Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (83 page)

His wife had not only a devoted spouse but also a fervent admirer. He remembered her distinctly. She had the looks of those individuals resigned to their fate. She hadn’t even inveighed against her husband’s occasional sprees and his coming home tipsy late at night. These silences conveyed unavoidable situations, tolerance, in other words; the carotid artery that catered for the longevity of the marital union. This attitude could not be understood; unless one knew the past you could not evaluate it. Otherwise you couldn’t find a room for it in other struggles or realities. You could not view this attitude from a different perspective, in the right frame of mind. That attitude found expression there, along with the return it deserved. While he spoke of the long nights of vigil by his wife’s bedside, Yasef had always been conscious of his gratitude to her for her self-sacrifice. Those were the nights when he could not imagine himself as a comedian, when he could not even become a comedian, the nights when he could not act as a comedian. A few days after the family visit, Yasef was to lose her. Not even a tentative diagnosis could be made.

This death, like all untimely deaths, would leave behind gaps and regrets. A death that would justify his father’s labelling of Yasef as “an unfortunate boy.” Isaac, the child born out of this short-lived wedlock, was only seven or eight. Yasef was going to have a second marriage after a lapse of one year. According to him, there was a very important reason that would justify this new marriage. A home could not survive without a woman, could not breathe properly, and could not create a warm atmosphere. Having expressed this important view, there was no further need for dwelling on details. The details belonged to those who actually enjoyed the experience, who preferred to live. However, in spite of all these facts, the bare truth and the correctness of the decision, Isaac would be reluctant to corroborate with his father’s plans and continue to feel sorely for his orphaned state, remaining a mere spectator to his father’s connubial life with another woman. From that fatal day on a naughty and unruly child would supplant him. The reaction was not out of the ordinary; it was often observed in similar cases; however, one could not of course turn a blind eye to the fact that it would have deep repercussions later on, as he grew into adulthood; as it was bound to cause the development of an irreverent and hostile attitude toward women. Isaac would never be the same again. The new woman’s (Bella) sincere efforts to act as a kind and graceful stepmother, or at least as an elder sister, had had a positive effect only on Yasef and his peers. No one could accuse her of acting as a cruel stepmother, with all its untoward connotations. In her efforts, one might seek a guilt complex because of her advent to the house in the wake of a disaster. Nevertheless, this woman who had taken on the challenge of a new marriage by burying another one in her past would in due time endear herself to everybody and prove to Yasef that life could be enjoyed in its different facets. Nevertheless, all these developments would not prevent Isaac from gradually estranging himself from that home. One day when he was fourteen he left at midnight, leaving on his bed a short note which read: “I’m on my way to find my own life. You may stick to yours.” The style adopted sounded like those used in similar cases. Such a style intimated that the absconding child should be expected to arouse in himself wild fantasies over many years never to be fulfilled. Extensive investigations, and searches conducted would avail to nothing as Isaac would have obliterated all the traces he might have left behind, thus proving to everybody how he denied the life that had been offered to him. As a matter of fact, on his frequent visits to their house, Yasef would never fail to mention his lost son in the hope of alleviating his abandonment and making others still more conscious of his bereavement. One day he had asked his father: “Had he be a character in my play, should I cast him alongside the other characters? Had his intention been to become a comedian like me by any chance?” These analogous questions were distinguishable from each other by a flimsy thread which expressed despair as well as another sort of regret which can be summed up with one single question mark. Yasef was asking himself how he had acted wrongly. His father kept silent; that was all he could do. They knew each other well. The answer was inherent in the question. One could not forego reiterations. All things considered, the question had to contain in it its answer as well. This was the period during which Yasef did not play the role of comedian.

Isaac would not be returning for years. He had obliterated all the traces he might have left behind. Nevertheless, they would be receiving some information that he had indulged in dark dealings.

After a lapse of twenty years, Isaac would return home a few months after Bella’s elopement with a fishmonger at the end of a long life of matrimony. Bella’s justification was also laconic and cruel. She had been flirting with that fishmonger for quite some time . . . the man was young and knew how to make her feel like she was a woman.

