknown to him in those streets where he once knew the diverse features of both the day and night so well. He had understood that the town had closed its doors to him in order that he may atone for his transgression. He had felt the immediate presence of Marcellina close by, although she was to remain invisible, inaccessible, and untouchable. This was the ransom he was asked to pay. He had expressed the desire to prove that he had succeeded in coming back in one way or another. This may have been the exact spot where that sentiment he tried to perpetuate for love’s sake assumed a true meaning. Beyond what had been lost, there continued to linger that aftertaste of those fantasies and recollections. The only thing that was beautiful to behold there was Berti’s image of Marcellina that still lingered unchanged in his imagination. Time had come to a standstill, far removed from so many realities, from any future prospects and eventualities. It was a fact that a person continued his routine existence in another realm. This was a retributive action on the part of the young dead who wreaked vengeance on those who survived them. Berti was thus sharing a similar fate with a good many heroes of varying backgrounds. Marcellina’s likeness had remained captured in those photographs. Despite the fact that she went on living with other people at other places she said nothing herself; nor did she ask Berti to speak about what had befallen him after parting company with her . . . These were my impressions, my expectations and experiences in the story in question. I may, however, not have drawn the line of demarcation between us properly. As he spoke about his experiences that afternoon, frankly I cannot think of any other way to interpret his words: “As I was staring at the river, it dawned on me that I had lost her forever . . . The funny thing was that my intention to narrate my vicissitudes to someone was greater than my actual desire to resume our relationship . . . ” As a matter of fact, the demarcation line between us gained meaning through this realization. We would never be able to learn who had been lingering where and who was aspiring to make headway through the darkness lit by which particular words. We might be in search of the source of the fantasies we had been weaving through the unknown; those fantasies we used to indulge in, which every so often charted our course in life. Can it be that while we are, in the darkness of the night, impatiently waiting for the day to break, reciting memorable poems and uttering words from times past, the sudden appearance of a glimmer of light from one of the houses across from us, wrapped in darkness, provokes in us a wry joy? Could a hope be based on a circumstantial event?

On which night had Marcellina tarried?

I can’t exactly remember which story it was in which I had attempted to introduce that glimmer of light. Who were those figures and unshared fantasies of another age, deprived of the mode of expression concealed in this call? Such issues had confronted me with the shattering aspects of the imagery within me, which I had always wished to unfold to people. That unearthly glimmer of light represented a chamber barring access. In the story narrated to me by Berti there seemed to be such a light; this light would also convey to me the memory of a photo we had mislaid somewhere during our long walk. Berti would not figure in this photograph that had popped up unexpectedly and was evoked by a few moments that had encapsulated me during the course of that night. The
chiaroscuro
was exclusive to those moments; it had to be left there to endure. The use of marked light and shade contrasts for decorative and dramatic effect had added to the town in which I was living—effects I could not bring myself to familiarize myself with—the features of a life which I believed I could only come across in movies or fictions. This aspect kept wandering among the images within me. I’m striving to penetrate into the meaning of things that happened in the distant past and into the incidents likely to occur in the future; and, last but not least, I nurse the ambition to bring myself to believe in what I am intending to relate. I realize that similar gripping stories are embroidered in different climates and lands, in books whose sales are among the highest of their genre and which set fire to the popular imagination. Why then this intense greed to relate, this overestimation of what is expected to be related? Am I intending to regale myself with the grievance of a third person? It certainly isn’t so easy to provide an answer to this question. Thus, I must try once again to screen myself from explicitness and use words to that end, notwithstanding the impression I now have that—regardless of the suspicions to be generated in me by what I shall be trying to perform and by the experiences that shall revisit me—the properties, presented to me as that past and that life, will develop insidiously in the years ahead like a disease deep within me which I shall never be able to diagnose or define. This photograph was the same one that Mr. Dyson had spent years tracking down and which he is believed to have come into contact with before the end of his life. It was Gordon Lucas who had showed me this photograph, the other side of the story, that visitor who had occupied a special place within me, who had come over to Istanbul on business quite different to Berti’s. I knew for a fact that Gordon was one of the crucial witnesses to Berti’s business practices there. During our long walks he had become much more to me than merely a roommate. Life had thrust them in opposite directions, just like in other similar stories, but details relating to the ties that remained between them, insignificant to others, had been deemed deserving of preservation for years. Gordon figured in the photographs where he came across as an individual bent upon living all his passions to the bitter end, who preferred to be outdoors rather than cooped up within the four walls of a room, watching the street, the activity going on in a nightclub, the yachts with billowing sails cruising in the immensity of the ocean, or a train excursion in a faraway land fraught with dangers . . . During a stopover in Istanbul, he had traced the whereabouts of Berti, as they had been corresponding for sometime now, and gave him a call, informing him of his short stay in the city, suggesting to him that they meet for a couple of hours if he was willing as this would please him greatly. He had put up at the Hilton Hotel. After so many years a closer place could not be imagined. The meeting itself depended on Berti. In answer to this witty proposal, indicative of his British humor, Berti had not thought it proper to conceal his enthusiasm. He had also said some things which I could not make out but which had provoked laughter on both sides. Their conversation seemed to have continued even after they stopped talking. He said he would be there as soon as possible. In my capacity as a storyteller I happened to be there at the time. It was Berti’s idea that I should accompany him. I had felt that I was nearing a critical point of the story. I had to acquiesce. I was glad to be one of the heroes. What was more important was that I was going to have access to a confidential communication, though I could not reveal this to Berti. Actually, our objectives had been different; our intentions varied. The same story invited us to share different fates. So off we went and hailed a taxi to take us to Şişli. Berti wanted to drop by his barber Stellio and have his beard and hair trimmed. He had preferred not to speak during his trim. Thereafter we had repaired to the Hilton Hotel by taxi. He was well acquainted with the taxi fares that changed according to the distances traveled, as he commuted often in the city. But he had paid more than the actual cost to both drivers that day. Personally I had not opened my mouth during these short trips. I sensed that his entire performance that day was a kind of initiation to me. To be sure of this it would have been necessary to scrutinize every movement of his body; under the circumstances there was no need for such certitudes. There appeared to be an unavoidable estrangement in the meeting that took place at the hotel; likewise, there was no need to interpret this bitterness. As a matter of fact, if one bears in mind the aftereffects of those old movies and stage plays, all the ill feelings and associations felt at the time were more than enough to instill in you the sense of despondency that this meeting inspired. In order that I might hide my true identity I was content with remaining a mere spectator; a spectator, despite Gordon’s suspicious looks. Gordon spoke articulately and looked smartly dressed in a well-tailored suit. The start of the conversation consisted of remembrances of the good old days, recalling long-forgotten experiences and incidents. However, Gordon had been more of a listener than a talker; he proved to be self-contained and a good listener. He did not miss the chance to cast furtive glances at me in the meantime. Our glances had met a couple of times; such encounters seemed to be attempts at a different sort of dialogue, moments during which both sides tried to catch the opponent unawares. Both of us appeared to have sensed, that we were, in this part of the story, essentially different people than what we purported, people who concealed within them things they were reluctant to disclose. This privacy seemed to make both parties ill at ease. This was the uneasiness of a person conscious of being peeped at through the keyhole of a door, whereas mine was of a person knowingly peeping through the keyhole conscious of being partially obscured from view. Under the circumstances, we were to recklessly exchange clues about ourselves with laconic expressions.