Read Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale Online
Authors: Mario Levi
To be able to love somebody and be conscious of it . . . represents, I think, the insidious approach of the darkness you cannot penetrate, which is populated by those you have abandoned . . . to be able to see someone else as a human being . . . Nevertheless, these two capabilities had sufficed to enable them to clasp onto each other during those days . . . Nobody could guess what the future had in store for them . . . That was not easily predicted. They had a vast imagination that went beyond the grasp of those who knew them. An imagination they both found themselves lost in, adrift amid the new days and nights . . . Could it be the place where the defeats, the real defeats were experienced?
What remains of a marriage?
Not long after that moment during which Aunt Tilda and Joseph had mutually failed to give a true picture of themselves, they got married. Could this step taken toward another fallacy be helped? Could it be that that step had found its veracity in that misapprehension? Frankly I can make no headway with such irrelevant questions at the present time, which take on new meanings through omission. As far as I can gather, they lived the meaningful years of their marriage in that small apartment at Asmalımescit, during which they frequented the movie theaters and nightclubs that Aunt Tilda adored. In those nightclubs, luminescent and radiant, finding themselves among people who preferred to lead a life similar to theirs—lost in the night, believing in certain things unreservedly in the company of their inner voices—which allowed them to live in their own pristine state, to the fullest extent possible, in the days following their marriage. This state had previously been experienced in different places by different people, although expressed through different words. The tributaries of certain rivers never change . . . Nevertheless, Joseph gradually became morose and incommunicative. He complied with all the wishes that his wife expressed without comment and preferred to be a spectator to his own experiences. What had been the origin of this resignation? Where and when had it stemmed from, consequent upon what visions? Did it have its roots in his journey toward his inner self? Or was it Aunt Tilda’s behavior, inviting everybody she knew to be a part of her life, to partake in life’s inebriation, although this seemed to many to be comparatively daunting? Or was it her demeanor that terrified people? Was it possible for him to see this woman, who had departed and moved further and further away from him as a stranger, like any other woman; would this be within the boundaries of possibility and logic? I am convinced that I will not be able to remain impartial in my assessments and judgments, as always, since I cannot help consolidating my shortcomings, aspirations, and resentments. The questions and responses that I’ve unearthed for the individuals beyond my reach may seem once more profuse and grotesque. It must be because of this that I exercise my discretion and remain content simply to graze certain truths; it may also be partly due to my lack of confidence. Could it be that somebody had considered this game of life as a game of hopscotch? Who knows? Everybody was either in the process of flight or motivated by a desire to flee . . . From my actual vantage point what I can see now is that the behavior of the man she had chosen to join in holy matrimony had gradually led Aunt Tilda to sharp disappointments. I intend to insert into the present story certain aspects of a memory from the past I had been entrusted with. It is an unforgettable recollection dating from the said period regarding this woman who had a desperate yearning for an ‘outdoor’ life; it is an incident related to this man with whom she was compelled to share the same room. One evening he had quite unexpectedly brought in a Sierra radio gramophone and meticulously placed it in a corner of the room. Not long after, he had gone out on a mad shopping spree and purchased an infinite number of gramophone records. Joseph’s absorbing hobby quickly progressed and soon he was tuning into radio stations from around the world till late at night. After that evening, in that apartment, in which a blissful heartfelt scene was not to be witnessed for years (as was the case with similar cohabitations) there was a growing collection of peaceful polar imagery accompanied by songs of merriment, even if only for a brief period of time. Such changes were destined to wax and wane, coming to a close on that unusual evening which was to remain fixed in my memory ever after. The windows that were closed, which were believed to have been closed for good, gave out a view replete with delusions . . .
