Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale (77 page)

This also was a game

Mirrors . . . to be able to undergo the challenge of self-interrogation . . . this had reminded me of the words of a woman who had succeeded in delivering herself from the clutch of the concentration camps. It was evening. She seemed to have left those days behind. She lived in Vienna. She had been married and had children and grandchildren. She was invited from the four corners of the world to tell of her recollections to the best of her remembrance. As a child, she had known the ghetto in Warsaw, the ghetto with all the privations, fears, and despair; she had tasted the bitterness of Auschwitz, from the very first days of the war up until the very last . . . We had had a talk. She spoke of those days as a story lost in the mist of the past. The day she had been rescued, she was, to the best of her memory, fifteen years old. She had been a victim of the typhus epidemic; she had been reduced to thirty-six kilos. She barely remembered her last weeks there. Her mother also lay sick and had to be moved elsewhere for treatment. The authorities had told them that she could go with her mother. Under the circumstances, it was quite natural that she performed the duty incumbent upon her as a daughter. However, these were the values of the ancient world, of a lost world. She had declared, in the presence of everybody, that she would go nowhere, and sent her mother to her grave in cold blood. This was a trick; the same trick had been played on many of her friends. Terminally sick people were moved away in the company of their children only to be shoved into death chambers. She wouldn’t fall for such a stupid trick. Everybody was on a quest for survival in those days. I’d looked into the eyes of the woman. They bore the painful traces of the loss of life they had seen in other countries rather than remorse . . . I wanted to know the reason why she reminisced on those moments and felt compelled to speak of them after all these years.

Then I had asked her what she had taken with her while she was being taken to the camp. “My diary,” she rejoined, “only my diary. But, right after our arrival in Auschwitz, they had confiscated it. I was only eleven at the time . . . ”

These stories prompted one to ask questions of oneself . . . This story I’m trying to tell and share with my readers had reminded me of a little secret that Berti had entrusted to us. It was time, I couldn’t help asking Ginette: “How about speaking a little about your diary now?” I blurted out. “When I reached Israel, I destroyed it. I was going to start a new life. My memories and nightmares were enough for me,” she answered with a laugh. “You fool! Come, let’s go and have a glass of wine somewhere,” she said. “We both need it.” In reply to her suggestion I said: “As a matter of fact, I’m free tonight. After a few glasses you might have more to say about your experiences, about Enrico, Angela, and Arman. There are so many gaps in your account; many a recollection clogged with the flotsam and jetsam sheltered in the recesses of your brain,” I added. “Gaps galore, like in actual life; recollections abandoned there to their destiny which may seem insignificant under normal circumstances, but meaningful enough for us. Such is life, isn’t it?” she rejoined. Gaps in recollections are somewhat meaningless . . . That evening was our last spent together. The story didn’t allow for another encounter. What had been experienced had gaps and was devoid of sense. That evening . . . that evening I had wanted to tell her about that woman.

