Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (8 page)

Having failed to give school life its due, he had been apprenticed to Master Barkev, a distant relative, to work at the lathe. Those were the days when poverty was raging across the country. Early in the morning we used to get up and set off for the workshop. One could observe among the crowd on the bridge fellows with patched-up trousers; even our stockings had patches on them. “I don’t think you’ll remember those wooden eggs we used to thrust into our socks when darning,” he said once. I had said nothing in return, but merely smiled. Whatever I would have said would divert him from his cherished recollections and daydreaming. Otherwise, I remembered perfectly well the wooden egg dating from that time in my life in those ancient houses in which I had had many experiences I did not want to share with anyone. I distinctly remember the time when I had insisted on living in them and was reluctant to vacate . . .How distinct in my memory it seems to me now, that wooden egg I used as a toy. It is a nonentity now; yet, at the time, it imposed its presence on us and stood for something essential in our lives. You cannot just break your rapport with certain objects, if a certain house you inhabited outlived other houses you lived in . . . I remember well the drawer in which the wooden egg in question was kept. The interesting thing is that despite its impression on me, which I can hardly describe and am unable to define, the said egg was a constant reminder in my life nevertheless; I had a special place reserved for it. That egg had never been for me a simple and ordinary plaything. Nevertheless, that charm, that magic that attached me to that image, was, I think, concealed in this enigma. To remind Uncle Kirkor of this would be irrelevant. It was a fact that everybody revolved around his own role, or roles, and lived as his own individual character through his recollections and servitudes. There were many images that hid themselves behind scarred wounds, that seemed to have been forgotten by a multitude of worlds, each reproduced, one unlike the other . . . That may have been the reason why he had opened this window to the old days to people alien to him.

The fact was that Uncle Kirkor was apprenticed to Master Barkev, though he was reluctant to talk about his days there despite his nostalgic feelings about them, wrapping himself in the garb of an ancient man that if encountered anywhere must be regarded with sympathy. He had embarked on that venture that was to radically change the course of his life and lead him to a place completely different from the place where he could otherwise have stayed for the foreseeable future, at a time when he was somewhat more hopeful of new prospects . . . This episode I learned from Monsieur Jacques quite by chance as it had never been on our agenda. Despite our common emotional grounds, we also had islets which we mutually preferred to keep as forbidden zones. Given the wide difference of age between us, barring our respective emotional worlds that opened towards different vistas, there was, it seemed, another life. We both had eventually realized that this was a no man’s land.

As far as I could gather from what Monsieur Jacques told me, during the days of his apprenticeship in that life wherein the rules were quite different from those in the classrooms, fed by small expectations and readymade dreams, everything had gone fine at the beginning. Thanks to his skill and behavior he had endeared himself not only to his master, but also to the artisans in the market, despite his accent and shyness. Master Barkev began to entrust to him the work of his favored customers, and his confidence grew with the effect that he could eventually pass his bench after so many years of labor to someone he could train himself. To have gained the confidence of his master was certainly important for someone who was but a novice. That was more than a simple trust or empathy; these epithets might be
à propos
in describing those days. It sometimes occurs to me that Master Barkev proudly exhibited to his friends in the market certain pieces made by his apprentice. “This is Kirkor’s work; perhaps not so perfect, though. But he’s got talent, I must allow him some time yet,” he used to say with some pride and excitement which he tried to cover up. Just a sign of emotion from the master which should be taken for granted. They sometimes continued to work long after they had closed up the shop. These were invaluable times spent on the road that led from apprentice to master. Nevertheless, certain events were to take other turns, beyond one’s control, making life unpredictable at unexpected moments, leading to unwarranted days for which no preparations could have been made. One day, Master Barkev had to leave the workshop to purchase materials. It was a day one wished to obliterate from memory, a day one might recall only if one so specifically wished, a day that obsessed one more and more as one tried to forget it, a day that could be explained away on the grounds that, when taken unawares, it might provoke in one the sense of the absurd. Kid Arthur was there; he was undergoing training in silver inlaying under Mr. Hrant, his master, who was notorious for his irascibility and alertness, and whom people addressed not without some diffidence. Professionals had already formed their judgment about him. It had not been two years since his engagement and he had achieved no progress; nor did he give the impression that he would do so in the near future. Had he been somebody else, that somebody else could not have remained long with Master Hrant, a devoted professional, whose work demanded admiration. Yet, because of an old, very old code that Master Hrant was keeping as a secret from everybody else, for the sake of togetherness, he abided there. “Business is slack, but, I cannot dismiss him now. You know, it’s a question of responsibility. I’ve got to suffer the consequences of my wrongful act of the time,” he told Master Barkev one day, bending his head to his breast. “To my mind he still loves you,” he said. “Too late!” had been Master Hrant’s answer. Uncle Kirkor was there cleaning the bench. His presence was hardly felt, although they were sure that their secret was safe with him. At his age, he