Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (53 page)

At the delicatessen we had purchased two bottles of wine, some Italian salami, a few slices of ham, and Gruyere. Salt bonito should be done justice to, but the shopkeeper said that he had not any left of which he would be proud to offer me. This was his conventional way of handling so-called privileged customers. The public took delight in receiving preferential treatment. To be considered someone, to be a person of considerable influence or prestige was the cherished ideal of everyone; this meant catching special treatment at the least expected moment. Berti could not possibly ignore the absurdity inherent in the idea; nevertheless, he had liked being treated in this way.

It was a September morning

As we drew nearer home the artichoke dish that Juliet must have prepared presented itself once more to our imagination. It was supposed to be served as an
entrée
cooked with lemon and sugar in the proper consistency. This might be taken for a starting point, an important event not to be overlooked. However, there was another point deserving attention. Berti had, by these comments, wanted to guide me to a new reality. Passover was being held and there was only unleavened bread available. I might have been disillusioned, but I was obliged to conform to the prevailing customs, to a future at least. What had been uttered during our walk undoubtedly had a certain nicety. However, to be frank, these words had not only served as an introduction but also provided clues betraying his view on life and his attitude toward Juliet. These words seemed to be shedding some light on certain points; namely, on what steps had been taken, or not taken, and to whom they were directed in that spacious drawing-room at Nişantaşı leaving lasting imprints on me, properly expressed or unexpressed. The clues were hidden between the lines. The meaning he attached to the Feast of Passover, the way he conceived it, the way he was associated with it looked like the expression of an attitude. He often criticized the blind submission of religious fanatics to preset rules, which, he thought to be the greatest obstacle to modernization. He scoffed at the problematic nature of edible things. Pork cutlets titillated his palate. In restaurants that served alcohol he took delight in sardonically criticizing his mother who had never tasted crustaceans in her life saying:
“
Tu no comes estos guzanos porche no lo tinenez visto en la casa del papa!
”
(I’m sure you won’t touch these crabs, lobsters, and shrimps as you failed to savor them in the paternal house). At such times he happened to be hanging out with his father, who could also be interpreted as being an accomplice in the fraud. Strange to say, such occasions were the rare moments in which father and son were close to each other. The prohibition of eating leavened bread during the Feast of Passover did not apply, for him, to lunch taken at the office. ‘Home’ and ‘outdoors’ should be discerned. It was understandable to conform to traditions at home, to a reasonable extent. He was one of the faithful who paid a visit to the synagogue for religious worship, to attend a funeral service, or to celebrate a feast day or wedding. Only on such occasions he felt he ought to take part in the congregation and observe the ritual. He never failed to put on his Sunday clothes on such occasions. He attached great importance to the image he left in the imagination of the public. He fasted on the Day of Atonement and paid a visit to the synagogue when the time of breaking the fast drew near, in order to feel refreshed. He had told me once that he was fascinated by the chants that must have reminded him that the Day was drawing to a close, that it was about time to return home and break the fast in the presence of all the members of the family and that his sins were about to be forgiven. However, no one could be sure about the exactitude of this interpretation, especially coming from a person who had lost his faith somewhere during the course of his life. This chant had united a community scattered the world over, one facing language barriers that God had contrived upon the ambition of Babel, who had strived over the course of ravages to unite and worship the same God. The faithful had followed the path that had been indicated in the book and would continue to do so till the end of time. All these things considered, Berti was certainly not alone. It might be that this common faith and shared past made him happy and content. This might be an easy way to satisfy oneself as to one’s religion. A comment like, “Personally, I’m not devout, but I honor my obligations; as you know old habits die hard, following them gives a man peace of mind” might express the attitude of a person who had found the true path. Berti might have taken this path in order to avoid the vicissitudes of the human condition. He had to keep up appearances . . . keeping up appearances, yes. This sentence would uphold forever the validity of the adage for people who lived like him, who had taken the same path. Certain sayings remained ever fresh for certain people. To what extent were the visions and the representations true? This question had not been answered by anyone who had contributed to the making of this artificial sanctuary. No changes loomed ahead thereafter. Silence had its voice; silence was a kind of talk within those walls. No one had put that question to Berti, no one ever tried. What I saw was Berti’s predilection for remaining penned within the said vision like everybody who had opted wholeheartedly for a lifestyle similar to his, with a view to doing away with that unprecedented shadow that followed him on his heels. If anyone asked for the meaning of the adverb ‘wholeheartedly,’ a new interpretation might be tried for. However, like everywhere else, in order to be able to ask such a question, we were obliged not to ignore some of our fantasies. Otherwise, for those who would be reluctant to put forward that question, the visual impact would be of a conservative representation with well-defined traits that would vouch for the smooth running of everything. What was required of him was to be a human being; a human being that everybody knew could survive and breathe freely in those climates. The human being required had been provided in return for a security—like being under an umbrella. Agreement foresaw consideration . . . In such agreements you could beat a retreat and toss your grievances into some backyard to be irremediably lost forever. This pursuit of an irretrievable loss of memory would be the subject of a story in due time. This was the time of hushed betrayal; the time of betrayal that man nourished within himself and did not communicate to others. I had a deep affection for Berti, especially during his periods of introversion when he had taken cognizance of this betrayal or at least when I came to realize that he knew it was there. However, he never understood the fact that I liked him because of this very character trait he tried to conceal, to be precise, because of this resentment. I had shared with him my introspective dialogue which had not found utterance as of yet and with which I had a choice of different words to voice its expression. This may have been the reason why we could never part in the proper sense of the word.

