Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (82 page)

Monsieur Pardo’s Thessalonica connection

The house at Halıcıoğlu was a house that had been a witness to many an incident. They were there when the Constitution was declared. Scared to death of the sound of clashing arms, they had taken shelter under the staircase. Those days inspired fear in some, hope in others, and for others still, bloodshed. A deathly silence was to hang over Monsieur Pardo. Because of his connections with Thessalonica, the new dark clouds would cause his father to withdraw to his chamber and live in seclusion under lock and key. Knowledge was tantamount to complicity, to shared confidences, the meaning of which lay buried in the past in a different connection. The exchange of confidences would continue through his correspondence during his sojourn to Cyprus and Haifa to which he had been forced to go. The letters were the cause of a family event. The father perusing the letter in solemnity could not hide his empathy with his friend and exclaimed: “Ah David ah! Pedronado ke te veya no kaliya ke te entreras en estoz eçoz” (O David! God pardon you! You should not get involved in such dealings!); or
“
Ya te lo habiya diço be Pasha! No eras tu para estoz eços . . . Neğro era sit e kazavaz kon akeya ijika? Bo te suruneyavaz ansina a lo manco . . . El Dyo ke no tome la kavesa de dingunos . . . (I told you, hadn’t I? You’re not the man of such affairs . . . You should marry that girl; had you done so you wouldn’t be living a life of misery now. May God protect us from insanity!) He had always wanted to know what those letters contained; for his father, they represented table talk; a table talk that connoted a sad, bitter, and long separation hardly communicable. His friends could understand from this the extent of their respective abilities. The letters were read and reread over and over again, the contents of which were disclosed to the people present through murmurs before they were burnt solemnly. This ritual appeared to be the wish of Monsieur Pardo, the man who had never failed to communicate his experience in different lands and realms to his only friend and confidante to whom he had clung after all that had gone on in the meantime. It appeared that the said letters came from someone who never tired of narrating the incidents of his life. One day, another letter was received. Having read it, he had grown motionless for a short time, muttering the words: “O my David! Who would have thought . . . ” Leaving the sentence incomplete . . . The rest of the sentence seemed to have been transposed to another place for the sake of secrecy. His father’s voice gave the impression as though it sounded in a different tone. A tone that seemed to announce some news not meant to change anybody’s life. He had folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. That had been the last letter ever received from him.

Wife of the Italian ambassador, steps, and other songs

They had been under the same roof during the Balkan War and the occupation. Those were the days of retrogression and of withdrawal. This play had been presented on the stage on more than one occasion, performed by different actors in different settings, with the same disastrous ending. Despite their means of protection they were cowed at the sound of the footsteps of the Bulgarians and of the foreign men-of-war that had cast anchor in the Bosporus, although they enjoyed the privilege of minorities. They had worried when Indian officers had come to see their carpets at the workshop, although they had received many a celebrated foreigner in the past, among others, experts and connoisseurs from Budapest, London, and Sarajevo, and ambassadors, high ranking military
attachés
, generals, and other senior government officials. Their names he could not remember now. All that he remembered was his first sexual awakening at the time. The wife of the Italian ambassador was a striking beauty. The grizzled bun at the nape of her neck, the dark-skinned face with green eyes and the wide hips had remained indelible in his mind’s eye. Whenever they met, she used to put her arms around him and let her breasts slightly graze his cheeks. One could not tell if the woman continued to play this innocent sexual trick consciously since she saw him as a kid in bloom. He wasn’t sure; but what he was sure of was the deep impression she had left on him. He continued to see her in his dreams on certain nights, stark naked. This made him confused. He was afraid of being caught in the act by that woman. Yet, neither his confusion nor her apprehensions had prevented him from dreaming those wet dreams. She had been the seductress of his life. Her wide hips, small breasts, and sweet smell haunted him. Strange to say, he could no longer remember her name. People vanished in the haze of the past, leaving behind only traces, unforgettable moments; to be able to say to themselves or to others when the occasion presented itself: “I’ve got something to tell as well . . . ” especially moments when they felt lonely and forsaken or dared to prefer to withdraw to their solitude.

