Days of Moonlight

by Loren Edizel

  I HAVE GROWN FOND OF SUNDAY AFTERNOON naps with Nuray, especially in this unseasonably warm September, with the heat pressing down on us so that we can hardly move all day, every thought and limb struggling against some thick mud of torpor to budge in the tiniest increments. I keep the windows of my bedroom wide open. The tulle curtains swell and part in two soft arcs with the hot draught streaming in, bringing plaintive echoes of manés from some faraway record player sung by sorrowful, birdlike female voices. A few ever moving patches of sunlight scatter on the white sheets crumpled around our perspiring naked bodies as we lie side by side, content in our indolence. Nuray puts on her bathrobe and leans out the window when she hears the gevrek boy on his afternoon rounds. She lowers the basket from the bedroom window, just like the neighbour up the street, and we eat our gevreks with slices of tulum cheese, scattering sesame seeds all over the sheets. We talk about this and that, or read the papers or just sit propped by pillows quietly waiting for the sun to set and the house to cool down. I cannot imagine doing this without Nuray. I suppose breaking the biggest rules makes the smaller transgressions insignificant. I owe her these carefree moments. She is reading the newspaper as I write these words. One of my wide golden bracelets she fished out of the top dresser drawer moves back and forth on her forearm. On my wrist is an identical one. She asks me how come I got two identical golden bracelets. I ignore the question. I tell her they are from Crete. Family souvenirs. She carefully observes the embossed figures on it and asks me what they represent.

  “Look,” she exclaims, “there’s a guy with a bull’s head, here!”

  “It’s the Minotaur. You know, from Greek mythology. An ancient Cretan story.”

  She had never heard of it. She clapped her hands, her lovely breasts shaking with them. “Tell it to me. Tell it to me like a bedtime story. I love those. You should start with ‘Once there was and once there wasn’t. In the days before time, when the sieve was in the straw, when flees were barbers and camels were town criers…’ you know, like that!”

  She had transformed into a child momentarily, begging to be taken back in time, to those days when every story told was real and wondrous, opening an enchanted path toward places one could visit someday, places filled with magical creatures and adventures, where words like impossible, unlikely, illogical didn’t exist. I caressed her sweaty cheek.

  “The story takes place on the windy mountains of Crete, in the Mediterranean where two imaginary lines, one from Anatolia and the other from Greece, cross on their way to Africa.” I started a bit professorially, imitating my geography teacher from high school as Nuray dropped her newspaper and settled comfortably on her propped pillows.

  “No!” She raised her hand to stop me, the bracelet swinging a little before moving toward her elbow. “You must start properly, the way all good stories start. Once there was, once there wasn’t….” She nodded encouragingly.

  “Once there was and once there wasn’t. In the days before time, when the sieve was in the straw, when fleas were barbers and camels were town criers, there was an island called Crete.”

  “Don’t tell me anything about Crete, I know it; just tell me the story,” she interrupted.

  “Is this your story or mine? Settle down and listen or I won’t tell it to you. So … where was I? The island, back then, was home to the terrifying Minotaur who dwelled inside a labyrinth and ate children.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “Shh! You know Zeus?”

  She didn’t.

  “The God of Gods. Ancient Greek. So this Zeus had a habit of transforming himself into different animals when he wanted to make love to beautiful women. Make love is an embellishment. He pretty much raped them disguised as an animal. He did this partly to hide from his jealous wife who was always on to him. When the beautiful Europa caught his eye, he immediately transformed himself into a bull to kidnap her from Phoenicia where she lived —that’s Lebanon—and bring her all the way to Crete. Once he brought her there, he made love to her in the shade of a plane tree and got her pregnant. That is why plane trees don’t shed their leaves, by the way. Then he arranged for the king of Crete to marry Europa, so that all the sons Zeus had with her would become kings.”

  “Did the king know he was a cuckold?” she interrupted.

  “I didn’t ask,” I snapped and threatened to stop talking. She promised to keep quiet.

  “When the king of Crete died, the three sons were happy to rule the island all together for a while, until Minos, Zeus’s favourite, decided to banish his two brothers from the island and declare himself the sole ruler.

  “Once he took the throne, he prayed to Poseidon, the god of the seas, asking him to send him a white bull, to show that the gods approved of his decision. In return, he promised to sacrifice the animal in his honour.

