Days of Moonlight

by Loren Edizel

  Maria died of miserere, a disease by which the intestine self-strangulates, gets tied in a knot and makes it impossible for the feces to move through the bowel resulting in a push upward, through the oesophagus. There is absolutely nothing about death that has any sort of redeeming value, even though it happens in the hundreds of thousands every day around the globe. It is ugly. Eyes stare into space, the breath rattles. The air goes out of the chest like a leaky balloon. The skin gets sallow and rubbery. It smells of rot. In a nutshell. Childbirth is hard, sometimes a mother dies, but hope is born. Illness can get cured. The amputated get artificial limbs. Maybe they write books or tell stories of redemption. The blind may sing, or the deaf invent theorems. In death, all that was beautiful and moving becomes hollow. Hundreds of thousands of holes are dug each day around the earth, like groundhog mounds, the totality of which would be invisible from space, or anywhere in the universe where the Almighty is said to reside. Many minuscule holes are dug, and equally miniscule corpses are placed and then covered. It is an insignificant, abject daily occurrence from which we derive the greatest despair and sorrow, tears burst forth and sobs tear through our bodies. To what avail? Someone else may write a poem; someone who will also end up in a little mound invisible to the blindness of space permeating the galaxy. It is so. Maria died of miserere. Mehtap could not witness that final departure. She ran into the bright street filled with the smells of exhaust and noises, she ran from the hospital as fast as her legs allowed her, tears flowing into her nose, spilling into her shirt collar, and sat on a park bench facing the port in time to see the ferry disgorge hundreds of people onto the concrete pier like beetles on a hot sunny day.

  Notebook I. The Journal

  I AM SITTING IN A HOTEL ROOM in Düsseldorf, not far from the train station and the Rhine. Greyish fog hovers over the river, a sinking cloud, covering church steeples and tall buildings in its path. I feel out of place. I also forgot to water the plants at the office before leaving. Is Head Engineer Niyazi sitting in the boss’s office now? Would anyone there think to water them? I should tell Patron to do it when he returns. Every tile and handle in the bathroom shines with cleanliness and luxury. Plush white towels hang from racks, on the bedside table is a small bar of milk chocolate, a telephone. The bedcover is a pastel green satin quilt. Small etchings framed under glass adorn the walls covered with beige wallpaper. They represent the German countryside, I presume. There is a church steeple marking the tip of a triangle on top of a distant village, next is a small path among trees in what must be the Black Forest. I ate the chocolate as I unpacked. In a couple of hours I will have dinner with Aydın. I fretted about my clothes and double-checked if I’d brought my dressy shoes before taking my shower. They have plastic caps in small cartons if you don’t want to wet your hair. I have never had a tête-à-tête dinner with him. What do I want? How do I act? I write these words to still my nerves. As soon as the thought of this dinner enters my mind, my intestines cramp up. I’ve run to the bathroom four times since he called my room to tell me he’s taking me out to a posh restaurant tonight. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Of course he’ll take me out, and he will probably talk to me about the Belgian or the Dane, metal versus plastic zippers, the technology required for the new cheaper models; all that dross. This is what a boss talks about with his general manager who also waters his plants and tells lies to his wife. This is nothing but an expensive business dinner. No need to run to the bathroom as if I was attacked by dysentery. Go tell my guts. My bum hurts from incessant wiping. Two hours left, and I don’t know what to do.

  I’M WAITING FOR MY TRAIN. Three days have passed since my arrival in Düsseldorf. The fair is finished. Aydın has boarded his plane back to Izmir. I reminded him again to water the plants. I’m sitting at a café at the station, waiting to board the train that will take me to Cologne, to see Kerime.

  He never talked about work; not even remotely, that night. He came and knocked on my door. I thought I would faint when I saw him standing there in his black suit, grey wavy hair brushed back with gel, the softness of his closely shaven fifty-something skin with fine lines around his smiling eyes, his hands in his pockets, that playful half-smile I have always imagined him offering other, more beautiful women. There he was, covering the doorframe like a man waiting for his date. And that night it was I, Mehtap, the invisible woman who wears navy blue pants and white blouses, who doesn’t know how to apply makeup or fix her hair; I, the wearer of practical shoes and writer of business letters who was going out with this man, the seducer of women as beautiful as movie stars.

  I did put a lot of effort into my appearance in those two hours of waiting. The corset that cut my breathing and all those grapefruits I ate last week did take off some waist circumference. I wore a night-blue dress with a black bolero top, a simple pearl choker. Hair was teased into a bowl shape. I was careful with the mascara and applied wine-red lipstick for dramatic effect. A touch of rouge on my cheeks, and silver pumps matching a silver clutch. Small, clip-on pearl earrings. Fake, of course. In my entire life until that night, I had never worked on my appearance so carefully. I wore the imitation fur coat I’d borrowed from a friend and the Fleurs de Rocailles perfume he had given me, hoping he’d remember. And he did, even though (or because) he gave his wife and mistress the same and made me wrap them. He said, “I know that perfume, is it the one I brought you?”

