Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (61 page)

Nora had embarked on her own odyssey

Rosy’s story to me, to be precise the story that I had access to in those days, was one such story. Henceforth all that I would remember would be a real loneliness that had left behind a few unanswered questions; it had a betrayal in its past, just like in the case of all lives similarly lived. At this juncture, I recall certain sentences that I had run into somewhere else at another time. Once again, it had been my wish to forget all about it. Yes, to forget, to try to forget . . . that was one of those evasions which found its rightful place after having sojourned to a distant land for a good many years. But, every attempt to get rid of it on the way was a morsel that was difficult to swallow. That morsel was your ghosts, the perennially perpetuated images of the leftovers from the dreams you had been trying to conceal. The world was the world of the rotten, of the obnoxious . . . yes, the obnoxious. Perhaps this was the reason why those were Nora’s days despite all the injustices perpetrated and offenses committed in that house. Actually, those things hardly interested Nora, she had embarked on her own odyssey. She had shut her ears to the outside world and preferred to hear only her own voice. The path she had taken had reminded me of regret for this very reason. Today I think I am able to give easier expression to that regret. She was one of those to whom the view of the life beyond had been exposed. In fact, the light of that place had been her guide on the path she took. (Was the meaning attributed to this journey getting lost in her pursuit of new illusory hopes or in her unconscious building of her prison, her sanctuary?) When she had left, she was barely twenty. She had chosen Bodrum as her new terra firma. Her man, the companion to whom she had given her whole being, was a painter of about forty years, far older than herself, whose artistic merits had not received the due acclaim he hoped for and who had always been an outcast among the intelligentsia; he was the type of man who carried within him the spirit of revolt, as though he was a stranger. She was to stay there for several years; she would resist the temptation of succumbing to the call of Istanbul despite the deaths that had taken place in the meantime. The family was aware of her resistance and recalcitrance. There was no misunderstanding but a resistance against a fallacy. Thus, Nora’s story was the story of fate. She led a life far away in the distance, removed from her family against their wishes, having chosen to learn of the wrongs she had committed away from home. Her originality was found in her preference to be, or to remain, lackadaisical. This characteristic was also one of her elder sister’s traits. That was the only common thing between them. What was sad about the whole affair, of her departure to that place, was they were not like two sisters but like two strangers, and that they were unconscious of this fact. She had given birth to two children. Could this be interpreted as another example of her preference of getting lost in that solitude of no return, in that life?