  As soon as he had uttered these words, a magnificent bull appeared on the shore. Spotless white, larger-than-life…. A marvelous creature. Minos, enthralled, couldn’t bear to sacrifice such a beautiful animal. He had a handsome bull of his own killed instead, to fool Poseidon. But who can fool a god? Poseidon was livid, and decided to punish the conceited Minos where it would hurt him the most: his wife.

  “Minos adored this woman of legendary beauty. He lavished presents and all his attention on her, to keep her happy. Besides his kingdom, nothing mattered to him more than the love of this woman. When he boastfully showed her the gorgeous white bull sent to him by Poseidon, however, she suddenly got feverish with lust. She started dreaming of having sex with this powerful and magnificent animal and couldn’t get this desire out of her mind no matter how hard she tried. To hide her infidelity from her husband, she asked the architect Daedalus to build a big wooden cow, as a monument to honour the bull. At night, she secretly led the white bull into this big wooden heifer and did it with him.”

  Nuray opened her iridescent brown eyes wider, the irises quickly overtaking the colour like bottomless wells. “Go on!” she ordered, annoyed by the pause.

  “Nine months later, she gave birth to a freakish monster, something neither animal, nor human. In appearance, he was half-man and half-bull. He ate human flesh. To hide him from sight and protect his kingdom, King Minos had Daedalus build a labyrinth and they imprisoned him there. As for the steady diet of human flesh to keep him pacified, Minos had a shrewd plan. He sent word to the King of Athens, that in return for a shipment of seven young boys and seven virgin girls to be sacrificed every nine years, he would leave Athens alone. Not having the strength or the army to fight back, King Aegeus of Athens acquiesced. Thus, boats carrying innocent children to their cruel deaths sailed from Athens to Crete every nine years to feed the Minotaur, black flags flapping on their masts.

  “This went on for years until Theseus, the Athenian king’s son, decided to put an end to this horrible pact and volunteered to go on the boat as the fourteenth youth. On the way to Crete, he kept looking at the dark banner flailing with the violent slaps of the poyraz winds, wondering if he would ever return home. Before boarding the boat, Aegeus, his father, tears flowing down his bearded face, said to him: ‘My only son, my gold, I will be waiting for your arrival, standing on that cliff. Hoist a white flag to tell me you’re alive and well, so I can rejoice when I behold your ship in the horizon.’

  “When Theseus arrived in Crete and got off the boat, Princess Ariadne, the daughter of King Minos, who had a habit of going to the port to see boats come and go, became intrigued by the youth’s regal demeanour. She approached him and they talked briefly. Theseus, not knowing she was the daughter of Minos, whispered to her that he had come on this boat with the intention to slay the monster. Ariadne retorted, ‘Not so easy, bold Athenian. Let’s say you slayed him; you still wouldn’t be able to get out. It’s full of dead ends and wrong turns. You’ll die of thirst and starvation.’ Theseus was valiant all right, but not very clever. He didn’t have a plan to get out. ‘So be it,’ he repli
ed, ‘at least I will have rid the world of this horror once and for all.’

  “Ariadne admired his readiness to sacrifice himself to save others. ‘I will figure out a way to save you, brave Theseus.’ She held his hands and felt the pounding of her own heart in her palms squeezing his. ‘I want a promise in return.’ Theseus had all that adrenaline pumping, thinking about the next morning when he’d be entering the cave to go to his certain death with all the whimpering children by his side. Truth be told, he thought Ariadne was a naive young girl who had an evident crush on him judging from those doleful eyes and sweaty hands. He didn’t believe she could do anything to help.

  “‘If I save you,’ she continued with a firm tone, ‘promise me you’ll marry me and take me with you on that ship.’ At that moment, the guards came to take all the virgins away to their dungeon and Theseus, knowing this would be the last time he’d see a fine young woman with such soft eyes again, gave her a gentle kiss and whispered, ‘I promise.’

  “Ariadne, elated, went home and shut herself in her room, thinking of ways to save him. She sat at her spinning wheel weeping from frustration at not finding a solution hour after hour. Then, in the middle of the night she had this brilliant idea looking at the yarn in her basket. I think a goddess had something to do with this, maybe Aphrodite, I don’t remember….