Could it be that Berti had lied ‘to his people,’ along with himself, the man he had been asked to be? Answering this question has never been easy for me. This was a zone in which truth and lies could not be identified properly unless you rose to the challenge of following a certain path; you could not distinguish between what was true and false; you could not have an inkling of what fortitude was. I had been ignorant myself of these things at the time, even thereafter. There was no end to the questions; they came back upon you whether you liked it or not. Questions were never lacking . . . We had in our possession the things that we had been carrying along with those men, our nightmares, and our erroneous touches. Frankly, I had reached a stage where I gave credence to what was both true and false. What should have been of importance was not of consequence in contrast to abiding by the laws of a tradition—there being innumerable people who have succeeded in living this attachment in due coherence—the essential thing was the enactment of a play, the desire to put it on the stage, Berti’s incapacity to truly believe in that sentiment he said he lent credence to. He had not even discussed it with himself; he could not bring himself to discuss it. To duly observe traditions, to make a show of this observance, was one of the easiest ways to hide oneself in this lifestyle. He was, like those who had taken part in such a play, but a spectator of his experiences, of his own self . . . Could it be that Berti had this experience on the path he had taken that he expected to lead to Juliet? To be frank, I never wanted to witness this aspect of the relationship of two individuals I loved so much and with whom I had formed a link laden with a multitude of hope. Because, through this relationship they had chosen, for the sake of my, of our story, to appear like individuals who had failed to cross over the boundaries of my dilemmas, of things I would one day try to make heard through my tales. I owed them the possibility of belonging to a different time. Nevertheless, whether I wanted to or not, my experiences with them induced me to ask this question. In addition, to what I saw and what I could see, there were also supplemented memories. The factor that had initiated their relationship was a usual meeting that may have occurred between any two people. The meeting had been arranged by a mutual friend. This friend was someone who had made deep impressions on numerous people, according to Juliet. The venue had been Regence, the renowned Russian restaurant in Istanbul, where stories from Belarus were recounted, where Russian literature was discussed to the extent it was within the ken of the participants, and, last but not least, communism. Berti had told of his life in Cambridge while Juliet reminisced about her stage experience. The dinner at Regence was followed by a visit to the nightclub Kervansaray. Among the topics of discussion were fashion, one-time revelries, their inclinations and thoughts based on instinct and desire, as well as the places they would like to visit. They agreed that Crete was their common modest utopia; one had to consider the distance involved. This moment had apparently been the very first instant of which they had truly been intimate with each other. He had accompanied Juliet to her home at Şişli. It was raining and they had preferred to walk in the rain. As they strolled along in the darkness of the night, Juliet’s body accidentally touched Berti’s a couple of times. This incident, the memory of which was kept secret by both parties, was mutually revealed years later. During the days that followed they visited the nooks and crannies of Istanbul. During a bicycle tour of Büyükada, Berti had proposed to Juliet. This engagement happened only a few months after their dinner at the Regence. Juliet had been anticipating this as the natural course of events. The timing was perfect, especially when one considers the pressure put on by their parents. As the fatal time drew near, the greatest pressure related to the final decision of Madame Roza—who fully backed the arrangement. As a matter of fact, she used to anxiously await her son’s return from his sallies, and was fond of learning of his expeditions straight from the horse’s mouth. They had a cup of coffee and talked about the old days, of the vicissitudes of life and had a cozy
tête-à-tête
, turning a blind eye to their estrangement. Madame Roza reiterated the same call with different words. What remained with Berti from that dialogue were the following words: “She is a Jewess of a good family. Don’t play the false lover with her. Marry her and bring comfort to your life.” Had her sentence concealed a latent resentment, was she thus venting the malevolence she had never been able to articulate? I can provide an answer to this question only by taking both alternatives in consideration. Berti chose to take his mother’s words with a warm feeling and affection, despite his underlying rebellious tendencies. His opinion commands respect. This attitude of mine may clash with certain inconsistencies I should like to avoid. Nonetheless, the emotions of an individual I would like to represent may gain the upper hand over the adverse sentiments likely to occur during the course of my narration. The essential responsibility lies, I think, in being able to express these emotions. It was a fact that Madame Roza had approached all her children’s problems with maternal tenderness and self-sacrifice, as a person who had an unshakable belief in her own judgment, a person resolved to fight her way through anything, never deviating from the path of truth, a woman who proved her worth through such actions. I think Berti had been able to define this better, hiding it away for many years, until the days when his beloved daughter Rosy was making preparations for her