Aunt Tilda, who, as a young girl, had displayed a flirtatious character, had not cheated on her husband despite her vast vivid sexual imagination. Her family and friends, who had been instrumental in uniting them as husband and wife, wondered how wise their decision had been after seeing their actual home in that small apartment at Asmalımescit. She could tell no one the resentment she had experienced that evening. “I couldn’t find a way out,” she told me years later. “I was trying to deceive myself. The spectators kept commenting on our seemingly peaceful life in laudable terms. I had a grim sense of foreboding . . . ” She seemed to indicate that everybody tried to dodge the issue. Certain individuals reverted to clichés in which they did not believe . . . “I couldn’t find a way out” . . . These were her own words; words that kept haunting me for years. At the time she had spoken to them, I wondered whether she had found a way of speaking that would rescue her from the shadows of that time. When I brood over the visions that survive in my imagination, I believe I am now in a better position to comment on them. The path she had been seeking may or may not have been discovered by her. In the case of her not having done so, it would not be difficult to depict the experiences she had gone through for the sake of solitude and the things she had dodged. Had the reverse been the case, I would have some difficulty in retracing the steps taken. I’m about to reach a boundary beyond which the process of keeping track becomes difficult; the path to be followed will be clearer only after certain deaths and losses have taken place. It is a harrowing experience. Beyond this seems to be a terra incognita that assumes some meaning only when coupled with those voices I would have liked to have heard, but which I cannot decipher. So exciting is this wasteland! It seems that the days spent at Asmalımescit had been precious for Joseph. In all probability, certain things, desired to be conveyed through certain stories, using different expressions, under different appellations, gradually sank into oblivion during the course of this cohabitation. The matter can be explained as the resentment of a person who was unable to communicate, as he would have liked to, despite all his expectations and efforts. Had Aunt Tilda taken cognizance of this and had she had proper access into the imagination of this man who had tried to open a new door despite her retrogression? I doubt it. A relationship thrives in protean dawns; had it been otherwise, one would have been presented with it accordingly. To inhale the same night, the same night in the same place over and over, was no obstacle to a silent and steady progression toward desolation . . . remote desolation. Was this just fate or one’s predilection for thralldom? Was this the source of inspiration for so many songs, had ears been lent to certain people because of this, had so many poems haunted certain people because of this, had so many stories been left unfinished awaiting their opportune time, place, and heroes?
Probing questions . . . I can hear that voice now once again . . . once again, with echoes, associations, and terror-ridden fantasies . . . That is why I’m striving to keep aloof from certain questions besieging me. I say to myself that I can postpone my departure to that place for the moment. Nevertheless, I deem it mandatory to speak of another testimony in connection to this. If my memory serves me well, to take a peek at someone on the outside, or to prefer to do so and try to close all one’s shutters to the outside world had already assisted certain relationships in many respects, hadn’t they? Aunt Tilda had read a great number of books during those long nights,
Les Pardaillans
,
La dame aux camélias
, The Count of Monte Cristo’s exciting adventures, among others. Joseph had yielded with grace to this solitude without diverting her attention elsewhere, without making any conscious fuss in the manner of those who know they are resigned to their lot; keeping a dignified silence with weary resignation and becoming physically depleted . . . all the while trying to differentiate the changing colors of the sky, up until the very first moment the dawn began to break . . . Aunt Tilda had all her books on her night table, transporting them into her own imagination, into her own films; without seeing that man who was gingerly retreating into himself . . . Was this homicide? Frankly I did not dare to consider this matter at length. A few steps, even a few small steps forward undoubtedly meant some progress toward the interpretation of a few words and glances. It is true; one had one’s own comfort zone in which one had perfect confidence and into which others could never be admitted. Under the circumstances, we had to remain content with putting forth questions without expecting any answers . . . without waiting for any. There are words to which looks, guarded utterances, and smiles lend meaning through tactile sensations; words that are prone to proliferation, words that may not have been mentioned during talks or that may have been mentioned out of context. A different language was spoken in the place in question; that place belonged to those who wanted to expand the boundaries of a different language and move toward certain people.