  “The next morning, she rushed to the dungeon gates waiting for the heartbreaking procession of lamenting youths being led to the Labyrinth. As soon as she saw Theseus, gaunt and sad with his face unshaven and his hair crimpled after a sleepless night in the dungeon, she got close to him and stuffed a ball of yarn into his belt with her free hand. ‘Unravel the thread as you walk and you will find your way back out. I’ll be waiting for you near the entrance. I’ll arrange your escape. May the Gods keep you safe.’

  “What had seemed like a suicide mission to Theseus suddenly turned into a hopeful one and he imagined sailing back to Athens into his father’s proud embrace as a living hero. ‘Thank you, clever girl,’ he whispered back, ‘I will take you on my ship, I promise.’

  “As soon as he got into the grotto he took out the yarn and put one end of the thread under a rock, slowly unravelling it as they advanced in the light of his torch. He told the children to be quiet and follow his instructions. When he arrived and saw the sleeping Minotaur from a distance, he hid the children in a corner, told them to wait for him there holding on to the thread and not move until he told them to. The stink of rotten flesh and refuse was so overpowering that they couldn’t help retching and vomiting, making sounds that awoke the Minotaur from his sleep. The monster rose. Theseus, sword in hand, ran towards him, and before the Minotaur could shake the sleep off his eyes, swung the sharp blade at his jugular. From the monster’s gashed neck sprang a fountain of blood, splattering all over Theseus. He swung it again, and severed the head. The body of the headless monster ran about the cave and the children screamed with horror. Finally it collapsed in a twitching heap and expired. Theseus, legs still trembling with fear, picked up the heavy head from the horns. The eyes were wide open with frozen surprise. He shuddered at the sight before lifting it high and shouted, ‘Children, I’m taking you home!’

  “When Ariadne saw blood-splattered Theseus stealthily emerge from the cave, she ran to him. They secretly boarded the ship taking them back to Athens. A couple of days into the trip, when Theseus slowly came back to his senses, he looked at love-struck Ariadne and in his heart nothing stirred. He felt gratitude and admiration but no love. He realized he could not marry a woman out of gratitude and admiration alone, and so he asked the captain to make a stop at an island so they could replenish their food and water and spend the night. They all got off. At night, as unsuspecting Ariadne lay sleeping, Theseus quietly gathered his crew and the children and set sail for Athens, leaving her behind. It was a cowardly thing to do and Theseus felt awful about it. In that brooding state of mind, he forgot to hoist the white flag to announce his victory.

  “His father, standing on the cliffs, saw the black flag and knew that all was lost. He threw himself down the precipice into the sea. Grief-stricken Theseus named the sea that swallowed his father’s body the Aegean Sea, so that Aegeus would forever be remembered by all.”

  Nuray did not even stir; she was so engrossed in her own vision of the story. She sat there pensive, propped by her pillows for a while and finally asked, “What happened to Ariadne?”

  “She had betrayed her own family and kingdom, had her brother (he was a monster, but still a brother) killed for the love of Theseus; yet, he had abandoned her. She was disconsolate. The Muses took pity on her, whispered into her ear that she was going to know divine love, a love far greater than anything Theseus could have offered. Not long after that, Dionysius the god of wine and ecstasy, who was passing by in his golden chariot, his head crowned with vine leaves and his eyes the colour of grapes, took one look at her and fell in love. As a wedding present he gave her a crown of stars in the heavens; the constellation Corona. He was unfaithful, though.… Very.”

  Nuray nodded absentmindedly, turning the bracelet around, scrutinizing the embossed figures. “Who gave you these?” she asked.

  “One is from my mother’s mother, and the other from my father’s mother,” I replied.

  “Do all the women there wear these?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe the jeweller who made them was obsessed with this story,” she shrugged as she removed the bracelet to put back into my drawer. “I like the way you told it,” she smiled.

  “My parents used to tell me they met where the legendary labyrinth was said to exist. There was a cave there. I’ve never told this story before. I’ve never shown my bracelets to anyone either,” I added reluctantly.