All the photographs were jumbled together

That morning Monsieur Jacques woke up at the usual hour; he was ready to meet a new day at the correct time, neither earlier nor later. He cast a glance at the old clock that he kept, in the name of a silent place that deserved to be preserved, placed on the night table by the glass that contained his false teeth. It was six-thirty. Just like the six-thirties of days past; six and thirty . . . There was nothing new in the break of dawn, nothing to worry about . . . nothing that would give cause to bother about . . . Everything seemed to be in a state of peace, as time would have wished it to be. He might try to tell about the feelings, the visions, and the things that sounds and voices aroused so that one might have a clearer insight into the situation they occupied at daybreak. It was certainly possible to speak about these things. Yet, as for experiencing the related emotion, breaking news, touches, the real touches . . . He wandered his gaze on the wardrobe that contained his garments each of which was laden with memories, on the statuette of a naked woman on the dresser, on the photographs, on the armchair he used to sit in, on the jockstrap placed all on its own, and, what is even more important, what was to his left that was destined to remain vacant henceforth. He realized that he still had his nightcap on. “I must’ve dozed off while I was praying. I’m growing old, already burned out,” he said to himself. He had pronounced these words in a somewhat raised, articulated voice as though he was intending to make it heard to others. Yet, the voice he anticipated was someone else’s. However, he knew perfectly well that in this den to which he had retired (his ultimate shelter), he couldn’t possibly anticipate it. He was paying the cost of a long life of loneliness. Not only had he been far removed from his people, but he was also estranged from certain lives and feelings. From the opening between the curtains crept the beams of a bright and sunny day . . . Years had taught him what to expect from the first beams of morning. May was drawing to an end. The days would be getting fairer and fairer . . . The approach of sunny days created optimistic expectations in him. A simple joy not lost yet. The weather was improving, warming up. This meant a noticeable extenuation of pain in his aching limbs; and the resumption of his morning walks. He would soon be able to remain seated in his armchair on the verandah for many hours up until the sunset. They had already begun turning off the central heating at regulated intervals; the nights were still chilly enough to necessitate the turning on of the central heating. He was retiring to bed long before the other members of the family. And when he woke during the night to answer the call of nature, he put on his dressing gown which he had bought a long time ago in London and with which he would not part on any account. Only in the evenings when he took a shower did he fear he would catch a nasty chill. He might certainly find other solutions to prevent the occurrence of such an eventuality. No one prevented him from having his bath during the warmer hours of the day. Thursdays were his shower days. Moreover, he had found the solution against the danger of catching cold. A small electric heater solved the matter and kept the bathroom warm for hours. He used it also in the summer months.
“Maz vale sudar che sarnudar”
(Better sweat than sneeze). His mother had instilled this axiom into his brain over the course of several years which he had never forgotten. In their house at Halıcıoğlu, he and his elder brother used to wash in a large tub. The room in which the washtub was placed was heated by a gigantic brazier many hours before. That house was much warmer than the present one. Nowadays everything had become practical. Central heating, a water heater, and an electric heater were no longer luxurious items. The days when he got up early in the morning at six-thirty to light the stove appeared to be so distant. Then, he remembered having become an adult with a pretty large family. They had been living in an apartment at Asmalımescit now. But the number of family members was being reduced as the days went by; yet, the rest was united as a whole. The same road they had been treading would also take them to the apartment at Harbiye; the number getting smaller and smaller . . . making sure however, to remain united and procreating. In all the houses whose upkeep had been his responsibility, he had made a point to get up first and heat the living room. It was his paternal duty . . . a paternal duty. When the entire household had gotten up, the sitting room was already warm enough to receive its guests. In the dead of winter, they had to use a portable gas heater . . . yes, the gas heater, where was it now? The last time he had seen it, it was at Berti’s. That heater might well be unearthed in order to return to its original place for the sake of the good old days. Actually he revived it in his imagination, being alive as a human being among other objects he had lost and which he would have liked to touch; among his recollections that gas heater also had its place as a person to whom he would have liked to see, talk, and touch . . . At the recorded time, all the family members were there; Madame Roza was there. Jerry had not gone to America. Berti had not turned in upon himself: Kirkor, his mother, and father were all there. Lilica was groping in the world into which she had been brought. What awaited Nesim was certainly beyond all inference. Olga was there; it seemed that she would remain there forever . . . for a life she was doomed to live, to share, and to re-discover in which she had an unshakable belief. It was Olga’s belief. Actually, the belief that had made Olga what she was . . . How distant they seemed now, all those visions, how they came back with prickings of conscience. He had no one but himself now to commune with about the deliberately interrupted nights, which left him at a loose end. Every one of those nights concealed long stories that had to be told to someone, but to whom? Was that so easy? All those people had gone the way of all flesh, having to leave behind their anticipations and expectations. What had been left behind had to go on living within well-delineated boundaries, penned up between walls in their enslaved state. He could not foresee at the time that such a truncation might take place in their branches. However, he had to admit that he had not been deprived of joy and earthly happiness; he should not be ungrateful. There was also a question for which he could not find an answer; he had failed to figure it out, despite so many years having passed. Which days were those? Which days could he refer to as ‘those days’? He had recently started to brood over the relics of the past. The days had become longer it seemed. The days were long . . . even the child who used to listen to himself very intently and planned to write a long story had left for a different tale. Nobody had in fact lent their ears to anyone until the end. Nobody had succeeded in carrying anybody to the bitter end.