I had witnessed the homicide here, in the associations these sentences evoked. It seemed to have marked a life kept as a secret between two varied individuals (at least at a given period) and to have attributed to it a subjective meaning . . .Those days had been embellished with little hopes, little problems, and little promenades; with little hopes, little snags, and great solitudes that gradually grew in depths that were difficult to mention; just like in the lives of those people who lived on the voices emanating from sedentariness and whose journey to that place is barred; just like in the case of relationships endeavored to be kept alive through objects and daily successes . . . up until the day when Joseph’s illness had been diagnosed as tuberculosis as if to deride Aunt Tilda’s imaginary world fed by fictions . . . This was probably the only condition that fitted that man who resolved to defend the boundaries of his realm despite certain transgressions. Under the circumstances, there had certainly been people who had failed to conceal their smiles, sorrows, and revolts . . . It is so difficult to speculate as to the confines of iniquity without having previously experienced certain things in life . . . The doctors had advised that a salubrious climate would do him good and that the sanatorium on the island of Heybeliada would be the right spot to cure his illness. However, after a second thought, they came to the conclusion that they would be reluctant to be confined to a hospital, they considered as an alternative the island of Büyükada, next to Heybeliada, which they often visited in summer. As a matter of fact, the former must have had completely different connotations to the latter. They ended up renting a house redolent with the odor of pines overlooking the sea, the city, and her distant lights. However, to have moved into that house meant proceeding toward a new solitude. Films would continue to be projected on the silver screen in movie theaters. “This is unfair,” said Aunt Tilda to her elder sister who had paid her a visit. She had referred to her connubial loneliness and had had fragmentary recollections of different places. “Tilda had scared me stiff. She was capable of committing all manner of foolish acts,” Madame Roza said while reminiscing on the past. It wasn’t difficult to understand her. In those long winter nights when dogs gave a mournful howl, when lights glimmered in the distance, when the wind rattled the window panes, Aunt Tilda must have felt as if she was again in one of those scenes in which she would have wished to appear. She felt like the victim of a betrayal. She had thought during those nights that she could not put up with this betrayal, a betrayal she would never be able to forgive. The nights in question were the first spent on the island. She felt she had been uprooted from somewhere once again. She might well have inquired now what would death (long since expected) actually change?
It was their first night on the island. It seemed to her that another door had been closed on those lights from the city . . . Although, in a short while her life was to change in a manner nobody would have expected. Aunt Tilda had told me about this development during an evening talk at a time we felt much closer to each other. It was as though she had let her story slip at a remote distance. What was distant for her was essentially the very spot where we narrowed the gap between us. However, only after many years would I be in a position to gain an insight into the meaning of this sensational slip after having seen many places and experienced many solitudes, abandonments, and evasions; just like in relationships that build us up and remind us that we’ll never be ready for anything else. Now it seems to me all the more convincing that she had mislaid a highly significant part of herself on the island. During one of those evenings we had tried to experience the rhythm of those long winter nights from several angles. The magic had worked; the time was ripe to disclose what that magic had formed. This fascinating experience was the experience of another coastal area beyond Istanbul. It was during those days of bitter experiences that she had realized how deeply she was in love with the man whose hand she walked with in life. This realization had had a great share in her aspiration for being a hospital nurse, despite her being a complete novice. This had played a major part in her standoffish approach to her man, her hardly giving utterance to her love for him . . . For, from that point on they had things to be exchanged beyond comprehension and expression . . . Indeed, beyond expression . . . although we cannot do without the use of words in life. Those footsteps were also heard by Joseph, because he too claimed those moments for himself. I had tried to hear them. That was a place where I thought I happened to be or believed I was in the proximity of. The thought that I might be nearer, even in my capacity as a spectator, to those days which had remained exclusive to two individuals, by combining what remained from the reports related to them with the products of my imagination, had replenished in me the hope that I would have the privilege of getting an insight into the profound significance of this story. It seemed to me that I had winnowed