Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (6 page)

To be able to speak Yiddish in Kuledibi

Of old, travels lasted a long time; long enough to make those who resolutely set out fully conscious of the hardships involved. We can perhaps better understand that sense of adventure, the vessels that weigh anchor at their respective destinations along the course traced and bequeathed to us by those stories, by reviving in us, at our pleasure, the image that those long nights left in us, thus resuscitating those days for a redeemable world.

On his way to London, toward a new destination, Moses was to pay a short visit to his cousins in Istanbul. In all of the correspondence between him and these cousins, who had emigrated from Odessa to settle in Istanbul, a prospective reunion, on the occasion of a religious holiday celebrating faithful Jews, was often discussed. This yearning had assumed greater significance as the years went by. The incidents related to the different lands, different feelings and different lives they had diligently kept in the stores of their memories, memories that had acquired greater worth. Good times they were!

The friendly reception of Bronstein in Istanbul was sensational as it marked the beginning of a new tale, the beginning of an enthralling, amazing, poignant and, at the same time, sad story . . . For, the very first incidents at the outset indicate that the vicissitudes of the fifteen years that had elapsed in between had, according to other people’s accounts, been spent quite differently. Cousin Norbert Feldman, thanks to his mastery of foreign languages, and his making optimum use of an entrepreneurial genius at the right time in international relations, had been able to sign lucrative contracts in foreign countries, and the Ottoman Empire had in return awarded him contracts in the field of road construction, thus enabling him to amass a great fortune. The convertible parked on the seashore was sufficient evidence of his wealth, nay, of his opulence. This was part of the ritual; those years lived in different places and with different people had to be displayed in one way or another. You could compensate for the suffering experienced in other circles and countries only in this way—by transforming the years of hardship into joy and self-complacency. One should not of course omit those who had been unsuccessful in their enterprises and had to watch the time pass them by. Relatives that had to stay in foreign lands knew such feelings all too well. Similar moments had been experienced in the past and would be experienced in the future. “What did you do there for so many years?” was the question to be asked. But to what extent did it question the inquirer so much as the person the question addressed? To decide on this was not so easy if one took into consideration the details involved. However, in this case, the question interested Moses in particular, who was walking on the shore of a city he was not familiar with, through streets strange and new, toward a future unknown to him. What have you been doing for such a long time? Eva, that little woman from Riga had clasped the hand of the man whom she wanted to consider the only man in her life and with whom she wanted to live. Why? Was it because she also had asked or had had to ask that question because she had felt that certain circumstances were inviting her? To tell you the truth, I can’t say exactly. For, I don’t want to advance toward those people whose sights I catch but a glimpse of from a distance despite my unwillingness to do so, setting out based on certain information acquired from my own sources that I had been imparted with by other people. Aside from these points and the potential feelings that they may have given rise to, all that I could know for sure is the piecemeal progression of the Bronstein family toward a city utterly alien to them. In this section of the story I would like to, partly because of this, imagine Moses casting a look at his watch in order to chart his own time in Odessa. What if Moses had already cast another look at it in that street and what if that look had shown him only his wealth, convincing him of his actual existence? One morning . . . just like at the moment of separation in Odessa . . .

Those were the years when the number of cars was scant in Istanbul (for men that had immigrated from different parts of the world had brought with them different lifestyles), the years in which a longstanding decline was witnessed in many aspects of the community, notwithstanding the persistent survival of certain customs and conventions among certain people, the years when people stared at certain events from a distance without getting involved in them. Norbert was said to have been very kind to Moses in those days. With a view to seeing his dear cousin and wife comfortably settled in that sumptuous eight-room apartment at Taksim, furnished with antiquities and valuable paintings, he had spared no colorful expense . . . there was even a radio and a framed photograph of his children.

