Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (89 page)

His father had begun feeling attached even more closely to his Perla, to his dear pearl, after she had lost her sight despite the fact that he and she lived in separate chambers and in separate nights. At first sight one might think that there was nothing noteworthy in this relationship. The emotions insidiously built on regrets in certain individuals were certainly known by others living in other houses. Pangs of conscience were mixed with a fear of death at such times. One should also take into consideration that, in addition to these concrete truths, he bewailed the loss of Nesim. At such times he could go to the remotest corner of the earth with his wife, to the moments of which no one had an inkling. His father, during this time of bereavement, had the mentality of a person who had failed to bring anything to light. A darkness was being experienced through different words and glances . . . a darkness trying to be conveyed by new touches . . . a darkness trying to be clarified and explained with new touches . . . a darkness that created in a person the sense of being shoved aside, of being far removed from those districts and streets. This connoted holding the hand of a person, feeling the need to do so. Attaining the truth, the real truth from outside was not possible. Betrayals were experienced and kept alive on account of the ignorance and invisibility of those boundaries. Those betrayals were the extension of the impossibility of exiting from that region . . . Those betrayals were the result of another silence. Those betrayals meant solitudes from which there was no escape.

Who were you able to kill in those silences?

Avram Efendi had rather belatedly noticed his flight with Madame Perla. He had noticed that that woman was able to give him other things as well, as she was staring through that unexpected darkness. All the same, she was not the woman he once knew, the only traveling companion with whom he once had shared his gambols, who had kept him company during their silent strolls hand in hand; he, as the master of his past had experienced many other flights throughout his life when the free play of creative imagination affected his perception, enabling him to feel at home in his illusory world of colors and shapes. The hours he spent at the café in Sarımadam with Monsieur Moise almost every morning, sipping their freshly brewed tea, talking about the past and the present, could also be considered as his hours of flight. These were their favorite pastimes, which they were reluctant to be deprived of, a valuable gift presented to one another. However, if the connotations of a real gift are to be taken into consideration, one should mention the exchange of lottery tickets, a token of their reciprocity. Here we had the stage play of two small children. The day when the draw took place was the greatest event of their otherwise dull routine. This stage play repeated every month on predetermined days was colored by the same heightened expectations; the particularly interesting thing about this was that none of the draws had lived up to their expectations except for occasional small prizes won in defiance of the heroes’ insistent and persistent efforts. Neither of them had a chance of giving the first prize to his companion. However, their pursuit of the prize conjured up excellent images: what they were especially after was not the money they would be getting had the result proved to be in their favor, but the very act of winning something; the demonstration of having achieved a goal. The money they might receive would remain unspent, as they had neither the power, nor the avidity, nor the passion for extravagance. They were conscious of this fact, of this cold reality. What was more essential, the cost of dreaming or the cost of playing? They had learned at last; or they had a justification now for believing in the acquirement of knowledge. The years that had been spent at those places with those men had not been for nothing.

He had often seen them conversing at that café. They lapsed into silence now and then, not failing to make signs to the women around with gesticulations and the raising of eyebrows with ogles and grimaces just like boys that had newly come of age. Those were the moments when they unconsciously awoke the child within themselves. Both had need for small conquests. Their discussions seemed to be confined to their shortened future save for their comments on daily events, their fiancés, their youth in Paris, Edith Piaf and the tax that had changed their lives. Monsieur Moise must have often referred to his days of exile at Aşkale. Some of the exiled saw their dreams stolen along with their riches. As for the account his father might be conveying; it was a long story, a very long one . . . He himself was a part of it, and could not get rid of it. Certain people would remain forever bound to certain places. This story was not his exclusively, he knew that. But to know it did not necessarily imply one’s taking stock of reality all the more as time went by. This was not enough to cover up that sense of defeat.