Among the celebrated visitors to the workshop was also Liman von Sanders. The days of his visits were special, days to be always remembered. The general spoke in German with his elder brother. It all happened so far in the past. And the men back then appeared so innocent and irreproachable compared to nowadays. Neither Nesim, nor Liman von Sanders, nor anyone else could foresee Germany’s treachery and atrocities. Their conversations were so gentlemanly, so unblemished, directed toward a better worldview. Those days had also marked the beginning of his separation from his brother. For instance they had begun occupying separate rooms. The days when they invited the kids of the district to see a movie they put on at home themselves and the emotion they had displayed at the advent of the record player had vanished into the past. The motion picture camera was a simple magic-box operated by hand, projecting the film on the wall, which contributed to the widening of the children’s power of imagination. As for the record player, he could still hear ringing in his ears, the voice of Eftalya for which his father had a fascination . . . Were there also Greek songs among the records? No. They were played later on. Later . . . In other districts other voices were heard, other nights ran into other days . . . O! The days at Halıcıoğlu! Business at Akarçeşme flourished despite circumstances which called for the artist to transform his occupation into a trade. Thus, artistry had begun to move gradually away into the distance; he had never discussed this problem with his father, but it seemed that certain decisions had already been made; now he ought to make a point not to offend him. Everybody had a life of his own which he had to make the best of, to add meaning to, and to try to better. Many years had to go by before one became conscious of the ongoing process. One should take care not to offend anyone in the meantime. One would have to settle accounts at the end both with oneself and with others. However, at long last, there would never be any need for accounts to be settled; for, during those days of expectations, yearnings, and deferments, a disaster would be knocking on the door of the house at Halıcıoğlu . . . a disaster destined to change their lifestyle and their dreams for the future radically. All the incidents of that night had remained as the minutest details in his mind.

To be able to become a comedian

That evening they had paid a visit to Yasef, his father’s surrogate nephew. Yasef, who was in dire straits at the time, was in an impoverished state, and needed more than anything else comforting and company. His young wife lay fatally ill; she was losing weight, the cause of which could not be detected. Everybody was sure that her end was near, but no one dared to say such a thing. There were mortal conditions which nobody would be willing to acknowledge; there were houses in which the word death was not permitted to be heard despite glaringly hard facts. The family member who was particularly affected was his father who knew Yasef’s past better than anyone. On the way to his nephew’s house, he kept repeating every now and then: “Poor unfortunate boy!” unaware of the bad luck that would befall him soon. Outsiders might observe this as an offensive remark coming from a successful man about a relative of his who had failed to rise in the world. However, this feeling originated from remorse, despair, to wit, revolt. His father pronounced these words with heartache, as an uncle hardly to figure in an ordinary story. He bore a special responsibility for this boy. This had to do with a legacy; a valuable legacy whose history went back to an unforgettable separation, from a moment of death; a legacy he tried to keep up with.

