Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (84 page)

During his days at Halıcıoğlu nobody could possibly have guessed the sudden rush of people that would come from the provinces to the metropolis. Diamante lay ill, seriously ill. His father had had recourse to all possible and imaginable ways of dealing with her malady; not remaining content with the general practitioner he had even asked Doctor Barbut from the Balat Hospital to come over. Nothing worked; it was a hopeless case. The medicine of the time was helpless to make a diagnosis, let alone remedy the ailment. They were in the presence of an imminent disaster for which nothing could be done. Misfortune seldom arrived alone.

It was a fire that was to befall them; one of the artisans living on the premises had come rushing in panting to inform them of the bad news. His words were disjointed. The old retainer ‘Jackie the Lame’ had indulged himself in raki cans and had drained their contents until he had fallen unconscious, letting the butt of a smoldering cigarette fall somewhere near some flammable material. This small inadvertence had caused the material to catch fire; there was a sudden flare which eventually burnt down the whole house. The lodgers had rushed out like madmen, with the exception of Jackie; having informed the people around him that it was too late before he had realized the cause of the fire, he had stopped listening to their pleas, informing them that he wished to stay inside. Everybody understood the reason for his insistence. He had opened his eyes in that house, every nook and cranny looked at him with a familiar stare. He was one of those retainers who owed service to the household, he was ‘jackie of all trades’; in a sense he led a life in synergy with that house. Nobody dared to meddle in his affairs. All things considered he was the next in line to take on the romantic male lead. All the repairs, maintenance of the garden, tidying of the workshop, were among his chief responsibilities. He performed all these jobs without complaint. Jackie came from Italian stock; a child of a poor Italian family. When asked about the number of cans left it had been his custom to lie. He must have taken stock of his situation and concluded that he had to pay for his crime by sacrificing himself. He had identified himself through that house. He had to perish along with the murder he had committed. He could not come out; there was no out for him anymore. He had destroyed the interior, his own interior.

They had all rushed to the blaze; they couldn’t believe their eyes. Bereft of all hope, they had nothing else to do but wring their hands. A large part of the house was in flames; dousing the flames was out of the question. Their prisoners could do nothing but look on. In the darkness of the night the flames shot high in the air, while they were licking round the foot of the stairs. There were so many objects inside, of varying significance and meaning for different people at different times, reproduced with untold reminders. The onlookers stood petrified. They didn’t say a word: what was being destroyed was not only the house but also the workshop that had been erected by the collective efforts of many people, a treasure in itself, a depository; it was the mainstay of many an artisan who earned his living there; it was a symbol of hope, which appeared seated on an unshakable foundation. The people of the district had done their best to save whatever they could get their hands on, but all efforts had proved to be in vain. All steps ventured toward the house were steps taken into the void. Those were the days when nothing substantial could be done to fight fire.

His father, who stopped, realizing that the efforts were in vain, kept his cool saying to his cousin Albert Naon who had approached him offering his services, “I believe we have no other chance but to stay with you for a while.” The fact that he could extend a helping hand to his wealthy cousin Avram at such short notice, had, mixed with the dejection experienced, a concealed pleasure and pride. There was nothing extraordinary about this. A man, who had been shoved by some fatal unforeseen conditions to an inferior position, was thus avenging his fate in the hope that the future would be more promising. All these feelings were the consequences of the tribulations he had suffered during his life. The figures that had had a part to play in his misadventure were no longer around, yet the aftereffects of the steps he refrained from taking still lingered in his mind. The aftereffects would be slow in parting, if they ever did. Cousin Naon along with his wife Beki said:
“El ke bien se quiere, en poco lugar cave”
(People who love each other can squeeze themselves in a small place), agreeing to show them hospitality in their modest home. They could never forget those days and the warmth of the home. When they had set out in a state of confusion, not knowing what to say, the blaze continued. Their father had said that he wanted to be alone for a while and they had better proceed. Needless to say they had not had a wink of sleep that night. He had also felt an overwhelming desire to have a last glimpse of the house in the early hours of the morning. His father was there, seated on a rock, leaning his chin on his palms with his elbows on his knees. He was still staring at what remained of the fire. When he saw him approach, he had waved him to come near: “Come,” he said, “come, sit by me.” He couldn’t utter a word except “Father . . . ” The tremor in his voice was meaningful, of course; it might be the sign of many different emotions. Yet what he wanted to say had been jammed together in one single word, ‘father.’ He was not prepared for such an eventuality. “Say nothing, my son . . . We’ve been reduced to nothing . . . But we still have our art . . . we’ll recover . . . we’re not dead yet,” said his father. He seemed to have perceived what he meant to say and had given voice to it. Seated side by side, they remained staring with fixed eyes at the ruins of their house which the day before was a symbol of hope for them with its contents, carpets, and rugs, etc. “Don’t worry . . . we’ll get back on our feet . . . Difficult times are ahead of us, no doubt. That idiot Jackie is no more alas, reduced to ashes. We might have been the victims of the same fate . . . It’s true we can never replace those rare specimens . . . pieces that no weaver can ever weave henceforth . . . Years of labor vanished into thin air . . . ” However, he was not incensed . . . He did not seem vexed . . . He was not cursing Jackie the Lame. He seemed to be beyond all worldly cares. He was mourning for his carpets as though they had been human beings; every one of them was a treasure trove of souvenir wraps and wefts; they had been his other family, which he believed to be among the people who would live forever.