Before he went out, he used to give his father some pocket money. Those were the days during which nobody was willing to go back to Halıcıoğlu. His father spent this money to cover his expenditure at the café and bought candies for his grandchildren. The price of the lottery tickets also was defrayed from this money. His father asked him for extra money to be able to cover the expenses of a friend. A petty lie repeated with the same intention lent meaning to those moments; a lie that might remind one of an old children’s tale. Actually both knew the reason why the extra money was asked for. What caused that lie was the desire to gulp down a few shots in one of the old haunts, to enable Avram Baba to get a little nearer to Avram Efendi in his imagination. The performance took place to the extent the circumstances and expectations allowed. He used to favor him with one lira, giving him fair warning at the same time: “Promise that you won’t buy yourself a drink!” His father retorted: “It’s a promise. Anyhow my heart is weak, you know that.” Promises were made only to be broken. This performance nourished at the same time a concern he kept deep within himself. The reason why he insisted that his aged father refrain from drinking was due to his concern about his being a victim of an accident in the street. It was his turn now to feel anxious for his father. Formerly his father had the apprehension whenever he went out; Jacques wouldn’t be able to come back. However, during those days when the play went on, he had grown inured to this sentiment like he was to many others. The fear of death had begun creeping in his body.

A few more years would go by during which other bodies would be consumed by other hours. At the close of day his father came home drunk confessing that he drank a bit more than necessary, but he could not help it for some reason. He said that he had run into Isaac Saporta, whom he had not seen for years. Isaac looked crushed under a host of burdens he seemed he could no longer bear; he was fed up with life. They had preferred to exchange a few words seated rather than standing. He was the one that had suggested the idea. After all, he happened to have been once the master of Isaac. He had witnessed his father making a mess not only of a great many incidents but also of many lives. He did remember Isaac Saporta. He had been among the workers at Halıcıoğlu. He had carried on his trade after the fire and had established new business relations thanks to his past connections, managing to climb to a certain summit. He had always acknowledged his debt to his master, Avram Efendi, and openly declared to his staff that he owed his achievements and talents to his apprenticeship at the workshop. This was certainly a humanistic gratitude; a gratitude not everybody was ready to acknowledge. They had only heard of such expressions of gratitude from others. One also had to know that they should be prepared for the worst and that hearing similar expressions, or a lack thereof to that effect had its own rationalized justification. Having already learned to look at the incidents of his life from such an angle, he blamed no one. Isaac Saporta had made his choice, which was far removed from theirs. The reason for this might be found in the life of poverty he had experienced in his childhood and youth. He might understand better his reluctance in exposing to the view of others, to whom he felt grateful, the scenes of his impoverished years which had decided his future. Yet, despite this dodging, he couldn’t avoid being the victim of the tax on wealth. They had heard that in order to be able to pay the tax, he had been obliged to sell the carpets he had under his charge at a price much lower than their actual worth. Those were the days when vultures swarmed and flew lower to the ground. Isaac had been able to settle his debts, but as far as one was informed he had not been able to recover and had died peacefully in his corner by the side of his last family. When they were informed of his death by coincidence, two years had already elapsed. Everybody had a distance according to which he lived and was intended to live. In other words, his father could not possibly have met Isaac Saporta. In consideration of this hard fact, it was interesting to hear him concoct such a story. What was even more interesting was that in the late evening hours when his father had returned home more drunk and exhausted than ever and sat down in an armchair with a face that betrayed astonishment, being unconscious of his surroundings, the fact was that he had died a short while afterward without imparting his imminent death to anybody. Everybody