Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (64 page)

Heading for another summer

There were times when certain wrangles, bitter wrangles, anticipated with bated breath, opened new doors of possibility despite the injuries caused. Those steps taken by Monsieur Jacques were taken, to my mind, toward a solitude likely to generate a rebirth in him. One attained the voice of one’s depths by not losing sight of the great distance involved. When I consider the incidents of those days in light of such a point of view, I can say that Berti was getting closer to a new persona. Berti, whom I’d observed during those moments that followed that big wrangle and who seemed to be prepared for all sorts of losses and separations, had said that he had mixed feelings, that he hoped to be able to put them in order though it might take some time, stressing the fact that he did not regret any of his actions despite the injuries that such actions had caused in him. He seemed to feel proud of the individual in revolt within him. He had finally been able to find an outlet to express his feelings of resentment that he had been nourishing along with other resentments that he kept so far confidential. This was a handsome victory, even though a belated one, which comprised defeats as well, but which required belief in a new day, a new street, a new chamber, and a new touch. He was not wrong. Those moments were for him like morning dew despite so many deaths and departures. I must describe him walking, lost in reverie, on his way home from Taksim Square toward Nişantaşı. The attractions of the shop windows and the wan smiles he saw should also be mentioned. The recollections that associated wild fantasies in his mind prompted new steps; those recollections were the food of fantasy and those fantasies were pregnant with new memories.

I should like to see Berti now after all these years in the same street that comprised his dwelling in that small area of Istanbul where quite another thralldom was concealed. I might hide myself in a corner, and thus disguised, watch him trying to recall the people related to him while he ambled: his parents, Juliet, Nora, Rosy, Gordon, Mr. Dyson, Mr. Page, Jerry, Ginette, and Marcellina who would be projected through his bearing. It would be a spring day, a spring day which would inspire in one the desire to take a ferry boat to the islands . . . just like in the days of yore. He would be wearing pants of gabardine, a beige tweed jacket, mauve Italian patent leather shoes to match his pants, a cream shirt, and sage green hand knit necktie. I can visualize him at present as somewhat lackadaisical but well disposed. He was fed by dreams; certain sentiments were enhanced to be felt more concretely; loves were but delusions, which served him to convey his deficiencies to another human being. It may be that the essential problem lay in his wish to perceive illusory images as realities. Then, an image of Marcellina brushing her teeth in the morning would surge before him. Some people left suddenly without informing anybody of their departures in order to get lost somewhere. Some people preferred different places and dates to suit such ends. Whose step was the best and the most appropriate, which step of his had remained in whom? There was no need to know the answer to this! Because, when you awoke one morning you suddenly realized that those realities and truths had lost their former energies. Truths were nullified by other truths or lies. What remained were certain probabilities and the residue of our failure to live. Probabilities and solitudes were but the expression of our fate. Berti would perhaps be asking himself if he would not have preferred to live in a flat overlooking the Bosporus with another woman in a new relationship and if he would dare venture into such a new experience. A muffled voice would give birth once more to new contours. Personally I would prefer to remain hidden in my quiet corner, remote from other people’s eyes. I knew how the play was staged. I knew the answer to the question. In spite of all this, I would prefer muteness. Berti would never know what I knew. This was the only way for me to keep it secret in the present story.