Was Isaac’s return at such a moment pure coincidence? How come that a person, who had opted to be away from home for so long, could trace his father’s abode so successfully in no time? This seemed to prove that he had not estranged himself from him as was generally thought. Actually, to run away, to really run away from home was a figment of one’s imagination. Isaac had come back home as a decayed figure with a glassy look. He had not explained where he came from, why he had returned home, what he had been doing abroad and what his plans were for the future. He appeared to have lived longer than the twenty years he had spent in exile.

In this new era, father and son had started to try to understand each other’s lives and their respective positions for the first time.

Yasef had introduced long talks with his son, in all their minor details, as a new pastime at his house at Asmalımescit. It had become apparent that despite all well-meaning efforts by both parties, they would never be able to see eye-to-eye after so many years of separate experiences and sacrifices. Their fates had been sealed to different lives. Once they had had a row in the house. Isaac had accused his father of failing to arrange a religious ceremony in commemoration of his mother. His voice was timorous. His eyes were full of tears for the first time. Those who saw that scene had all felt like crying. Not once had Yasef arranged a religious service to pray for the soul of Diamante, for that silent and demure woman who had guided him through life and never betrayed him. But this had nothing to do with a lack of affection or devotion to her. He was one of those people who hardly knew how to look backward, or in other words, to look into the past. From that moment onwards this would be the proper way to mourn. Otherwise he would forever be a comedian. To be a comedian was no easy matter; it meant having the genius to forget, to wit, to focus on living. This was his father’s salient trait to which, despite all his past experiences and acquisitions, he was blind. Both had understood after their fight that they could never have a relationship. Not a few days had passed before Isaac had sneaked away for good, without a trace, saying: “I’ve been all around the world, I’ve tried my hand at nearly every trade, why not tackle new problems in some new fields.” They hadn’t even embraced each other while parting. Isaac, commanding a voice deep within him, had whirled about, unbuttoned his shirt and tore off his flannel undershirt in an act of fury. Yasef had grasped what had been left untold and did nothing other than nod his head. This moment was reminiscent of the behavior adopted at funerals. The survivors could not help impressing each other by their display of feelings. In the meantime, they had already lost all they had to lose. It was a moment of separation that they had exchanged, a moment of actual separation . . . as though death had paid a visit to their home. This was their only Jewish moment. They had effectively had a perfect view of each other at that very moment. Yasef had one other reason now for acting like a comedian in the streets; another reason for announcing to people that he had been a master in buttering people up. This profession of his had gained meaning especially in terms of his wish to avenge his abandonment. Brooding over these events, he kept asking himself the reason why there had been no common understanding between father and son throughout their long history. He had never found a convincing answer to his question. In this story there appeared to be a remarkable thing devoid of credibility that prevented people from giving credence to what was told. It wasn’t so easy to cast doubt on this separation and resolve to live alone. The best one could do would be to remain content with the knowledge that this had been an act of fate; they were fated to journey on different paths. The fact was that they had been caught at a pass where they thought they would find shelter. To have a better insight into this, one had to inquire into the reasons behind that deep remorse. Speaking of this remorse, Yasef had said that he had done his best to be left alone by his people. Life was averse to comedians, the true comedians; supposing it was not the case, it still didn’t pardon them.