happened to be in a different corner at home. As far as he could remember, Roza happened to be in the kitchen. He himself occupied the balcony, filling the coal bucket with a view to pouring some more coals into the stove. His mother, seated on her bed, was presumably combing her long white hair before sitting down for dinner. Lilica was most probably busy applauding someone in her place by the window. The children were lost to themselves. A noise was heard that was followed by Lilica’s scream: “Padre! Padre!” She rushed toward the balcony. They had all at once made a dash toward the drawing-room. His father lay stretched by the armchair as though he wanted to say something. He had on a white suit, a cream silk shirt, a white silk necktie, white socks, and white shoes. Everything had occurred in such a short space of time. His mother, having wandered her bland gaze over the onlookers, had announced the death of her husband, saying: “I’m sorry!” And after a short silence, continued: “Good for you Avram! The last straw!” and without asking anyone’s help she had silently retired to her chamber. They could never learn what or who she had dreamt of during those initial hours. All that they knew was that she had not shed a single tear for the only man in her life, or, if she ever did, she had not exposed it to anyone’s gaze. Had this been the only emotion her sightless eyes could exhibit? This attitude might have been regarded as odd, straining one’s credulity. Her ranting at her husband’s corpse might be considered strange as well. However, with some effort, one could perceive that behind that reaction lay concealed a deep love. In this reaction was also hidden the defiance of a proud woman, contrary to the expectations of individuals who preferred to join in the opinion of the majority by choosing to evaluate the events from outside exclusively, based on her resignation to her fate and reluctance to expostulate about her husband’s doings. His mother had deeply loved this man with all his pros and cons who had tried to live by groping around in life so that he might live somewhat better. The burial of her affection for him following the loss of her sight implied a great refinement and beauty. She had, as a woman in need of others to survive in that period of her life, refrained from letting her husband be exclusively devoted to her. An affection gained greater meaning mostly through true sacrifices and meaningful silences. She had lived in her solitude, her real solitude, confined to a lair and a glance. This solitude, like all other true solitudes, was a solitude bound to remain unexplained. A long silence endured with patience, protected by reserve. It was a silence that gained meaning by the fact that a man who had discovered many a nicety in details and colors inaccessible to others, had failed to see this meaningful truth that the woman wished to give him in acknowledgment of this introversion to that altered situation that this unfortunate transformation had given rise to. Her withdrawal was not suggestive of any indignation, any misunderstanding, and was particularly devoid of all efforts to force others to listen to the voice of their consciences. Their frequent long
tête-à-têtes
were irrefutable proofs. Madame Perla’s anxiety was due to her husband’s inability to see through the real meaning of this passion. In their mutual affection, something had always been absent. Her mother’s rare mentioning of Avram Efendi after his death might be explained by his wish to carry on with this performance for insistence. After their separation, she had remembered her husband only on special occasions. These moments remained far removed from those poetical moments that a song from the radio or the smell of an old dish might associate in the mind. The moments when she felt the absence of her spouse were ordinary ones that nobody would pay any attention to, like when her eyes were fixed on the tassels of the carpet or the slamming of a door. These were the last scenes of her life in which she was acting solo. In this performance that gave the impression that it had been wisely devised, Madame Perla remembered her soulmate not at such times or moments that almost everybody expected her to recall, but at moments nobody would have suspected or consider opportune. Can it be that in this attitude there might have been, in addition, the wish to express once more her meaningful attachment, the wish to enjoy her revenge on his escapades and betrayals? This might well be the case! Actually, what contributed to the pleasures of life were those little plays and details to which only a select number of people might make inroads toward.

