Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (75 page)

“Monsieur Weizman was, as I expected, a stout and chubby man. Yet, he had a thunderous voice. His manner of squeezing one’s hand during a handshake and his piercing looks inspired confidence. My father and he hugged each other like old friends. Yet, as far as I can remember, they had met each other no more than a couple of times in Biarritz. However, it was apparent who they were embracing as they hugged one other.

“We had planned to go home together; but he excused himself, saying that it would be better for Ginette to meet her family alone. On the other hand, he intended to make a short survey of the city. He had said that we shouldn’t worry about his board as he was used to fending for himself in strange lands. It would be sufficient for him to be given their address. He would visit them as soon as possible. We could do nothing in the face of his resolute behavior. Ginette seemed to be prepared for such an eventuality. It appeared that what was spoken about had already been discussed beforehand.

“Monsieur Weizman stayed two weeks in Istanbul. He rarely paid us a visit. He took Ginette for a stroll once and accompanied my father somewhere twice. The things intended to be conveyed had most probably been expressed during those strolls.

“Separation had not been easy. A sad parting it was, Monsieur Weizman put his arms around Ginette; they remained immobile for a while without saying a word. Then, smiling, he stared at her and pinched her nose in jest. He had done the same thing many times before, he then entrusted her to our custody. It must have been a secret code between them.

“We had taken Ginette home on the day of her arrival. Aunt Tilda and Uncle Kirkor also had come, Aunt Tilda was intensely curious about our guest. While Uncle Kirkor had intimated that she shouldn’t leave my father all alone on such a day. He was so thoughtful. In the meantime, a couple of inquisitive neighbors also had dropped by. Their main purpose was, however, to display their knowledge of the French language. Ginette seemed displeased with this show of affection; she appeared to have been put in a predicament. How different she looked among all those people who had come to see her. This was the moment when I’d felt closest to her. This experience would remain attached to me for years to come. I would be nurturing this feeling for years without knowing the reason why.

“Ginette’s initial reaction was one of bafflement; however, the real shock was to be experienced by my mother. Before going to bed, Ginette had placed the tiny statuette of Jesus Christ on her night table and knelt before it. ‘I always pray before going to bed,’ she had said. My mother had tried to explain away the event by establishing the connection with the training she had received at the convent. My father had tried to calm my mother down with a smile saying: ‘Don’t worry; it may be somewhat difficult, but I’m sure we can arrange for this in the long run.’

“My mother felt it her moral duty to initiate her into Judaism. As a matter of fact, she was a responsible person by nature and felt it incumbent upon her to convert her to the Jewish creed. She had taken to Ginette as if she were her own daughter, thus satisfying her yearning to have a girl. My father felt a special affection for my mother for this reason.

“Ginette lived with us for ten years. My mother loved her, while she, in turn, remained absolutely devoted to my mother. She had perfect confidence in her. Among the family members she relied on most of all was my mother; in whom she confided her intimate feelings. She never ceased to be an introvert, but her assurance that there was someone near to her in whose bosom she could place her head contributed to her growth. Nobody could deny that there were serious reasons that caused her poor adjustment to her new environment. This was due not only to the fact that she was in a foreign land, but also a different atmosphere; however she did her utmost to fit herself into the milieu. She was the embodiment of tact, and took special care not to put the people she met in a bad humor by her silly questions. Thus, she seemed to be sullen when alone. Could this be a sort of expiation and self-torture? Nobody dared to go near her or disturb her in her isolation. Although she said nothing about it, her looks expressed that she would rather be alone. According to my father, my uncle had been of like character. The latter’s similar behavior had caused displeasure in a host of individuals, especially in his mother and his wife. These women had remained devoted to him their entire lives. Ginette’s outward appearance was not unlike her mother’s, but in her moral makeup she had taken after her father. When one observed her smiling countenance, one approached her with a light heart. Yet, her inner world was closed to everybody. To protect herself against the adversities of the outer world she was in need of such a sanctuary just like everybody else. This had been a way to differentiate herself from her surroundings—which she had been successful in doing. This I knew. She had provided me with clues as to the meaning of her behavior that changed according to the individual with whom she was to be in contact. This was our little secret. During her years at the French
lycée
, she was referred to as “Papillon,” we had taken to this more than once in the presence of our common friends and inquisitive relatives. I’d done my best to experience this feeling. I’d never left her alone on such an occasion. Thus we had eventually succeeded in becoming good friends . . . ”

There seemed to be a hint of resentment lying dormant for years in his depths. The clock pointed to a different time, to a different story left untold, to an absence preferred to be kept secret . . .