The savor of that coffee

“This is my hangout. I pop in mostly in the evening . . . to have a cup of coffee, to browse papers and to spend some time thinking . . . although it is a bit off the beaten track,” Ginette said. She looked weary. A sentence had suddenly emerged in my mind, a sentence in which I wanted to place my implicit trust. It would be the opening sentence of our story. Words were liable to undergo changes just like emotions and expectations. The words of other people might get nearer to you after certain deaths. You might appropriate those words; you might prefer to abide in those words in order to declare that you had deserved what you had gone through and suffered justifiably for your losses, for what you had experienced and for experiences you could not bring yourself to enjoy. “Never mind! There is a price to pay for the struggle we put up with to be able to catch those moments. We have to be fully conscious of this price. In nearly every story the important thing is to discover the right place and to know how to abide in that place and in the right individual . . . ” I said. She smiled. She sensed that we had been covering distances in a story whose path we had taken and now couldn’t stray from even if we wanted to. “But who on earth is he that has created a truth or showed it as though it is alive? Where do we happen to be in actual fact? To which lie are we enslaved; which is that lie that we have never been able to discover? In whose garb do we happen to be; who usurps from us our true emotions and in whose skin are we melting away and eventually dying?” she asked. To remember at the least expected moment the remains of our solitudes, of what we have left behind while entering them, and the things that we had to forego to get rid of them seemed to be preordained. We had to generate time by evasions and apprehensions. We had spent efforts in order to tell others about that time within us. Because of this we have been late in keeping up with those we have loved and because we have failed to find the right answers to these questions. There were nights that seemed to us interminable, as if there would never be a fresh dawn. I have been entertaining this feeling for quite a long time now; it has haunted me in a good many of my stories, in different guises. We had asked ourselves for whose sake and for the love of what expression in us had we tried to revitalize those words. From whom had we hidden ourselves behind those words and remained hidden in the early hours of the morning? She had held me by my hand; her look betrayed the compassion of an elder sister; a love still fresh, preserved, defying the years that had gone by. Were we in a position to describe to each other the time we had spent elsewhere for other people’s sake? She had been a person who resolutely tackled her problems and made the best of her time. She should be garbed in the identity of such a hero in my story. I felt I should refresh my confidence in men. I had felt the need to trust a human being, to be the recipient of a new viable image to be formed through new expectations. Was I letting myself be deceived once again since I preferred to be duped by appearances instead of taking up the challenge to face realities? I don’t think I’ll be inclined to answer this question. I know by now that to try to protect someone means to protect yourself. Ginette was for me a heroine I could not relinquish. I had met her at that hangout for the sake of that story that had been obsessing me. She had said that there she heard her inner voice much better and was disposed to lend an ear to it more attentively. These moments, or in other words, this walk toward her depths had a meaning hidden in an unattainable fissure of her being. I had to mention somewhere in my story that the
raison d’être
of that hangout was to find other cafés and snugs. That day I believe Ginette had a wry countenance. I distinctly remember the sorrow and joy that seemed to be shared on her face. I wonder if this expression could be defined by words in order to be properly described. Could one interpret it as being in the right place at the right time? This had reminded me of the story of those people whom we had met in other lands at different moments. I had recalled the history of my failure to listen and to make other people listen. I had grown mute, saying to myself I could at least smile. I had smiled accordingly. We had been severed by other lives that had thwarted our reunion and by a break during which people had led different lives that they shared with others. We were aware of the fact that we were different. We were also aware that we had to preserve that which carried us to other people so that we could faithfully play it safe. It looked as though the things that had transformed this encounter into a mutual attraction consisted of certain trivia taken from the past; petty details, vestiges of the past that were fossilized; petty details dealt with and unnoticed by outsiders. It was certainly not possible for me to hazard a guess about Ginette’s frame of mind at the time. However, I entertained the belief that what we had left at different places for different people was closely related to the history of our moments, of the moments inside us in that brief space of time. I had ordered strudel, which I had already tasted in several cafés in other cities, but the reason why I had asked for it had been to see it as more tangibly under the effect of that little legend I had in mind. In