Norbert and Moses held long talks during the days that followed . . . Long talks,
tête-à-têtes
. . . just like during their childhood and adolescence . . . It looked as if they wanted to prove to each other, for dissimilar reasons, that despite the adventures they had experienced all those years before, there had been certain things that had survived . . . Moses had spoken of Alexandria, of his prospects for the future, of his concerns about Jacob, of his ailments, of his failure in being a good father, and of his profession as a tailor; while Norbert had recounted his undertakings and successes, the Palace, the hectic days, and suggested that on such days new possibilities could be expected to dawn. He ended by reverting to the subject of the Jews in Istanbul, claiming that Yiddish was even spoken in the streets and advised Moses to remain in that city in which he had been living for years—where one could always find the means to eke out a living, where no one would ever be starving—instead of departing for London. This was, certainly, one of those moments that could quite unexpectedly change one’s course in life. Actually, Norbert did not merely give him a piece of his mind during these exchanges, for, he promised to assist him in finding customers through his connections should he change his mind and open a tailor’s shop, as he was supremely confident of cousin’s skill in that trade. As for his ailment . . . well, physicians, who were also sent for by the Palace, were near at hand. After all, all these things were but minor details. The important thing was to seize that mood and to fill in the gaps between them. They could try to recover the atmosphere of the old days under different conditions and circumstances, hoping for better days ahead. Leaving aside all that had gone before, he was badly in need to reconnect with someone from the past, with a family member.

Once again there was another life behind the visible objects on display . . . a life whose darkness was carried over by variegated glimmers. This exchange of ideas had taken place at a restaurant overlooking the Bosporus.

The adventure of Moses and the woman from Riga had begun, to the best of my knowledge, upon the inception of an unanticipated story at the least expected moment. They had reason to have an unshakable belief in fate during the days when they took part in this story rather hesitantly, overwhelmed by those inevitable question marks.

They had spent a short time at Norbert’s house before they moved to a small apartment in Kuledibi, to a small apartment, much smaller than those of the same class, with a sigh of despair at the fact that they were once again starting everything anew . . . Moses’ first shop had been somewhere near Tünel and his first customer had been a German, a factotum of Norbert’s who took care of his foreign business; when he made his first sallies to Istanbul, he was believed to have known the places where he had lost certain things fairly well along with the people who had been instrumental in contributing to such losses . . . Olga was the fruit of these cold winter years. To have a child after a lapse of sixteen years had brought great satisfaction to the family despite the hardships involved. This had served as a palliative to compensate for the absence of Jacob who had been, and had to be, abandoned in Alexandria, and who, after a while, had immigrated to America in pursuit of quite a different lifestyle; a necessary consequence of the need to fill another wide gap.

The diamond necklace

I could find but a few pictures that would likely lead me to Olga’s memories of childhood in Kuledibi. To the best of my knowledge, Monsieur Jacques had also been in the same predicament; even he had been in a similar predicament! To explain this blankness and to shed some light on that obscure region was not easy. This blankness, this darkness, was a story in its own right; in other words, it was likely to break ground for another tale; the contents of this darkness should be in another story which I experienced, through all the events I discovered and lived. Was Olga lonely, as lonely as she had remained in my memory? Nobody can ever know this, of course. A long time has gone by since then. All the witnesses have gone away, taking their representations of her along with them. Had there also been witnesses apart from them that might convey to me new answers or new questions? If so, I still pin my hopes on such a likelihood for the sake of a future story. Nevertheless, my recollections at this stage are but a simple and inevitable consequence of what I can discern from such a distance. Her life had always remained a puzzle in other people’s eyes. How did this happen? How on earth had one gone up such a blind alley, both for her sake and for ours? Was this due to the reserve of this woman who had fascinated many people with her beauty and elegance at every turn, the details of which I highly valued, to her self-defense as though she were a fugitive, or to a diffidence buried deep within her and to her inability to act otherwise? All these things might be equally valid. Nevertheless, despite her taciturnity and elusiveness, we do know certain things in connection with her years at the French college
Notre Dame de Sion
. The memorabilia dating from those years provide us with some clues with reference to the history of that introvert, of a person whose introversion got deeper and deeper.

Can we speak, at this stage, of that relationship that is not so easy to be shared as one would wish? Different voices conjure up the past in certain people differently, with different words, with white lies associating different episodes in the mind. One can formulate an idea under such circumstances about the attitude that people adopt toward life. I must confess that I have my suspicions about the accounts that Juliet gave regarding that remote past. To my mind, in narrating the incidents of those days, she must have omitted certain passages, details and places. Monsieur Jacques remained silent; he did not speak . . . Or perhaps, he preferred to be oblivious of certain things . . . I find this quite natural and justifiable. There was also the account given by Uncle Kirkor, jack-of-all-trades and master of none, who had once served as a factotum in a shop. Because of what he narrated one could infer certain interesting clues that might give the story more sense. One had to be able to read between the lines, however . . .