  “I think,” she said, “you ought to write Cretan stories instead of writing what you eat and do everyday, not to mention what I do.” She swung her head and whinnied in her usual horsey fashion before rising from my bed and swaying her hips on the way to the bathroom to run her singing bath. I wrote about it all as she splashed in her bath and sang my favourite love song off-key. It was an assassination, there is no other description for it; she simply demolished the tango.

  Strangely, I find myself cheerful and upon rereading what I just scribbled I thought perhaps I ought to do it. I ought to write the stories I never told anyone.

  1gevrek: sesame-crusted bread ring, similar to a bagel

  2cumba: bay window particular to Greco-Turkish houses in Izmir

  3ayran: buttermilk

  4“Yıldızların Altında”: “Under the Stars”

  5shalvar: baggy trousers gathered in tightly at the ankle

  6ham’fendi: M’am

  7Devrim: first ever automobile designed and produced in Turkey; the word “devrim” also means “revolution” in Turkish

  8Kel Mahmut: bald Mahmut

  9Armut: pear

  10tavla: backgammon

  11Cincibir: a Turkish brand of ginger beer from the sixties

  12“Seni Uzaktan Sevmek”: “Loving You from Afar”

  Notebook II. The Cretans

  ON THE WINDY HILLS OF CRETE was a village where two Greek children lived, born on the same day to different mothers. One was a boy and the other, a girl. These two always knew each other, the way everyone knows everyone else in the countryside. The boy’s name was Mehmet. His father, Mehmet the Great, was a portly, fearsome man with a yellowish-white moustache shaped into curlicues on each side of his mouth, a headscarf, and big muscular hands embossed with multiple calluses. He owned acres and acres of lush vineyards. The wine he produced was so sublime that whoever tasted it once couldn’t help getting drunk on it. This included Mehmet the Great himself, who, after a sweaty day in the vineyards settled down at his drinking table with his friends to collapse hours later right there on the floor until the next morning. He never went to bed, preferring the concrete surface
of his vast terrace overlooking the mountains and the Mediterranean Sea. Some said he feared the ghost of his wife calling him to bed every night for having missed her final moments while delivering Little Mehmet. That night, while she groaned and screamed and pushed the boy out of her belly, the story goes, he was with his mistress, tasting her wine. “Mehmeeet, where are you? May the devil take your soul and that whore’s too!” she screamed, as the boy finally came out of the narrow canal. And those were her final words.

  It surprised no one when Mehmet the Great did not remarry, choosing instead to loan his son to married sisters, his own mother, and whoever would offer to take him in. The only women who dared enter his house occasionally were his mother and sisters; and they did so with great trepidation, knowing the irate soul of his deceased wife was lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce upon them at the slightest provocation.

  When he was not drunk or busy working, which was not very often, Mehmet the Great tried to be an adequate father. A man of few words and fewer gestures, he limited himself to patting Little Mehmet on the head, the usual hugs on religious holidays. He even visited the school teacher once, when she sent word that the boy did not attend classes frequently enough. “Should I belt him?” he asked, with genuine concern and eager to show her that he did not take his responsibilities lightly.

  “No, no, parakaló, kiryo Memetis,13 just have a conversation with him. Convince him of the benefits of education,” she pleaded. Paraskevi, the teacher, was a skinny young thing from Heraklion, a kopelitsa,14 who was quickly losing her lofty ideals and patches of that shiny brown hair adorning the pretty head that contained them, trying to teach the unruly children of this village how to read and write.

  Little Mehmet did not get the belt. His father called him to his side gruffly after a bottle of wine, and with his booming voice warned, “If I hear from your teacher again, you’re getting your bottom whipped.” The intimidated boy nodded and kept a low profile during the winter months. But in spring, the scent of freedom started blowing in through the open windows of the classroom, carrying the shape of meadows filled with red poppies and the fragrance of dirt roads on hills that smelled of pine needles, oregano, and lavender, beckoning as he sat restlessly at his old wooden desk. Before long, he was playing hooky once again. He sat in the meadows amidst bright yellow buttercups and daydreamed of nebulous, sun-filled fantasies, his heart unable to contain the delightful sensation of freedom from Kyria Paraskevi’s monotonous dictations, the sight of the decrepit classroom and its chalky blackboard, and the smell of rancid farts embedded in seats with familiar signatures of garlic and lamb.