My land belonged to others

‘We had eventually succeeded in becoming good friends.’ Would this sentence be sufficient to explain the relationship between Berti and Ginette? I think that a new situation was arising which could be interpreted by some as cowardice, by some as nobility, and by others as affection. There are relationships which can be based on a footing without being put into words, cogitated on or inquired into. These are relationships that you keep alive within you, through voices that are made known which you prefer to convey through your addresses. You say to yourself that certain feelings must be kept in the same place and manifested through utterances. The reason is that you must already be aware of the boundary line you have drawn for the sake of your preferences, of the fact that you’ll not have access to that forbidden zone, and that daring to do so might break the magic of that relationship. In this game of hide-and-seek between Berti and Ginette in which both sides tried to conceal themselves, it looked as though such a voice guided and colored such a relationship and had been desired to be followed. This self-camouflage revealed that sense of friendship that Berti tried to explain to me, conveying it far beyond hollow platitudes. Certain feelings had to be concealed, certainly; they had to be buried, never to be unearthed again. Certain feelings had to be masked against the call of unexpected emotions and be kept undisclosed in order for them to be kept aloof from those eventualities. I believe I had solved and grasped the nature of this relationship better having brought together and patched up these clues. It looked as though Berti was reluctant to acknowledge defeat and lose Ginette for good, while she dared not hurt Berti. In case the concealed feelings were to come to the fore and the words chanced on found out their ordinary identities in those lives, certain difficulties might be encountered. When one considers this aspect of their relationship, they had succeeded in becoming friends who regarded solidarity and mutual devotion. They had learned how to bear each other on that thin line of demarcation through laconic speech. In fact, this was the most beautiful and meaningful side of their relationship. This attitude seemed to corroborate my understanding of their interpretation of life. Berti had, for instance, borne all his relationships by such apprehensions and concerns. What was inherent in this was the apprehension of losing certain things and being unable to live with the illusions they created. I was familiar with this experience. The relations that couldn’t be broken or lived properly had been nurtured from this source, and, consequently the poems had remained uncomposed because of this. When you tried to assess certain relations you had now and then an experience of
déjà-vu
. What remained for you after all the experiences, losses, or gains were but leftovers; appearances made you what you actually were; what distinguished you from others were those beautiful appearances, those unprecedented voices. Berti’s story was, in a sense, the history of those who had not been able to cross that boundary, of those who were known by others as outsiders.

Ginette had learned how to turn inward in order to be able to take her own path making sure that others did not notice it when she had crossed the threshold of adulthood. She was the sort of person who had to put on somebody else’s garb in another person’s land. In order to understand this attitude, one had to recall a detail and take it into consideration. At first sight, women, who were ready to take her under their wing and protect her, seemed to have always been within her reach. All these women had been sincere and honest in their dealings with people. Madame Manzil, Marie Thérese the prioress, and Madame Roza were marching in Indian file. The various lives, the variety of women and the different times involved seemed to point to the fact that certain things had been lived with certain deficiencies. Can it be that what had been looked for and what had actually been lived was in fact quite a different woman? If one considers these deficiencies, one should not be surprised to learn that wherever she went, she felt herself to be a guest. In her past there was neither a tomorrow, nor a past in which she could find shelter. Under the circumstances, putting on an appearance that would suit the wishes of those individuals was a revolt of small stature, reminiscent of heroes and heroines who knew how to bear and endure their anonymities; a revolt that gained a special meaning by a wan and mischievous smile; to be able to head for the correct time, to
her
correct time, gingerly, being less exposed to receive injuries. Her success in being a brilliant student at school and in receiving the love and affection of her teachers, ignorant of being true to life, were but integral parts of this secret revolt. Berti had noticed this choice and had done everything to remain close to Ginette, to protect that feeling which he dared not name. However, to be frank, no one had been able to go as far as Madame Roza. Ginette and Madame Roza communed every night behind closed doors. We could never pick up anything from what they had been discussing. The guess was that Ginette had learned how to go on living through betrayals by the time she had made headway toward her womanhood.