Madame Perla’s show did not end here, if one thought about the extension of life somewhere else. As a matter of fact, she had willingly assumed the charge, during those days, of trimming the tassels of the carpets. No one else among the household was allowed to appropriate this duty of hers. The job exerted some influence on the person involved if certain connections were to be taken into consideration. However, the proper execution of the job was
de rigueur
, suiting the demands of the existing circumstances. The same concern for perfectionism had been displayed in laying the table, in the lacework, and in the paring of the string beans. This woman, whose beauty had been the object of much praise, seemed to have desired to attach herself to that life whose sight had been barred by those chains she herself had found through her own efforts. This silent struggle had occurred both in the house at Asmalımescit and at Harbiye. One must not fail to mention the fact that she had had sunny days as well in those houses. When they had moved into the house, to the apartment, I mean, at Harbiye, they had seen good days. They were now occupying a brand new modern flat with central heating which their relatives in the surroundings of Tünel and Kuledibi were to envy. Berti was getting ready to set out for Cambridge. Olga was to remain somewhere untouchable, inaccessible to everybody. Madame Roza was at home; she would create the impression of being a long incarcerated victim. Lilica was dead. Jerry was growing: however, he would grow into adulthood in another land. The shop at Sultanhamam was growing in size; it had become one of the fashionable boutiques of the district. Whenever he became conscious of the fact that his father would not be able to see how prosperous he had become, he felt sad, a sadness mixed with some pride he preferred to keep secret to himself which he knew he could share with anyone else. He had covered such a long distance since the day of the fire . . . They had no house there anymore, the streets had remained deserted. The new inhabitants of the district nourished other fantasies; the old riches and the old rooms were no more, alas. One had to admit the fact that truths just like lives were liable to change. One might say that despite his occasional and inevitable nostalgic feelings for his past experiences and the things he had left behind, the conditions of the present day were considerably better. The basic emotions underwent no changes though, despite outward appearances. In the new houses were the same expectations, the same old customs, the same mores continued to thrive. For instance, one of the most important rules in commercial life was to honor one’s debts. One day as they were talking about checks and bonds, his father had told him that notes and IOUs were for honest people. In fact, even a promise was good enough; it meant acknowledgment, respect for one’s dreams. On the other hand, for dishonest people those notes would be worthless. This conviction had had a perennial character. In this regard, he had lived up to the established order. One of the prerequisites of the established order was to have one’s lunch everyday at exactly a quarter past twelve. Another such force of habit was not to order meals from outside. He had his metal containers brought from home used as a meal pail. The job of selecting the menu from the leftovers of the preceding night to be stuffed into the pails, which were patiently carried everyday to the office for the sake of perpetuating the business, was Madame Roza’s strict responsibility. This was repeated every morning, every noon, and every evening, having been arranged in the most perfect manner. Years had to go by before he realized this reality after having gone through other solitudes and separations, and, what were still more important, isolations. Every morning meant another return. The experience of such an emotion was quite probably due to Madame Roza’s personality. As a matter of fact, the affection closely felt was the consequence of the contribution of this personality. Affection was a kind of bondage under the circumstances; a bondage whose boundaries could not be delineated, and were often experienced in ignorance because of this lack of definition. On the other hand, this bondage, experienced naturally, had its traits that made a man happy just because there was nowhere else to go. Had it not been so, how could one explain those happy little moments? Before the Sabbath the dishes were already prepared; the courses changing according to the season, constantly being recycled; it being understood that they abided in that hearth. The smell of a stew, the ingredients of which were meant to be used in combination with other food would pervade the house, combined with the odor of fried or roasted eggplant. He used to heat his meals himself on a stove in the shop. He never neglected to put his napkin on the table with great care, filling his glass with water, and occasionally inviting Kirkor to partake in the chow. Those were the days marked by Madame Roza. She knew which dishes he preferred and made a point of cooking them and putting an additional pail in his bag. Those were the moments, every minute of which had been duly benefited from. They had remained attached to their memories, habits, traditions, and little happinesses more than anybody and had perceived each other’s pros and cons during their long partnership in that shop. The proper performance of addressing a single word to each other was the
sine qua non
of their combined operation. On the first day of the New Year it was their habit to come to the shop early and strike a pomegranate against the counter in order to see their crimson seeds disperse to the accompaniment of their own prayers so that they might have a prosperous year. Then they had a cup of coffee and spoke about the duties awaiting them. After which they went back to their house. This New Year ritual was not theirs exclusively, of course; the ritual had been ingrained in the constitution of their fellow beings. However, everybody believed their moments, their experiences to be more valuable than their neighbors despite the resemblances. What made the rituals different were exactly these petty details, the requisite aspects of them. They made a point of seeing to it that no stranger took part in their gathering. They happened to be the inherent heroes of the ritual. The pomegranate seeds dispersed on the floor were swept with a broom that they considered to be among the jewel of the shop, making a wish for many happy returns. They were to see their wish fulfilled over the course of many years to come.