  We sat in a restaurant the likes of which we never even dream of back home, a large hall with mirrors framed in rococo gold alternating with still lives (dead animals next to randomly spilled bowls of fruit) from another century, and tapestries representing hunting scenes. Large bouquets of exotic flowers in hand-painted porcelain vases representing men with white wigs and silk jackets kissing the dainty hands of seated women with tiny, pointed shoes peaking out from underneath layers of shiny, bejewelled dresses. Waiters, impeccably dressed, gliding to and fro to the music of Bach. I was trying very hard not to seem provincial, remembering to keep my mouth from hanging open as I glanced around. I truly wanted to gape. Aydın had clearly seen it all before, and I realized for the first time that he belonged in this world of gallantry, he knew exactly what to do and how. When the sommelier came, he exchanged niceties in German, tasted the wine, swishing it around in his mouth and approved. He chose every single course for me and himself from the menu. When he picked up a fork, I picked up the same, in a choreographed lag, hoping it would seem nonchalant instead of inept. He was a consummate gentleman that evening, doing everything he could (so it seemed) to enhance my elegance, rather than emphasize how gauche I felt.

  I wondered if Nuray ever travelled with him to such places. I wondered what they did, how they made love, while I listened to Aydın’s anecdotes of his various travels to Europe. Did she neigh like a horse swishing her head around when he told her those very same stories? Did everyone in the restaurant turn to look at that tangle of bouncing black curls and unsuppressed laughter? He must have had such a marvellous time with her charmingly indecorous manners. He must have gaped at her with awe and admiration, not to mention lust. The three of us were there suddenly, Aydın and I bewitched by her irrepressible spirit. I continued nodding and chuckling at his stories, asking for details, my eyes focusing on his mouth as words came out of them, bits of teeth peeking from his moving lips, the gestures of his hands as he made flourishes in his pursuit of a punch line and the way his eyes creased when he emphasized something in his story.

  What did I experience that evening? Regret and jealousy over Nuray? Seduction? Half listening, half-poisoned by my own reveries, I sat there, feeling numb. A few years ago I would have bled for such an opportunity to sit face to face with him, with no one else around. Now, I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to get out of it. In the midst of a story of how he got lost on his way to The Hague, I blurted that I had something to confess to him. Did he promise to be my friend after my confession? He looked bewildered.

  “What did you do?”


  It was like a bump had made the record jump and scratch, bringing the graceful moment in the restaurant to a discordant halt.

  “Actually,” I started, “I have two confessions.”

  He leaned forward on his elbows, clasping his hands.

  I leaned forward and clasped my hands too.

  “You won’t fire me?” It came out more tremulously than I had intended.

  “Did you steal from me?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell my wife about the others?”

  “No.”

  “Then?” he frowned.

  “Do you remember the day you interviewed and hired me on the spot?”

  He nodded impatiently.

  “I’ve been in love with you since that day. Terminally. I mean, I will probably go to my grave with it.”

  He froze. I could see the white of his eyes all around the irises.

  “Why else would I put up with you?” I added.

  He grabbed his white linen napkin and shoved it into a pile beside his plate. “What’s to happen now?” he whispered after some hesitation.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. What could happen?”

  “Why did you just tell me this? Why now, after all those years of making such a fool of myself in front of you? Any sane woman would have been cured of it already.”

  I knew I had crushed him with this confession. What could the man say, how could he save himself from the embarrassment of unreciprocated love? In the same reckless and abrupt manner in which I cut his La Hague story, I blurted: “And, I’m also a lesbian.”

  “My God, woman! Are you trying to kill me?” It came out louder than he had intended; the effete waiter gliding to Bach turned and raised his eyebrows before continuing toward the kitchen and Aydın proceeded with a lower tone. “I don’t understand anything. Are you making fun of me?”

  “No. It’s true. Nuray and I were lovers before….”

  “How can that be?” The waiter returning from the kitchen with steaming plates glanced our way once more. “That makes her a lesbian too.”

  His eyes were moving around in their sockets following the befuddled thoughts in his mind. “So you both like men too?”

  “I can’t speak for her. You’re the only man I actually feel attracted to. What does it matter?”

  “Sorry if I seem dense! One moment you were Mehtap, my friend and manager extraordinaire at the office—the next, my secret admirer and ex-lesbian lover of my ex-lover. You expect me to say it doesn’t matter? I look at you and think, oh my God what a fool I’ve been. The woman’s loved me all those years. All those stupid confessions I made about other women! I recoil with shame. And then, she’s a lesbian. Maybe I should uncoil, but then, who is this woman? Who are you? Why tell me all this?”

  He cupped his forehead in his palms and sighed. “Your timing is pretty awful, Mehtap.”

  The dessert was still sitting untouched in our plates.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I think it’s the dress and makeup.”

  “Why in the world have you become a lesbian? Did something…?”

  “No. Nothing. Just a feeling inside.”

  “Always?”

  “I guess.…”

  “When did you realize?”

  “What does it matter? I mean, I can’t help how I am, can I?”

  “Maybe if you see a doctor.…”

  “You think it’s an illness?”

  “One of my friends, he was caught in bed with a man. His wife made him see a psychiatrist … he is still with her.”