had failed to properly understand what had been going on. Only much later would he be able to establish connections between the facts, long after the people involved had gone to different places and abided in remote lives. They were indeed sure that no secret would leak out. He had lived in a world wherein apprentices were not only trained on the job, but at the same time received an education to meet the future challenges of life. Master Barkev had been conscious of the merit of his apprentice. Kirkor was tight-lipped; he never spoke unless he had to. Therefore he had to remain a listener; he had to acquire as much as he could from those who supported him. Uncle Kirkor had not said anything to Kid Arthur about what he had overheard, despite the fact that he had been his closest friend in the Market. He did not consider this as a betrayal. For, he knew that Kid Arthur was an extremely sensitive boy who could not put up with certain bare facts; he was sensitive to the point of morbidity according to the judgment of those around him . . . He himself was the only person who truly loved and understood him. Kid Arthur endeavored to put up with the pranks, in their monotony—from people who tried to cover up their own failures and lack of self-confidence hidden behind a plurality of masks—by laughing at his own shortcomings, clumsiness, and, what is still more important, at his stutter, in an easygoing, yet necessary way . . . The kid that had come to visit him at the workshop was the self-same kid . . . Uncle Kirkor was at that moment in the process of fixing a piece which Master Mıgır, a Luna Park
habitué
, had fabricated by taking great pains in a chunk of a press that only he could operate, and whose repair and maintenance he himself undertook. Upon Kid Arthur’s inadvertently pressing the button of the press, the cutter had sliced off Uncle Kirkor’s arm, radically changing his life in the blink of an eye . . . Uncle Kirkor, who had lost consciousness following the trauma, pleaded with Kid Arthur to immediately call for help. Neighbors had rushed in to take Kirkor to the nearest hospital. It was said that so much blood had oozed from him before he was taken to hospital that if timely help had not been sent for it would have been fatal. Master Barkev was said to have acted like a father to his apprentice during his stay at the Balıklı hospital, and spared nothing at the risk of Master Vahan’s likely reaction. Among his visitors at the hospital was also Master Mıgır. He had brought him a railway carriage he had fabricated in iron, whose doors could be opened and shut, promising him that other carriages and a railway engine would soon follow. Other visitors included artisans from the Market; some bringing bouquets of flowers, some candies, and some
eau de cologne
. With a view not to leave him alone during this difficult time and to try to pinch a moment of bliss from his tragedy, even for a brief period, by simply being a presence, an onlooker to this disaster . . . Everybody had endeavored to hearten him, telling him that promising days lay ahead in the Market; his reaction to this was a beatific smile. For, he already knew what awaited him, and intuited that those who tried to hearten him were also aware of this. He realized that what he foresaw became a reality on the day he was discharged from the hospital. Master Barkev seemed to hold himself somewhat aloof from him. His voice had a different inflection which could be perceived only by those who knew him well. The master did not mince his words; he told him bluntly not to come to the workshop anymore. “With a single arm you can no longer do your job, you’ve got to find another occupation for yourself,” he said. Perhaps, financial considerations had prevailed over the affection felt for the individual. Uncle Kirkor had not reacted; he had merely said “Goodbye, Master” and avoided his gaze. A word to the wise was enough . . .

The paths of the participants involved in the incident had subsequently changed course. Master Mıgır, at the cost of ruining his family, had married a woman with whom he had been head over heels in love and who used to sing songs from the movies of old; but, unable to bear the shock of her elopement with an alcoholic, a mechanic who operated the ‘tunnel of horrors’ at the Luna Park, and believing that a businessman’s sense of honor had been at stake from his having been in default, he had eventually put an end to his life. His next-of-kin claimed that his suicide was not related in any way to what had befallen Kirkor. On the other hand, in the face of this backdrop, of which he had been the unintentional author, Kid Arthur’s already sensitive spiritual constitution suffered greatly; he lost his mental balance completely and was confined to an asylum for the rest of his days. Master Barkev refused to employ any apprentice after that and gave up his intention to train a new novice as a substitute for the victim. As for the principal actor in this play, Uncle Kirkor, as far as I could gather from certain stories from our rare
tête-à-têtes
that provided me with clues about life in general, he had borne the worries caused in him by this lack of confidence all his life in a secret corner of his being, without blaming anyone, believing, however, that some people, certain individuals from his past would be filled with remorse sooner or later; without accusing or identifying anyone in particular, in full consciousness of the fact that certain convictions were upheld and were supported by little lies or illusions . . . in order not to lose his will to struggle against his master’s betrayal, which, in time, I think, was to lend itself to different interpretations. Not for nothing had he said: “provided we remain alive,” one of those days when he seemed to conjure up certain notions or established a link between them and his experiences. Provided we remain alive . . . these words would come back to me years later, reported by certain members of ‘that family.’ This was the story of a harrowing experience that was kept ever fresh in the mind. “Actually, I might have been a good lathe operator even with a single arm. But, I’d no chance,” he told me, during one of our conversations. “It was my fate . . . Here we are at the end of the road, at the end of our life . . . ” It was a moment of pessimism, of resignation to one’s fate, actually inconsistent with someone who had always been hopeful of what the future would bring, of the realization of his most intimate wishes, an anticipation he had never formerly given up. However, regardless of the attitude adopted toward this deception or defeat, when one observes what Uncle Kirkor had gone through in the wake of that incident, one could not help believing, in that different path, so to speak, known to some as fate. For example, could one explain the socialist side of Master Vahan? He used to make furniture for the house of the Venturas at Akmescit, and preferred to make his comments on daily life and political developments in his smattering of French, which he had acquired simply by listening to his mother speak. He could not quit smoking despite his asthmatic condition, and under the pretext that “otherwise they wouldn’t appreciate my work,” he refused to work for the new rich upstarts whose behavior gave him the creeps and about whose lack of culture he was positively convinced. He believed that money could buy everything despite his financial difficulties and the penury he suffered, thereby causing others to suffer alongside him. He learned from Monsieur Jacques, when he had asked him to arrange a job for his son after that unfortunate accident in order to allow him to get some practice in business, a young man who had succeeded in becoming a self-made man, who had taken over the responsibility of the family, in need of a young, industrious, and what is still more important, reliable employee. Did he realise that through this exchange of words, which, at first, seemed to be a casual dialogue, he would eventually open up the lives of two people toward a lasting togetherness? As far as Uncle Kirkor could remember, in his old age, at a time when he looked back to his past not without some prickliness, thinking that it would do him some good and would be an answer to his moroseness, loneliness, and slovenly behavior, when he was about thirty or thirty-three years of age, he had been married off, by the good offices of certain people ever present at such situations, to ‘Ani the Lame,’ who had an original, exotic, and strong sex appeal. I have it from Monsieur Jacques that Ani was at the time in pursuit of a ‘risky objective’ in order not to be obliged to return to her plebeian family from Kayseri residing at Samatya, as a woman abandoned, after having had an illicit relationship, or, according to some, having been a mistress of a married colonel, at the time she had been introduced to Uncle Kirkor. Ani was the daughter of ‘Serkis the Moody,’ a maker and seller of pastırma (dried, smoked beef) in his shop no bigger than a chest, somewhere in the Eminönü Market, which he opened or kept closed according to his mood that day, and who, whenever the occasion presented itself, claimed that superior quality pastırma was made not of entrec
ô
te, as some people, deluded by its appearance, might think, but from fillet of beef. The first speculations relating to his relationship may have been indulged in during the ramblings that had their origin in that shop cubicle. Uncle Kirkor had seen himself as a rescuer of Ani, a knight-errant. Considering the reigning circumstances, Ani herself may have seen him in that garb. However, to the best of my understanding, the said identity of a savior was not of the sort that one would associate in one’s mind as a unilateral act of supererogation without wanting anything in return. She had, thanks to her feminine touch, appeared to have saved Uncle Kirkor from certain things. This is not my observation, but Monsieur Jacques’ . . . Kirkor, at least at the beginning, during the days immediately succeeding his matrimony, paid special attention to his attire . . . Those were the days when he could laugh to his heart’s content . . . Yet, this had been the social disposition of the day . . . For, after a while, the relationship took a different course, one not easily accepted and accounted for. Everybody got the gist of the affair in due time. Despite all efforts to avoid it, the incubus was always there. Ani had considered this matrimony a shield; it was as though she wanted to point out certain inroads into her eccentric and somewhat perverse spiritual constitution. For she had wanted to compensate for the great disappointment she had suffered by sleeping with other men, in spite of her knowledge of the fact that by this act she grieved and wounded her husband who continued to love her and served as her latent conscience. Ani and Uncle Kirkor had looked on their defects, each other’s defects, from very different angles, possibly from solitary ones. The relationship was the sort of alliance that both sides carried on from their respective perspectives, within the confines of their respective tricks, servitudes and lies. The scenes in the stage play had tableaux in fact, tableaux one would better understand as one penetrated them. Ani felt herself nearer to Uncle Kirkor after each escapade and the latter justified them to himself resignedly to a certain extent by the plea of her eventual return to him after her moral turpitudes. After all, the very fact that a woman, who had had in her parlor many suitors, had married him despite his disabled state gradually boosted his self-esteem, making headway toward his serenity. His crippled condition was compensated in Ani with a like defect. Actually, this had played a pivotal role that had, according to outsiders, joined them in holy matrimony. The motive power had been Ani’s full breasts, her beautiful face and penetrating looks, and last but not least, her feminine charm. With her womanhood and femininity she had overcompensated for her so-called defect. One should also take into consideration the milieu she had been living in, where the saying “a lame wench has a beautiful pussy” had a wide acceptance among the public. Uncle Kirkor was well aware of all of this. Their respective conditions were not equal, in other words. This had partly played the role of the prompter. The cost to Uncle Kirkor of his journey toward serenity had been considerable. However, it was a hard fact that those who had achieved success in life and reached privileged positions were people who had paid, had chosen to pay or had been obliged to pay a heavy cost in life.