Quake

The matter was old, long exiled possibly, not properly explained to others. The bitterness that Nora had caused because of her departure, because she had chosen to live at a great distance rather than close to her family was just one of the seeds of affliction with which the house was already familiar. Everybody had had an inkling of this, everybody who had taken part in that history. Setting off on journeys, castles in the sky stood like squares of films; these squares framed some unforgettable lineaments despite the separation of the figures in them. Jerry was there. Jerry had left for there years ago, to those squares of solitude, in the hope of finding the end of his road and exploring what lay beyond it. There had been no change to his attitude. The yearning had quite probably given birth to the same place again. It had nourished the same emotion with the same hope. The difference was due to the conditions that assigned identity to the time in which he sought refuge. However, I was of the opinion that there was a common ground where they, the inhabitants of the house, met silently in defiance of their severance without uttering, without being able to utter, a single word. That ground was for Jerry the expression of distance. This was the major reason for my failure in having an insight into his character, as is the case with every writer of a long story like mine. All I had at my disposal was a modest heap of words, and their projection on me. Everyone had preferred to stick to his or her own personal vision of Jerry. This was an issue which I preferred not to tackle because of Monsieur Jacques and the atmosphere that reigned over the family. I wondered in which dark cranny those words had remained concealed. Could I proceed despite those words and the reigning darkness? Could I rely on the words I had attained so long as I was able to keep this probability fresh? At that juncture, I had no other chance but to have confidence once more in time, in the fact that my march through time would lead me to a person I had no presentiment of encountering in some corner I would never have imagined. Berti had brought Jerry to me via detached phrases during those walks. The secret conjunction of those phrases happened to inhabit somebody else’s world. This is why I attached such importance to them and guiding them to me. Fantasies might have led me to a different sort of hero. However, what I was beholding was but myself, or somebody else within me. This was just one other example of being unable to properly define our solitudes to others. I had recollected. I had to. That game of speechlessness was a game that involved a variety of sentences related to a variety of people. I feel as though I ought to write once again that stage play inspired by Berti’s sentences. What I have before me now is the story of a misfit who had had to cope with problems ever since his school days. The first image of his that surges before me now is of a misbehaving boy who was always in trouble with the school authorities at the Saint-Joseph French
lyceum
run by the friars whose strict discipline was well-known. That discipline groped blindly, it seemed, to enable the students to aspire to different paths and to fend for themselves in the life ahead of them. If the champions of the said discipline are to be given credence, Jerry was an overactive boy trying to find a place for himself in that narrow pass. He used to pester his teachers by asking them awkward questions. Had the inquirer of such pointed questions been somebody else, that somebody would surely be expelled. Yet, being an industrious and good-natured boy, always at the head of his class, his manners were tolerated and condoned. He devoured books and studied his courses at his leisure. His preference was for books of philosophy and history. Another of his hobbies was solving puzzling mathematical problems. He had dabbled once in designing a rocket and to this end he had supplied all the necessary material and carried out all the drawings and calculations. However, his father, getting wind of his clandestine work, had vociferated: “You’ll blow us all up, rascal!” Whereupon he had been obliged to shelve his project, that shelf was to carry heavier loads as time went by. He had been a lonely, introverted character; in the garden of the house in Büyükada he used to play for hours on end all by himself. Once he had witnessed a cat devouring a sparrow whose wings were broken. This had induced him to torture cats to avenge the poor sparrow. He used to tie a can to the cat’s tail or thrust its head into a paper bag, or indeed cut its whiskers. When he came home, he would be covered with scratches. On the other hand, his insular character aroused the wrath of the kids of the district who often abused him. He showed no reaction to the violent behavior of his peers and gave no account of what had been inflicted upon him. All these incidents were certainly far from being commendable behavior. Yet despite this, he was doted on. Madame Roza had a predilection for her problem child whom she pampered, on the grounds that he needed help. Berti, who had imparted me with this state of affairs with detached phrases, was aware of this fact. He had even found a validation in this injustice; he had tried to plead the case to his mother who had been partial to his brother and to whom he had always been partial in return, showing affection for his elder. Madame Roza’s sentimental attachment to Jerry might be interpreted as having been due to the fact that he was named after her father whom she had lost when she was only ten and for whom she had great admiration and whose absence she often felt. She had identified him with her father, finding certain parts of her father in her son. It was as simple as that. As for Monsieur Jacques . . . he must have thought that his son, being naughty and overactive, displayed a remarkable intelligence and would likely prove to be able to face up to life’s adversities. I think I am now a better judge of the circumstances. Certain people or the results of the preferences you have made on their behalf, enable you, as time goes by, to see new places and evaluate certain values in a different fashion. However, in addition to what I had beheld, I had also observed Berti’s resentment. This resentment had arrested the development of the child in him. This child had lived to see his hopes realized, as recorded in his old diary. However, that diary had to be deposited in its usual place, known to everybody, and which everyone tried to enliven. The diary in question was at the same time a journal of transgressions that could not be put into words or given proper expression. The established order was not the sort one could easily disrupt. To the best of my recollection, there had not been one single transgressor. There had been, nonetheless, one single event that had broken the reigning silence. Was it the day on which Berti had appeared grown up, on which he had seen that child within him matured? I’m not inclined to answer this question in the affirmative. All that I can say is that was an unforgettable day in the history of that shop. That was years ago . . . The shop was that old shop that I have always wanted to speak about. Monsieur Jacques continued to be the only master of the house. Uncle Kirkor had not yet died. Niko had gone to the place he had to go. Olga was still an attractive woman despite the eroding effect of the passing years. On that day, father and son became involved in an altercation for no reason; old deeds were brought up and dormant resentments were rekindled. This ‘quake’ would indelibly remain in my memory. It looked as though Berti had ventured to rebel after a long interval of postponement for the sake of all those individuals he had left in his past and felt obliged to kill. The inquisitive mind was inquiring about the mystery of fate, life seemed to be a burden to be carried whether one wanted to or not; it was imposed on man. A new page was being opened for Monsieur Jacques, after what had been divulged. There were moments that transformed us into that man from whom we thought we had moved away for good, into that man whom we were obliged to recognize and coexist with. This was a moment to settle our affairs with ourselves. A moment of settling that reminded one of those scenes in a stage play. Those scenes were also present that day. They had experienced the deferred settlement of affairs to the place they belonged. Berti was henceforth obliged to speak out and had to get it off his chest and address to his father as to his own realities. Monsieur Jacques ought to have listened fleetingly to what he had to say, without any reaction to his scathing exclamation. He had never come to terms with his elder son who had to endure many a sacrifice for his sake. As a father, this had been his greatest fault. He had always asked him to perform a job: to take over the responsibility of the shop and of the family in the days to come; to keep watch over his brother, and to maintain silence; silence, above all else. What a flat, dull, and trite story! Where had they mislaid the sporting chance of living in the skin of another man? To whom did the opportunity of being different belong, the right to give birth to a new man, of choosing one’s own truth and of living it? Had he, as a father, ever lent him an ear with fatherly affection, had it ever occurred to him to inquire into his son’s aspirations? Were these shelters in the name of which sacrifices would be made so important? Should certain fantasies be doomed forever and not have the right to survive in someone’s imagination? How long could one shoulder a truth in solitude without giving it expression, without sharing it? Did this mean remaining quiet at all times, denying and abolishing? Why on earth those sacrifices were not acknowledged in appreciation of the benefits received, and why, in that restricted space, did everybody, though quite unaware of the fact, become each other’s predator? To keep silent and remain mute . . . to be allowed to speak only to yourself, to carry on an interior monologue . . . Well, here was the very spot where Berti’s words got mixed with mine, the spot where words coalesced. I had attempted to shoulder those solitudes in consideration of others. The solitude of those individuals was my solitude in a way. Otherwise, we could not succeed in remaining where we happened to be, being committed to the same story. It was not for nothing that certain feelings called forth heroes in sentences whose words kept changing without any difference in meaning; that certain repressions were fated in terms of our daily lives, should we care to consider the date. Jerry’s return from where he had been was impossible under the circumstances. Jerry had wanted to be born to another family. This may have been the most important reality which Berti wanted to add to his revolt and explain to his father with whom he had been at cross-purposes for so many years. Jerry was absent henceforth. No lie could bring him back anymore. It may well have been the case that having eventually found the truth he had been seeking, he
had got lost in another lie. The truth was destined to remain elusive; a suspicion would linger. Jerry was absent. He had never abided within the boundaries drawn according to his pleasure. The funny thing was that despite all his aspirations, he had been close to them even at times when he felt beyond the blue horizon. He was as present as ever, as a son in the shadows who had gone nowhere in the proper sense of the word and who wasn’t going to go anywhere. Monsieur Jacques stood silent. There were tears in Olga’s eyes. Upon this controversy Uncle Kirkor had closed the shop earlier than usual saying, “Let’s call it a day!” suggesting that those present should better be getting home.