Isaac would understand Yasef’s justified resentment, a revolt he had been able to display to a few people, only years later, when Jacques came across Isaac in the Karmel market in Tel Aviv, selling stockings. Isaac, whom he had run into quite casually, was a decrepit old man. Engaged in selling the wares displayed on his stand, he could not help combining Turkish words with the Hebrew as he sounded off the items he had for sale. He winced at his own coinages at times and while shouting the Hebrew word
“
Yarad” (sales), he pronounced it at times as
“
Yarak” (vulgar Turkish word for penis). At that very moment their eyes had met. After a flicker of an eyelash, he had said, as though they had only seen each other yesterday, despite years of separation: “Well, father Jacques, I must have inherited the art of being a comedian from the old man. I understand him much better now. ‘Buttering up’ is our profession in life.” He had stared with affection at the aged boy. He couldn’t bring himself to announce to him that his father had died all alone yearning for his only son . . . They had spoken of insignificant things, of the weather and of the affairs in Turkey. They hadn’t dared to ask each other the vital questions; they had observed momentary silences before resuming their casual smalltalk, acting out their distress, and trying to appear as if they were in the best of moods. Well, so far so good! As he moved away, he had heard Isaac hum an old hit. An individual in an open market in Tel Aviv singing a popular song of earlier years, of the days he had spent in Istanbul, as though keeping the memory of those days fresh in his mind. Isaac’s song also signified his loneliness and was designed to stress the art of the comedian he had inherited from his father. He had found someone who could understand him and empathize with him. The image of Yasef had emerged before him. He repeated the words: “The art of the comedian is our profession after all!” He smiled; he smiled one his frequent smiles.

Yasef had begun frequenting that house at Asmalımescit after his separation from Isaac. Actually, nobody could foresee when his visits would take place. Yet, the door always stood open to him. Everybody in the family, and a man who considered himself one of the family, knew this. His presence was well received by his mother as well. They sometimes had conversations speaking of the good old days, although they could not remember certain details. Certain dates and incidents had been obliterated from their memories; this gave them the occasion to accuse each other of forgetfulness, nay of softening in the brain. This must have been the best method of sharing the past. Yasef used to tell anecdotes to them. However, what he told them were but the repetition of his old anecdotes which he believed he was telling for the first time. The listeners continued to smile and laugh as they used to as if they were indeed being told to them for the first time. They feigned ignorance and took part in the game. Thus both during his talks with Madame Perla and when he cracked jokes, he found the opportunity to display his skill at being a comedian. This was his swan song . . . Yasef’s visit had always been a cause for jubilation for those who lived there. It had occurred to him during one of his visits to declare that he had lived to a ripe old age and that it was high time that he died, but death never came to knock on his door. He no longer mentioned the names of Bella or Diamante . . . However, he occasionally muttered the name of Isaac, apparently he had been dreaming of him at night. Then, one day, in a house at Kurtuluş, he had passed away after having recited lewd jokes to them until the early hours of the morning . . . They happened to find themselves moved from Asmalımescit to Harbiye.

Fire

They had witnessed the time when houses, their houses, had begun gradually dwindling in parallel with the rush of the population to the big cities. It was the time when the settled people of a city saw their gardens expropriated; however, what was taken was not merely the living spaces. Despite the fact that he had suffered all sorts of losses over the course of many years, he felt afraid, now that he was isolated and abandoned, of facing new confiscations. Thus he preferred to lead a static life for the time being. Yasef had also lived with the solitude and loneliness that everybody would sooner or later come to taste. There was no denying that solitude was everybody’s eventual and ultimate state. Everybody was fated to experience it in the long run as a representation of the places they used to see and live in more deserted, derelict, and forsaken forms. This was the fate of those who lived a long time.

He had chosen Hasköy cemetery for Yasef. It was not because the burying ground was less expensive there. The soil matched that of the man he had wanted to take by the hand; that is where he was born. He had lost his father there at an early age. It was there he had learned how to put up with poverty, with his mother who used to frequent houses as a charwoman; it was there that he had been forsaken in various ways by women; it was there that he had pondered on Isaac’s departure to foreign lands; it was there that he had discovered his skill as a comedian, spending most of his time there. It was there that he had exercised his trade in the butter business before he had moved to that small room in that house in Kurtuluş, and to his little lair of a boarding house where he had stayed cooped up, looking at the city outside as an alien sight. He had had one single means which could link him to the earth, his humor; a sanctuary he could take shelter in from the outside world. That’s where he had resolutely continued to live in the company of his lies and self-deceptions.