He got up from his bed with a smile, his mind crowded by such thoughts, a beatific smile . . . intending to relive his past experiences . . . Now the first thing he ought to do should be to visit the bathroom. The condition of having difficulty in passing waste from his body had worsened; thus it had become his habit to swallow a pill when he woke up during the night. After all everything had a place, an order, a time . . . and he had never strayed from this principle. He had lived so far accordingly, and there was no reason to change this routine now. To shave every morning as though he was to put in an appearance somewhere of consequence was the
sine qua non
of the commencement of his day. The ritual of shaving should consist of the use of shaving cream, a shaving brush, and a razor. There had been certain inevitable changes, of course, in the meantime. Those were minor things, however, like perfumes and dyes. But the style was the same; there had been no change as regards its safety. Having shaved, he sprinkled his face with
eau de cologne
. . . lavender water, this was the same as ever; he had made a point never to change it. Although Berti used to bring home shaving lotions from his trips abroad, which, no doubt, had a delicious smell, he had nevertheless preferred to remain devoted to his age-old habits. In the process of rubbing his face with the lavender water, he remembered the tunes he used to hum. How many years was it? No, he couldn’t tell. The only thing he knew was that he had ceased to hum those tunes after the death of his mother. Why had he suddenly grown silent? Could it be that he had unconsciously been singing for his mother who was deprived of her sight? Her mother was an early riser like him. When she got up from his bed, she used to settle in her armchair without making her presence felt to others. Everybody believed that she continued to sleep. The truth was different from what people thought; it was lived even for those moments bedecked with sentiments that were hardly describable. It was his mother’s habit to brood with closed eye over things she had difficulty remembering; what exactly were the colors at sunset in the Golden Horn? Those carpets? Her dresses, her underwear, her womanhood? Yes, it was her custom in the early hours of the morning to recall the days of her youth, when her eyes were closed to the dawning light. He knew this; this was actually one of their common secrets. They had a room of their own there. The songs he sang were the oldies. The songs used to be sung at Şehzadebaşı, the
fin-de-siecle
cabaret songs and hits of the day. Had he been singing them for his mother, really? This was not impossible; as a matter of fact the bathroom was near her room. It was nice to be able to recall those times. The struggle to get to know oneself was a long process, a struggle without an end. What had led him to recall these souvenirs for the sake of what immortal sentiments? Two days before he had dreamt of his mother. She happened to be with his father; they were smartly dressed; she wore a white dress and a white hat. It was as though they were going to a party.
“Como estas Cakito? De che no veined a vermos? No te eskarinyates ayinda de mozotros”
(How is my little Jacques? Why don’t you come to see us? Haven’t you missed us yet?) she said. They looked as beautiful as they were in their younger days . . . . He felt a shudder run down his spine . . . he wished to embrace them with all his might, with all his heart . . . He knew that such dreams were dreamt by people of the same age and of the same era. Such scenes might well be inserted into the text of a fiction. If one considers the things he had seen in his lonely hours during his night vigils, one should see nothing out of the ordinary in their unexpected return to his mind. Actually, it had been quite some time now since he felt ready for that moment. “It’s only a dream . . . I’d eaten a bit too much that night, I think,” he said, dodging the issue and trying to move away from the probability that was invading his whole being; he preferred to carefully approach the moments left for him in this world. It occurred to him to think whether he could sing those old tunes to himself. He was once more in front of a mirror . . . He tried to remember . . . No good . . . words failed him, even the tunes failed him, and the oldies refused to be revived. It was as though all the old songs balked at being brought back to life; it was as though they preferred to remain where they had been left. All the tunes seemed to have been transformed into a medley of songs, or into a single song. This was the song of oblivion. He gave up trying. He had already lost the habit of recalling; he could no longer transfer his innermost thoughts into articulate speech, feelings, and emotions by using his impoverished vocabulary. He had ceased to lose his temper when he could not express what he meant to say using the exact words. Had it been otherwise, he could not go on living with his shortcomings. He had learned where to keep his sense of reality, in a safe and sound place with all its naturalness, abandoned and betrayed as he had been. “I wonder what will be the next thing I shall be unable to recall . . . ” he thought. He smiled. He felt a pride which he couldn’t communicate to anyone. To attribute his actions to rational and creditable motives without adequate analysis of the true and especially unconscious motives showed that his connection with reality had not been impaired. Certain words he might well forego, certain songs might be recalcitrant . . . One thing was certain: his logic and intelligence were sound enough. He could still read, display anger at hearing the news on the TV, or joy at the storylines of the serials; he could still plan for the coordination of his resources and expenditures. He even took pleasure in being alert enough to supervise his own actions. When he thought: “I wonder what will be the next thing I shall be unable to recall . . . ” he must have meant: “I wonder what’ll be the next thing we’ll be deprived of, and move away from.” He was looking at the man within, at the man he was doomed to carry, using a different hold. The things that would reveal themselves to this look should not be underestimated in terms of this loneliness. It appeared that this one-man play would be long lasting, if one considered the script that presented itself to him. One could never tell when this play would come to an end. He was the writer, the stage director, the actor, and the spectator. He was the props, the colors, and the setting as well as the witty lines and the curtain that would come down one day.