I had loved my father superlatively at that moment

Labors, hopes and souvenirs . . . Everybody would realize what that fire had taken away in due time. The door that it had opened would, however, contribute to one having a clearer insight into himself and his fellow beings. They had stepped from their secure world into another in which they felt stripped naked. It was true that they hadn’t dared to mention this fact the morning after that fatal night; both knew that the cost of those carpets that had been turned into ashes within a couple of hours was as much as five thousand liras—a considerable fortune back then. A fortune suddenly wiped from the face of the earth, quickly to be followed by a similar disappearance of wealth surprisingly soon after. A smile flickered across his face. In the days that followed, during which he spent his time as a spectator to worldly events, how ridiculous it seemed to witness people in his immediate surroundings looking at their fellow beings with condescension; those who seemed absolutely convinced that their means were indestructible and perennial. If only they knew . . . It suddenly occurred to him that he should communicate certain facts to them . . . certain simple facts . . . Then he gave up on the idea. They wouldn’t understand him anyway. He had remained seated by his father without saying a word. “Look, the pine tree also has burnt down; we lost the chance of sipping our rakis at the foot of it in the evenings.” They were trying to evade each other’s stare. They were aware of the important role played by that pine tree. Now they were burying many a summer night along with it. Had he such a great weakness for melon those summer nights? Had this been the reason why the two pine trees in the garden of their house at Büyükada had had a special place in his mind? Had this been the reason why he had believed in the soothing effect of the pine trees? They were evading each other’s stare; they probably had similar thoughts. That silence that reigned was contrapuntal for this very reason. They kept silent. In order to be able to speak they had preferred to observe the silence. A deathly stillness hung over them. This aided the protection of their jealously from one another. “We can sell the shop at Akarçeşme, father. We’ve got some money in hand. Don’t take it to heart. We’ll get back to normal; the carpet trade is a dead end. I’ve got other ideas,” he said following this prolonged silence. His father, who was busy drawing meaningless figures in the soil with a stick, a relic from the blaze, had raised his head to have one last look at the ruins. “As you wish son . . . ” he said. He tried not to display his sense of defeat. He could do nothing else at that moment. However, for those who knew him well these few words meant a lot. This was one of the rare moments when he felt closest to his father; when he loved him most. Those who had been a witness to such relationships knew all too well that such moments were very rare indeed in one’s lifetime. The feelings were mutual; they were on the brink of an embrace. But something held them back, pinned them down. People were capable of smothering the emotions that grazed within them. One couldn’t easily take the one step toward what was nearest to them. “As you wish son” was an important expression; it pointed to the direction they should take in the wake of the fire; it marked a transitional point . . . That was to be the last night when his father appeared to him in his identity as head of the family. It was now his turn to take over. To be honest, he was not prepared for it. Nevertheless, a change of responsibility brought a certain resolution with it. A necessity led to new discoveries. Actually, all the relationships that gave direction to our lives could not be seen beforehand.

The pictures concealed in the rugs and carpets

Putting the shop at Akarçeşme up for sale had its reasons, both logical and emotional. The fire had dried up the financial source that the sale of carpets supplied. That source included not only the workshop as such but also his father’s past and his craft. To witness the shop almost abandoned and unprotected would likely cause great distress to his father and induce him to withdraw from active life. They had to trace a completely new path . . . involving completely new aspirations. Moreover, the revenue available from that shop could never provide for the financial future of the family. Aside from all these considerations, times were changing. People had started to look on life from quite another angle.