out certain facts, certain moments which one could not possibly extract, from those moments despite all the probable encounters and lies exchanged between two individuals wherein love had revealed itself; yes, certain moments, with a view to reaffirming the perpetuity of life beyond death. It was reported that Joseph, on one of the nights during which he had spoken of the France of Monte Cristo, had mentioned the splendor of illuminated salons, of the opera, of interminable nights, of dances, and of the wonderful experience of wearing fancy attire. A dream was intended to be reproduced by its rich imagery. This was a true dream in which turning the clock backward reflected a true reversion. Those nights had indeed been lived somewhere to be reproduced and abandoned eventually. The fact that they had been recollected at different locations, in different climates, indicated that, despite the desolation and withdrawal experienced in the meantime, the path taken had not reached a dead end—such a prospect being far from coveted. Was this an invitation, an effort to describe just before setting off for another destination, a world left unshared? It seems to me that all these questions conceal in them stories as different as apples and oranges, poems left unfinished. The sense of deficiency that the failure to provide answers for them had left in me could only be endured in this way; this hope that this deficiency bestowed on me, with reference to this part of the story, might perhaps enable me to stand before people. However, regardless of my role in the story, I’m obliged to disclose the fact that the thing that should be preserved was Joseph’s resentment. They must have been aware of the fact that they had been heading toward the end, from probabilities and postponements, on their path far removed from the one most trodden. What had been unearthed because of the expression of this resentment and the discovery of an unknown aspect of such an individual reminds me once more of the stories that tell of the bitter experience of postponements. Aunt Tilda had asked the reason why he had not said anything about his life in the nightclubs. Joseph had retorted by saying that this had never been asked of him and added the following remark: “Our film had been a simple and short one, although replete with meaning”; indeed, simple and short and replete with meaning . . . Who was the original author of this sentence that Aunt Tilda reported to have been uttered by Joseph? Who was capable of being saddled with such a sentence, to be lost in the first place, trapped in places he abhorred and through which he could not free himself? It was as though the intention had been to stir up certain things whose designations would be likely to vary according to the individual and be capable of transcending any specific point in time, thus brushing us aside. This may have been the reason why Aunt Tilda had desired to perpetuate and preserve her experiences on the island. This must have been the reason why she occasionally avoided the visions that harassed her and was unable to remember certain nights in particular. Her inability to remember explained the reason why she avoided snapshots, as this represented her way of taking refuge in herself. Different individuals, whose recollections are nestled in the same body, may, at certain moments, belie each other, and prefer to consign them to oblivion. I knew this game. This expressed, in a way, the desire to eternally hear the voice of those they had abandoned. She kept those nights fresh in her memory by recalling them in different guises and conveying them to people in different fashions like many others that had taken part in that play. Under the circumstances, I could not possibly have had access to the actual words and expressions of Joseph on whom I had never set eyes; notwithstanding the fact that the individuals in question had been pattering in jargons that were already obsolete. The French they spoke interspersed with words of a Spanish origin was the language of communication between people whose number had considerably dwindled over time. However, I think I’ll have to quote one day a monologue (of whose truth I am doubtful) within the context of that story. On the other hand, I sincerely doubt whether I’ll be able to rid myself of the vocabulary of the time. “The wall between us, me and Tilda, remained impregnable. This must’ve been the reason for our abiding like two strangers despite our propinquity, this fear of surrender. Oh, how I wished that you shared with me the nights of your dreams that you spent with those individuals, without skipping over our platitudes and ignominies, hardly fitting the decency of our imagination. The film was a short one but one that reflected the actual truth, a film different from those we had seen, a film that emerged from the womb of our own life. The fault lay in your trying to see in me somebody else’s garb, while I patiently waited and waited . . . Now, it is too late, too late for everything. I’m feeling so chilly now . . . ” The words might have been very different; another expression, another cant may have been used for such a reproachful remark. I shall be recalling this speech when I take up my pen to include this incident in my story, using perhaps certain words different in sum and substance.