The lost diary

To be able to have confidence in someone despite the attention that they may generate . . . this was undoubtedly one of the experiences that a person might enjoy and succeed in enjoying. However, according to Berti, there was but one single person with whom Ginette had perfect confidence and in whom she could find a shelter; a person who knew how to listen to her better than anybody; it was a person concealed in her diary who tried to survive, in that diary which she had begun to keep ever since her arrival in Istanbul, at a time when she spoke almost to nobody, and was still under the influence of her monastic life. Only Berti had been told about the existence of this diary. It apparently contained indications that would likely bring to the surface the images of a young girl trying to explore and understand womanhood. The idea of keeping a diary had been suggested to her by the prioress. This was one of the right paths to teach her how to live, in addition to how to read and write correctly and have a perfect command of one’s language. When the right time came, the footsteps of Monsieur Weizman would also be heard. A long return, a very long return was not very far from Ginette’s mind when she was getting ready to start her life in Istanbul, in another country. It was time for her to keep a diary and be its sole possessor. She wanted to record the time in question. The rest could be understood over a course of time and be placed next to other texts. Yet, why had she confided this to Berti from whom she had concealed many a feeling and reality of hers? Was it because she believed he would appreciate her efforts to keep a diary, this peaceful and romantic cousin of hers, or to react against that deep and unutterable passion in order to soothe her conscience? Both alternatives could be argued for in addition to many other probabilities I cannot think of at the moment. Barring the realities toward which these probabilities might lead us, that a secret had been entrusted with him was a fact. This secret would contribute to the preservation of that special unutterable feeling whose importance should never be ignored. Ginette had not been wrong. Her peaceful and romantic traveling companion had proven to be faithful to his vow and borne the secret as he had promised. We, on the other hand, learned this secret long after we had lost track of Ginette in a different land. What had been confided, the confidence that Berti believed in should have remained unbetrayed despite the distance of time and space; but the person whose secret he had been keeping, in defiance of their common experiences and their moments of togetherness, the opportunity to catch it had vanished into thin air. To reveal this secret meant a betrayal for Berti. People that failed to have an insight into the childishness concealed in this experience might well interpret this as puerile behavior. She was a person who had lost much of her valuable time in small details according to some, in commonplace details according to others. Personally, I had sided with those who judged her occupation as dealing in vain with minute details. The origin of my joy in taking part in her games must have been sought in this preference of mine. These were, perhaps, the happiest moments spent keeping track of those people. Berti’s gentility in imparting the data relative to the diary of others lay in his search for new confidants in the very act of committing a betrayal. He had told Juliet and I, one night, of this clandestine side of Ginette. This was an extraordinary little gift given to me that night, given with a unique hidden smile, the expectations for its consequences having been known all too well beforehand. However, I was to appreciate the real value of this gift after many long stories. What had been told during that night had opened a new vista in my own long story. This seemed to indicate tardiness in my recalling the fact that a great price had to be paid for embracing the inexhaustible passion of studying time. However, I’m inclined to believe that there was another path one had to take that night. This path, which I could perceive through my intuitive power, lay between Berti and Juliet. It was as though a connection had been re-established with a view to sharing a deep scar from the past. The meaning that was hidden in this sentence enabled me to understand a little better the relationship that this sentence contained. One should also consider the fact that Berti was aware of the meaning of things expressed as well as those left unexpressed. Despite all that he intended to tell us, he had said almost nothing about the contents of the diary in question. As we listened to his narration of those moments we had instinctively sensed that Ginette used to read parts of her diary to him with a view to expressing her feelings indirectly. They had discussed on one of those nights the said diary and the important role it had played in their life. That was the only place that one could face oneself in all one’s nakedness, wherein one felt absolutely free, believed oneself to be free and alive. Real interrogations took place and letters could be written there. Then one night they had spoken of those books and their contents and what they had left in them, in their histories. Ginette had then asked the reason why books told of loves mostly in bitter terms, why they failed to show the right path to follow, and wanted to know why her questions had remained unanswered; to which Berti had replied saying that the reader of those books perceived them through the questions they left unanswered. Ginette had continued: “I’m writing about love . . . There was a young girl who wanted to go far up the mountains . . . She wanted to move away, away from her past experiences, from her past, even from herself. Then . . . then she set off one day without informing anyone . . . making headway toward those mountains . . . On her way, she met a wayfarer who had strayed from his path, his original intention being the same as hers. They came to realize that they shared the same objective. But they were suddenly taken by fright rather than joy. Both had had insights into each other’s private corners, which they would have preferred to keep confidential; their secret corners concealed what they both wanted to hide. They joined hands to flee, to flee as far as possible. Yet, having covered a given distance, they realized they could do no more. Either they were exhausted or reluctant to see the ultimate destination that the path they had taken would lead them to. Actually, what they refused to see were their own realities. What they had been enjoying was a mere chimera . . . or perhaps they had been aiming at illusions and had been confronted with harsh realities . . . ” She stopped for a brief moment. In this narration in which one couldn’t fail but see the traces of her own world, one could perceive in her eyes the part she had wanted to reflect from her own private life, when she mentioned “confronted with harsh realities . . . ” which Berti had repeated to persuade her to go on, she had grown silent. Who had ceased to speak? What words had prevented her from continuing, who had been the person that had been prevented, why and where? Anyway, even I can keep silent; recalling the individuals out of my reach, inquiring of myself the reason why I try to dodge the meanings that certain words projected on me, thus indulging myself in restructuring the whole thing. It was easy to tell the people for whom Berti had suddenly preferred to keep silent that night. It wasn’t so difficult to find new words to explain his experiences. We could listen to that story, comfortably settled in our chairs in our little darkness without having to show ourselves. It may be that what she had been trying to recall had been lying deep in her depths. It was as though we had been drawn closer to each other at that moment . . . remembering, without saying anything and making ourselves scarce, those people that we could no longer set eyes upon, the individuals we could no longer attain. However, this situation might cause
a minor emotional breakdown in Juliet likely to remain with her forever. However, she had accepted it as part of their history, the man whom she wanted to be always by her side had remained with Ginette. As I had been musing over these things, suddenly there emerged before me the image of Marcellina . . . At that very moment, I saw a smile covering Juliet’s face, a smile I remember having seen somewhere else, a smile laden with affection.