To be able to read between the lines . . . to know how to listen properly . . . to take the challenge of listening and spending all due effort . . . We were accustomed to transfer to our time what different witnesses had conveyed. We had tried to bring to life once more the different witnesses with their different voices and perspectives . . . witnesses we never forgot and could never forget for the sake of our lives . . . It so happened that we had also come across such predicaments on certain days and at unexpected moments in the truly believable stories of others. All these reminded us of a story lived in missing fragments, personalized in the course of time, one which assumed meaning as time progressed; a story perpetuated despite certain people. This is the story that commenced when Olga—despite all the shortcomings of her own life, convinced that she could rely on her wildest dreams, having derived her impetus from the fascination she had created among her surroundings thanks to her excellent dissertations, and who had been praised by the nuns not only for her achievements at school, but also for being a young girl prepared to confront the problems she would encounter in future with probity and discretion—encountered Henry Moskovitch on her graduation day, at a time when she secretly considered herself already a graduate in many respects. It was one of those evenings; a harbinger of summer . . . a Rita Hayworth film was on at the Melek movie theater . . . There was a common ground for certain songs that they associated with each other; a common ground where they modulated from one key to another . . . even though that ground conjured up different worlds of sentiments, concealed in different eras. Just remember the times when you conversed with people in alien surroundings, filled with unaccustomed glances, completely indifferent to the words exchanged. At such times, you would not be conscious of the fact that another life was in your sights, one which would gradually absorb and enslave you, while you were preparing gingerly to recieve that person through intricacies that seemed insignificant to you. In general, all things experienced are exclusive to that moment, to that very touch, because, certain relationships wait for that precise moment and place. Then one starts penetrating into that magical world, often without return . . . Olga’s story, whose sole richness was based on her dreams about Henry, son of Isaac Moskovitch, partner of Norbert Feldman, who had lived a life of licentiousness in all the aspects that his riches had afforded him, was indeed such a story. Some trite songs and fortuitous encounters may have marked that meeting in that spring evening . . . In the movie theater they had sat next to each other. The hall wasn’t crowded. They drank lemonade. Rita Hayworth called her admirers to a distant world. The evening was crowned with a dinner at Tokatlıyan, a dinner that was to leave an indelible impression on a young girl of high expectations. They had sauntered toward Taksim square. On their way, Olga had encountered a school friend. She had felt a reserved pride upon seeing her. Henry was a man about town, tall, dark and handsome, reminiscent of Valentino who had been the idol of many a young girl and whose physical beauty matched his elegance, his refined manners and costumes, which his tailor in Beirut had made for him; not to mention his big receptions and dancing style that would stand in comparison with many a professional dancer. The next morning, Olga received a bouquet of scarlet gladioli from the renowned florist Sabunjakis which she could never forget. To have met a celebrity like Henry Moskovitch and to dream of having been in his company was certainly a thrilling experience. This naturally had triggered a sequence of events . . . To get the feeling of the realization of a dream at an unexpected moment that opened a vista never dreamt of and to be able to share a life hardly imaginable with unpredictable individuals . . . dinners and the brightly illumined clubs of the time . . . It was Olga’s cherished fantasy just before going to sleep in her bed that the pale moonlight bathed, to dream of the long life she would share with Henry . . . However, Moses had some sort of an intractable presentiment of disaster; he was apprehensive about his daughter’s future, fearing that the course of events might not turn out as she would have planned ever since the moment Henry had intruded into their lives. You could not possibly convince an infatuated person bewitched by a fancy in which she had absolute confidence that a thorny path of return might be looming ahead. Maybe despair or affection might determine the line of demarcation between making a comment and refraining from doing so in a given situation. Would you take the risk of ruining the dreams of someone whom you cherish at the cost of causing her weariness of spirit? This conceptual thinking must have been the reason for Moses’ reservations. Time would bear out his premonition. Separation would be knocking on Olga’s door within about a year from the time of their meeting in the movie theater, before spring was in Istanbul, to the detriment of all the fantasies she had woven in the meantime. For those who had their heads screwed on the right way, this space of time was long enough to remain permanently printed on one’s mind. A diamond necklace bought at Diamenstein had marked the separation. She had suddenly remembered. Months ago, on one of the evenings when they were strolling arm-in-arm in Pera, they had caught sight of that necklace while looking for a brooch they would be making a gift of to a friend. “This must be meant to adorn the neck of a princess, of a heroine of a fairy tale,” she said, wandering her fingers over the stones. Henry had clasped her hand upon hearing these words but had said nothing. Those were the evenings when she was as proud as a young girl