wedding. Life would play a little trick on her. She would meet the person whom she had always wanted to avoid, namely Berti. I can visualize that person better now as she tried to endure in that place. I can also understand the rationale of my retracing steps. Options and attitudes to life generate experiences that one should enjoy with all spontaneity. This may have been the reason for our avoidance of one another. Options sometimes meant enslavement, even though this bondage may have been contrary to the spirit of those choices. The same must have held true during the days when Juliet and Berti had wanted to start a new life. Options contained the voice of certain necessities and indispensable truths. In Berti’s own words this was the time when those who should be in the lead preferred to remain as silent spectators. It was apparent that certain people had relieved certain people of their roles. The fault lay with the people who had let their role be snatched away. Berti had no need at the time for sharing his experiences on the stage in question. I was well acquainted with the story; and I knew both the spectators and those who had had their roles stolen. The faces of the spectators in the mirror bore secret traits that were difficult to describe. The dowry discussions had taken place at Juliet and Berti’s house on a Saturday night, during which Juliet’s father had communicated, while sipping at his coffee, his opinion on the subject. According to Madame Roza’s account, Monsieur Jacques had declared his approval by declaring
“
Besimantov!
”
blessing the future union. “Well,” he continued, “the essential thing was the families’ getting to know each other, anyhow; considering that the parties have already made up their minds.” For him, it was most probably a time to forget all past victories and defeats . . . especially when the places occupied by Olga and Jerry were taken into consideration . . . as he had been able to prove to certain people that he had a family and was a free-handed father not lacking in generosity or kindness, allotting, and distributing. This
‘
Besimantov,
’
which was of Hebrew origin, was used the world over where a plurality of languages were spoken by people furtively fed by that common artery, it concealed the pride of those who had trodden the path and who anticipated their children’s future favorably, although not without some resignation. A wish for a boy was made at the same time. All that had been suffered previously had been for that sanctuary, to be able to look back with a feeling of wry mirth. Following this solemn event, Juliet had served the guests liqueur chocolates from the silver candy bowl she had brought in for the occasion; it was the family’s antique object. The liqueur chocolates had been bought at Baylan, the renowned pastry shop. The engagement had not lasted long. Madame Roza had narrated that eventful day of engagement as faithfully as possible. It had been a September evening straight out of a fairy tale. It was pouring rain. We were in the drawing-room. I was asked to turn on the radio. The music-hour was about to commence. Madame Roza had a special liking for Turkish music. Nora was at the piano in the next room doing her exercises. I believe I have tried to describe this scene, the story of that tune heard from afar, somewhere else. Different were the men, different were the words, different were the hours and the meanings attached. Different were the recollections, especially of the preparations for that evening. Yet, the story was the same despite all the differences. The sentiment was the same, so was the solitude. Yearnings were no different. I wanted to attain an abstraction from empirical reality and the embodiment into a unified conceptual scheme of assumed validity, but failed to do so. The truth was concrete enough, and unimpressive. I think the piano served me in compensating for this lack of execution; the balance was to remain stored, pent up in a little room; it was as though this lack of attainment was tantamount to effecting a melody, a catchy tune to accompany that woman and I to eternity. I have a bare recollection of the piece played on the piano in the next hall; was it one of Chopin’s Polonaises? It must’ve been, in fact it was. All that one went through was essentially a prelude to what one was going to be experiencing one day, what one would most likely be faced with. Madame Roza, who happened to be in the drawing-room, didn’t hear that tune; within her was a tune that obsessed her during those days, which none of us could capture. It was raining outside, a rain that could transport us to other evenings, other mornings, and other days we had experienced before. It was a September evening. That evening belonged to a woman who had mothered many children, to be precise to a woman who strove to become her own child. It was one of those evenings she was among us. The music-hour was about to start. Her melody, the melody in her head was certainly different. “This will be the last September I’ll ever be able to witness,” she said. After a momentary silence she had begun to recount another rainy September day as though from a tale. It had been a Sunday. A September morning . . . a bright, happy morning at the synagogue Zulfaris, where Berti and Juliet’s wedding was being celebrated. The bride had in due conformity and custom ascended the stairs on the right and made her entrance to the synagogue, she then descended following the conclusion of the ritual using the stairs on the left, thus setting a foot in her new life. Everybody should follow the path deemed right for them and tread that path without deviating from it. I am still preserving that picture, a picture that we keep on reconstructing according to our respective idiosyncrasies in our own walks of life . . . It was a rainy September morning . . . rain fell gloomily over gloomy stories.