They had moved now to a rather spacious apartment at Asmalımescit. It was somewhat smaller than their house, but good enough to contain them.

He had opened a little sundries shop at Yüksekkaldırım. This had brought a new color to their lives, to be precise, colors that might contribute to a transformation in their lives. Those colors would gain meanings in the house once it was inhabited, in the name of days gone by, in different guises and touches. Special moments and emotions would be experienced in a box, with a flower design on the cover, on a certain morning, during the sewing of a button. To sew a button on clothing being worn at the time was considered bad luck by his mother, and she had no problem resorting to prayer if she had to; a childish ritual to some. He who had never forgotten the magic words she used to utter at such moments, had difficulty in remembering them now. “Let me see,” he said probing the depths of his memory, “how did it go . . . It must be something like this.
‘
Ensima de ken kuzğo? . . . Ensima del ijo del rey de Fransiya . . . El ke tenga tuz ansiyas . . . Tu ke tengas su bien
’
(On whose apparel I’m sewing it? On the son of the King of France . . . Let your troubles be his and his troubles be yours . . . )” That was it! He did remember it, after all! Those were the moments that had remained in his memory from those difficult days. What a funny, playful formula! What part did the son of the King France play in all this? Where had his mother learned it? Was the fact that France had long been divested of its King known to that house? He had also recalled this formula when he had visited the
Palais de Versailles
in the company of Madame Roza. His mother was still alive. He would ask her about it upon his return. “Had what you said come true, you cannot imagine where we would be living now,” he would tell her. He couldn’t suppress his smile at this moment. When he returned he had done what he had promised himself and asked his mother about that formula. But his mother didn’t remember it; a good many souvenirs relating to those days from which she had to alienate herself had been eliminated from her mind. This may have been what people called “the long death.” He felt close to that hard fact. One approached, learned to approach it, by stripping himself gradually from his burdens. He understood better now. His mother was not to blame for her forgetfulness.

During the days following the opening of his little shop at Yüksekkaldırım he had lived with that breathtaking Thracian beauty and was full of expectations, experiencing both the tangible and the ethereal. His father had thought a lot of this young girl who had brought with her a new voice. His warm feelings for her had been built up over a very short period because of his intuitive nature. They had shared a yearning that had left permanent traces on their past. Outsiders might think that this affection was due to his father’s discovery of the girl whom he had failed to find himself, veiled in Roza. He was partly right in his estimation. His reaction had been ostensibly felt by those of his peer group. His father was one of those people who could not conceal his feelings. Life had not changed him despite all that had been experienced. This relationship assumed a deeper meaning if one remembers the fact that Roza had lost her own father in the old days. She had appeared to be seeking the touch of her own father in her father-in-law. This was a fact they had never openly acknowledged to each other. They had to leave the magic of this fact untouched to the bitter end. This magic was even more important than the real fact; the play was colored by a detail. Yes, a detail; a detail that could be understood and justified when approached with care in their play. The emotion that had found its reflection in Madame Roza’s skill in embroidery could not have passed unnoticed by his father. The points worthy of notice had been perceived over a short time. Avram Efendi had given his daughter-in-law a gift that might be considered rather valuable. It was a loom which he himself had designed and constructed with his own hands. As a matter of fact it was a small, simple loom. He was going to teach her how to weave a carpet. This was indeed a gift both for Roza and the other members of the family. Roza was to recognize the place she occupied in the eyes of a man whom she revered and loved; the rest of the family was to observe the fact that Avram Efendi, their father, had not been totally defeated by the fire he had suffered. The mutual cooperation between father and daughter would find its reward in the rugs they collectively produced on that loom. The rugs and carpets they would be manufacturing during their leisure hours for their own home and for the homes of their next-of-kin contained their evasions and fantasies as well as their fate. There had to be a few kilims somewhere dating from that period, which he could not exactly find now. Only Juliet could find them in their cubbyhole, she who knew a good many of his secrets. He was going to ask her to come over one day. It had been quite some time since she had last been seen. Yet, he couldn’t blame her for such hiatuses after all she had gone through. He understood her, he could share her feelings, empathize with her; they had seen the different aspects of death; they had become accustomed to it, if one may say so.