strolling in Pera could be . . . The short note that accompanied the necklace said that he had to leave for Vienna and sojourn there for some time and apologized for this misfortune, he thanked her for the time they had spent together which he considered a sort of gift, confirming the image she had of herself as a real princess in a fairy tale. Years had gone by before Olga was able to become aware of this unexpected severance which had left a deep scar in her. Life would certainly continue for her in the company of different people, sharing different lives. The long years ahead would fling open the gates for a new love, for a love even more arduous. But Olga’s attachment to Henry was to remain despite all the trials and tribulations she would have to undergo; it was an attachment beyond the dimensions of love. In other words, Olga’s relationship with Henry never broke despite her involvement with different people and the upsurge of different expectations. It was not an end, however. It just couldn’t be. It simply was placed in a different compartment of her life, a compartment that could not easily be acknowledged by other people at large. Henry was to recognize the grave error he had committed in parting with Olga years later, after having to endure irreparable losses . . . in those years, in the wake of these losses, he was to find himself immersed in great agonies and black despair . . . Actually, despite the glossy countenance of it, Henry’s story was one of hopeless failure, a washout, a debacle . . . a story of being swept up by a flood; he had perceived this truth almost immediately after his severance from her. He had gone to Vienna in pursuit of a woman with whom he had been in correspondence with for quite some time but about whom nobody could give any satisfactory information. In his old age, when his behavior had become erratic, he would live with her in Istanbul; they had watched the sunset on the Pierre Loti hill and made love dreaming of a seaside resort on the Bosporus. However, the fatal day had come and the woman finally realized that she could no longer go on living like that; she became aware of the fact that she intrinsically belonged to the
Vienna which she had left and went back to her husband, a man thirty years older than herself. Actually, she was a countess, a genuine one whose lifestyle matched the standing she had justifiably regained. All things considered, her love affair was a desperate business. They had set out on a wild goose chase only to realize soon after that they’d been pursuing a will o’ the wisp . . . Was that the place where the storms and tempests had originated? Time tried everybody in different fashions. That Viennese woman, that ancient ‘lady of the mansions,’ a widow whose aspirations had been to crown her life with revelries and balls and whose songs attracted innumerable philanderers, would cause Henry’s ostensibly inexhaustible wealth to be squandered in a haze of delight brought about by sham victories, paving the way in due course for loans borrowed from old friends whenever he chanced to run into them, and from his distant relatives, even from the clerks who had once been in his employ, with a view to pandering to his whims and saving himself from starvation, loans which were never to be paid back. His settlement at the old people’s home at Hasköy by the good auspices of Olga, who never deserted him, coincided with the days when he was destitute. His last affair would henceforth be with a woman, a former teacher of French, to be precise, a woman who claimed to have once been a teacher and who considered speaking French as a sign of nobility, like her contemporaries, and who resolutely awaited an illusory visitor; a woman who never went out to take some fresh air in the city, flatly asserting that Istanbul was not
her
Istanbul anymore. In the midst of the fantasies of women proliferating in his imagination, each reminding him of a different defeat, he would live to fight another day in full consciousness of the fact that his flights and pretenses would lead him nowhere except to Olga. The existence of that woman, of another woman, was necessary for him to cover up his defeat. Olga was aware of this. To propagate life endlessly, to protract the climax of the stage play making sure that it does not reach its catharsis, postponing death in chambers one has taken refuge in, such illusory visions should appear normal; especially if we remember our inability to strip ourselves from the grip of fantasies, delusions and illusory expectations in an infinity of chambers. Could one explain Olga’s devotion to Henry by this chimera despite all that had occurred in the meantime, in a new, completely different room, believing that she had discovered a new dimension? Or, viewed from a different angle, could one think that, such a relationship, or at least the vestiges of it, might conceal beneath all those sacrifices a latent hatred that can hardly be disclosed or acknowledged? In other words, is it possible that Olga would have ventured during her brief visits to Istanbul to witness the abandonment of a man, who had once been forsaken, not only by his acquaintances, but also by his memories, fantasies and expectations? Am I being unfair? Perhaps I am. The Olga I knew had always known how to lose, how to endure losses regardless of the prevailing circumstances. All these considerations aside, no matter what her feelings were, she had been the only person that visited him at the old people’s home. It was there you could find her holding conflicting emotions with bated breath, generated by repressed and resuscitated feelings, and by the thrill that isolation and loneliness provide one with, as well as by one’s resignation to one’s fate in the presence of other abandoned souls. Olga was there for the long haul. There in one way or another, somewhere in the very heart of life . . . Just like in her other relationships.