Yasef’s calling his father
“tio”
(uncle) was odd. For, the age difference between these two men—two relatives, whose paths had crossed by fate, by a painful experience—was four years to be exact. Yasef was four years his father’s senior. But life sometimes played tricks on its students. They were cousins actually. Yasef had been orphaned; he was still young when Avram Efendi had begun making headway in his profession. The butter trade had failed; he had seen his partners abandon him, leaving him in the lurch while his fiancé had eloped with one of his partners who had hoodwinked him. There would certainly be no end to the deceptions, but he was cheated in more ways than one. On his deathbed, his father had asked him to promise that he would do his best to assume the responsibility to look after his son to the bitter end; and Avram had made that promise. He had vowed that he would never abandon Yasef to his destiny. He had remained faithful to that promise from that day on and had done everything possible to fulfill it. Having settled all Yasef’s outstanding debts, he had, by the good auspices of Madame Perla, arranged his marriage. The girl he had married was the daughter of a family not blessed with this world’s riches and she had no dowry; however, her ancestors were from Edirne; and, although they might be considered somewhat provincial compared to the citizens of Istanbul, women from Edirne proved to be good wives and mothers; they were excellent cooks and skillful housewives. Anyhow, these were Madame Perla’s reflections. Madame Perla was a connoisseur in such affairs; she hardly ever proved to be wrong in her assessments. No one could call into doubt her conviction that the Thracians came from an impeccable stock. For her, the Thracians were more reliable than those who came from Istanbul. In short, the girl she was going to marry him to was an ideal match. Money was no problem; his father was in easy circumstances and could extend a helping hand to his nephew entrusted to his care. These developments, at a time when life seemed to Yasef to be at an end, pointed to an undreamt of revolution, from that day on he was to make headway trying to look on life from a completely different angle. He had learned by now that he should not disclose his intentions to his acquaintances, except to a restricted tight group. This lack of confidence in others might also be interpreted as a lack of self-reliance. At all events, this rigid attitude had contributed, in his own words, to his peace and growth. These words might certainly be interpreted in a variety of ways. The associations they engendered might suggest to different people the lineaments of a different type of man. At any rate, this fitted well with his view on life. Actually, despite his introversion, he never relinquished his humorous approach to people. In this respect he was almost a copy of his stand-in uncle. Thus far, their philosophies on life converged; this fact could be translated as a strong affinity between them. This
Weltanschauung
had united them in many respects, contributing to the enhancement of their mutual affection. Yet what distinguished them from each other was concealed in this very look on life. To make one’s friends laugh at one’s jokes was a diversion for his father, meant to create a festive mood, while for Yasef it meant to have the genius of a comedian. To be able to be a comedian . . . yes, this was a way of life for him, the art of living itself. The fact that he answered people who asked him what his occupation was, with the words: “I’m dealing in the butter business” connoted his buttering up of people in a certain sense. At times, when he felt low and out of sorts, Yasef didn’t refrain from avowing to his female customers that he also pandered now and then. Was this due to his attempts at womanizing? Was he intending to secretly avenge that woman who had betrayed him? Such questions were to remain unanswered; actually as questions never to be asked at any rate. For, putting such a question demanded entry into another solitude. Yasef was in no position to provide answers to such questions in those days. Like many people reluctant to divulge their secrets, he could not describe the situation he happened to be in. His surroundings, those of his close circle, could not be expected to tell him their opinions on him. His store of funny anecdotes being a horn of plenty, one hardly dared to tell him a new joke. All these attempts were ways to cover up the truth about himself, his nakedness, his need for disguise. As a matter of fact such a diagnosis might well be made for any comedian. To this, another detail should also be added, namely flight, the desire to keep running away which should not escape notice. Yasef had always been a fugitive; he fled from himself in particular. As a matter of fact, this was the reason why his feet never found a foothold anywhere. The fact that monetary dealings had not been his forte might have been due to this behavior. He may well have preferred to appear as someone unaccomplished in the art of dealing in the money markets, as his major inclination lay in daydreaming and stargazing. According to his father, he always looked distracted. He had not had a shop of his own; he underestimated routine work, adherence to a pattern of behavior characterized by mechanical repetition like going every morning to a shop and leaving it in the evening at a pre-established hour was a trouble for him. All through the day he wandered through the streets buttering people up. He had no other aspirations. In the course of his wanderings he gazed at the houses bordering the streets, he imagined the incidents, the tragic scenes that could have or might have taken place behind those closed doors; he fancied himself in those rooms, experiencing many an adventure while carrying on a conversation with the actual dwellers without letting them form an definite impression of him. Through his own voices and silences he had experienced more than once the fact that certain fantasies had a way of covering up certain truths. He had never forgotten the fact that it was due to Avram Efendi that he could carry on his butter trade, that he could sleep and rest by a faithful woman who understood, and tried to understand him and his need to win people over. This was the reason for his addressing him as
“Tio
,
”
as token of his gratitude. Everybody who took part in this stage play had finally got accustomed to this sense of kinship, even though they had found it odd at the beginning. Yasef’s difference was once more acknowledged. In order to befriend him and love him, one had to make this acknowledgment. To acknowledge this dissimilarity and bring reason to bear, to make sacrifices in the name of love and affection was justifiable because of his nobility of heart in the first place. The relationship between the individuals who had known how to live with or without one’s losses, and the individuals who had tried to understand those people whose losses had been underlined by such a motivation. Anyhow, what Yasef did was to waste time on both people whom he loved and with people whom he despised. In this play Madame Perla would also take a part with all her heart and assets, and not only would she not find it odd to be addressed as
“Tia”
(Aunt), but would gladly reproach her nephew when need be and accommodate him in her home without ever speaking to him disrespectfully. Those had been Yasef’s finest days, days worth remembering . . .