the meantime, in that café in whose nooks and crannies histories were concealed, which awoke in me once again a history comprised of other people’s words, I had ventured to set out on the discovery of certain trifles, of my own trivia, which would be transformed one day into a story. Most of the tables were not taken. It appeared that in the off-peak hours the café was not crowded. At a little distance from me there sat an elderly gentleman absorbed in the study of his newspaper who appeared to be seeking a meaning for the war of days gone by; while two women in their forties, oblivious of their surroundings, were engaged in an animated conversation. The luster of the candelabras seemed to conceal an infinite number of recollections of an infinite number of people in which laughter was mixed with grief. “I think I feel better now despite the belated returns and the belated meetings,” I said. She had understood what I had meant. “I knew that you’d love this place,” she had remarked with an attractive look and smiled. “I think my comment was flat, dull, and trite. Many a story starts with those words, don’t they? Sorry to intrude . . . But I couldn’t help it. I’m impulsive; forgive my insistence. This is not the first time, I know. Now, you’re addled, I’m sure, and hardly know where to place me and to place what I’ve just told you,” she added afterward. “Never mind! Nobody is perfect! I’ve learned to take people for what they’re worth. Don’t worry! I’m no longer interested in trying to change people and have them fit my standards,” I replied. We had mutually smiled. The sphere of our smiles also embraced our past and the people we had left behind. “This is indeed a miracle!” I avowed to myself; it was a miracle which was to reinforce the belief I entertained in the power of fate, or in meaningful coincidences at least! Our experiences and the distances that had separated us reminded me of that spell. We had within ourselves other steps that carried us to one another. My words had quite probably awakened in her certain old visions, blurred by now. There were tears in her eyes; her voice was trembling; she seemed to convey to me an affection that seemed to have remained almost intact all this time. “Oh, you were so young . . . It was quite a surprise for me to see your name and picture in the paper. It was incredible! ‘Is this that gentle, angelic boy?’ I said to myself. I had to take a closer look at your photograph. It was you! Yourself! You had changed a lot, but it was you all the same. You’ve become a writer, have you?” she asked. “This isn’t generally acknowledged, mind you! You know what, when I think of that long story I’m supposed to write, nay to live, I feel downcast that I have not even begun to live it yet. And I feel suspicious whether I’m doing the correct thing or just fooling around. On the other hand, I’m well aware of the fact that there’s neither truth nor falsehood
per se
. Regardless of the identity of the people we become, now and then we long to hear the sounds of the steps we take toward ourselves. To indulge in fantasy is one thing, to be able to perceive reality and to know how to live or to resign oneself to it is quite another. ‘We just live’ are everyday words that you can hear in ordinary films and songs . . . ” She had made as though she had not listened to or heard my remarks. We had arrived at a critical moment which was supposed to have been anticipated by both of us. In full consciousness of the fact that I was reluctant to lose and that I was doing the impossible, I had tried to catch a glimpse of that elder sister’s affection in her which I had been longing for. I would be better able to define this feeling in time. All that I could determine and experience during that moment was the considerable change brought on by the years in her features which I had been keeping in certain compartments of my mind to which I was deeply attached. I do not know whether my recollections had contributed to this impression or if the recollections that I wanted to bring back had. What did I care whether I recalled them or not in my desperation or in my unpreparedness! Just like emotions, words eventually found their place after certain losses, true losses. Just because of this bare fact, these moments were among those that I wanted to carry over to another time. The fact that, in that particular phase of our conversation, she said: “I was personally involved in that talk; naturally you missed me, you were supposed not to catch sight of me. Notwithstanding this fact, the person who had taken cover was not me, but you. I’d felt this. You had retreated just like you used to do in your youth, and had withdrawn into yourself. Your countenance betrayed your defenselessness . . . ” referring to those moments. Everybody played his or her own part to the extent their respective histrionic skills allowed; they had to, anyway. Yet I had felt confused in hearing these words. This meant in a sense that I had been caught naked, unawares. It hadn’t occurred to me to think that I could live the story in this way as well. There was no such chapter; such a chapter couldn’t have been boldly devised during the days when I had a firmer belief in beginnings. The woman that a coincidence had brought to me, after the various touches of the years gone by, was a woman with a better power of intuition and foresight than any woman I had ever met. My so-called nakedness might have redeemed me from oblivion in a lost paradise and the wetness of the night’s failures. My confidence in beginnings had remained that night. I was asking myself the reason for my affectionate feelings for a woman whom I had not seen for years, and whom, to be frank, I did not know too well. The answer to this question must be concealed somewhere far beyond the need I had felt for that night. I’m aware that for some years now I had been preparing for the narration of a story. One of the heroes of that story had advanced toward the days I was living in through a dent of words and images which found their places and meanings gradually. In the course of my heading for myself, I had imagined, I think, I was sharing an old complicity, and was desirous to appear before people with my lies, fantasies, and past experiences; desirous of being able to see those people and live through their writing. We owed our days to the women from whom we’d first drawn the breath of life, the women who’d raised us in that place. They gave birth to us in those dawns for the sake of the history of all deceptions. As for the details . . . “To be frank, it hadn’t occurred to me to commence my story in this way. I felt myself compelled to narrate your story starting from the day when you had come to Monsieur Jacques’ shop as a little girl from the background of the visions transmitted to me of your parents. In other words, I had been seeking ways to live and work through other people’s voices. In order to explain the contributions of those voices to this work and to my work, I had to find different expressions, namely my own words. The work contained me; in other words, I should be able to understand better to what extent which part of me I had alienated from you. For whom was that work written? I feel sort of stranded by these questions. However, the places that move me away from you and from myself, whether I like it or not (you may call them what you like), would never have occurred to me as I began to write these first lines of the story, had I been sitting with you at a table in this café listening to your remarks about me. You had become the individual of another place and another time. Having penned this long story, at least a considerable portion of it, I would run into you during one of my strolls on a street in Tel Aviv. We would have difficulty in recognizing each other. Then, you would take me to your home and tell me about your past experiences; the fact that you were married to two men; that with your first husband you had a long marriage but an unhappy life and that you had had two sons from him; that you had got a divorce once your sons had grown; that you continued to live by yourself for a while; that in the meantime you tried to get to know yourself better; that you had ended up by marrying your second husband who was an uninhibited madcap devoted to theater and that you had shared with him a belated happiness; a belated but all the more valuable happiness. Then, you would be teaching French at some school; your profession would seem attractive to you. And then . . . ” It was as though I had come to an end. I was silent. She was smiling. It was a winning smile but one that seemed to conceal a sadness. It was as if her story had been a fairy tale, written by somebody else in a distant corner of the earth, for another time. I was resolved to write all these experiences of mine, one day, along with my lies and presumptions. In my cautious passage were also figures that I might have hidden in various nooks and crannies, as my efforts also aimed at showing myself off to my heroes and heroines whom I desired to see again. I was wondering to what extent I would be getting rid of such showers of emotion. Who would be waiting for me in those showers and to what purpose? In the perplexed state in which I happened to be, I could not speak of the evil things to which such questions might lead me. My words had brought us to the threshold of a new silence which could be filled up with other fantasies. It looked as though neither of us was expected to take a step forward. That step, as a necessary consequence of my narration, would be taken by her. “I must say you are wrong in many respects. I don’t know in which part of your story you could insert this, or how you can manage it, but my reality is somewhat different from your account of it. For instance, had you been to Israel sometime before the date you mentioned, we might have accidentally run into each other in a street; however, this encounter would likely be not in Tel Aviv but in Haifa. As a matter of fact, I spent some time there on a scholarship; I was doing some research. I’m still there; it’s been a year and a half. I did marry, not twice, once only. And I’ve not been divorced. My husband is a dabbler in art, all right; however, he’s not a theater fan; he is a violinist; he plays in the Haifa Philharmonic and often goes on world tours. He is of Polish extraction and has a past quite similar to mine. As a matter of fact, what had brought us together was this similarity. Both of us had experienced losses in our youth which had hampered our growth. I have two children; you were correct; however, one is a boy and the other is a girl. Well . . . We’ll talk this over later . . . ” she added. It looked as though the clues of a story I could not possibly fantasize of were concealed in her words. Maybe there were things that were desired to be expressed but which found no outlet; things that were withheld right at the moment of their expression; things that were regurgitated; thing