  “Is that good? I don’t need a doctor. No one knows about it except you. You must not tell anyone. Promise me.”

  “Maybe you haven’t met the right kind of man.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you. Now, you’ll always be thinking of that. You’ll start acting funny around me.”

  “You mean I wasn’t before?”

  “Like I have the plague and only you know it.”

  “Do you still want this dessert?”

  I shook my head no. He paid the waiter and rushed me out.

  We walked on the moist sidewalk along the river until my shoe got stuck between two slabs. He had to crouch and remove the slim heel gently so it wouldn’t break and offered his arm which I took and held the rest of the way, feeling the hard softness of his muscle through the fabric of his thick coat. He played soccer in the summer, in the backyard of the factory. At lunch time, I would see him running, wiping his forehead, flapping his arms and shouting; no more zippers and dull telephone calls, no wife or mistress, eyes focused on the ball, free.

  “I love watching you play soccer.”

  “I feel entirely like myself around you,” he said, “but you know. You know the worst of me.” He patted my hand resting on his arm.

  “That, I do.” I chuckled. “But you don’t know the worst of me, and that’s fine.”

  “I can imagine you and me growing old together, somehow, now thinking of it. I could never imagine this with my wife, or Gönül. Not even Nuray.”

  I felt a twinge when I heard her name. “Well, you’re not in a romantic relationship with me. Me, I could imagine growing old with Nuray.”

  “My wife…” he stopped in the middle of the street. “She’s like the control tower of a prison. Lights on, full blast. No escape. Always has a plan, some sort of senseless obligation she visits upon me. And Gönül, I just want to run away after sex, you know, she starts talking and talking. Half the time, I don’t even know what she’s telling me. Endless stories about insignificant things. As for…”

  “Don’t talk about Nuray. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “As for you … you are the perfect companion.”

  “You’re still my boss. We’re not equals. I was looking at you in the restaurant. I don’t know which fork to pick. Your friends could never be my friends. We could never grow old together. You’re mistaken in that.”

  “Do you think either one of us will give a damn which fork we pick when we’re old?” He burst into laughter, his eyes creased into small slits with many puffy grooves converging on them.

  “Well, anyway, it will never happen. You’ll get old with your wife, in your big house. And I’ll grow old writing my memoirs in my old house in Karataş. Also, poems of unrequited love.” I was making light of it when my smile just slipped away. I saw my life fall apart ahead of me because of my stupid confessions.

  He stopped walking. “Nuray or me?”

  “Both.” I pulled his sleeve so we would continue walking. Something was breaking in my chest and I didn’t want either of us to hear it.

  “Look at me.” He didn’t budge. He pulled up my chin that I had sunk into my chest. “Look here.” He removed his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed my cheeks before kissing my forehead. Then he pulled me close into a hug. We remained enlaced for a long time. He caressed my back through muffled sobs and hiccups I buried into his wool coat.

  “I want to go back to the hotel,” I managed to say after a while.

  “No, you don’t. Trust me. Let’s walk some more and we’ll find a club, listen to some music.”

  We continued walking aimlessly for a while; then, he remembered a place. “It’s not far from here,” he said, looking jovial. There was a pink neon sign and a bouncer outside. He paid the entrance fee and we went down the stairs into the smoky basement. There were booths all around the dance floor and two singers on stage, both of them women, one brunette in a red boa feather get-up, the blonde, in a white tux, Marlene Dietrich-style. Only after we sat down at our booth did I realize the couples in the bar were homosexuals. Aydın and I were apparently the only heterosexual couple there. He pointed his chin at the singers, urging me to watch them. I didn’t understand at first. “They sing well,” I nodded. He was looking at me insistently
.

  “Are they men?” I asked feeling sheepish.

  The singers were making asides in German during mid-song pauses. People laughed at the jokes, Aydın smiled, I looked around feeling lost.

  “Have you been here before?”

  He nodded, still paying attention to the singers on stage. “Once, with a couple of friends. It’s fun. Isn’t it?”

  He smiled politely at Marlene Dietrich who had come near us to continue her song. The boa-feathered singer would continue the song in counterpoint when Dietrich stopped, in melodious conversation. From up close, I noticed the grey of her closely-shaven beard under her skin and her Adam’s apple moving up and down. She was singing, “He can’t cut the mustard any more” or something like that.

  “You’re just saying it for my sake.”

  “I was a teenager. There was this classmate, exceedingly smart, very handsome. We were good friends. Close your mouth.” He took a sip of his cognac, looking at me sideways. “I’ve never told anyone. This is the night our secrets come crawling out.” He made me pick up my glass of Grand Marnier and we made them clink.

  The singers finished their song and left the scene to absent-minded applause. Aydın asked for a second drink. The disc jockey played a Bossa Nova and couples rose to dance. We watched them absentmindedly for a while; then he asked me. I told him I wasn’t any good at it, but he insisted and led me toward the dancing couples, his hand lightly holding my waist all the way there, and we started swaying gently to the music. One hand was on my waist, the other holding my hand close to his chest. I felt awkward, keeping my body stiffly apart. As the song progressed, the distance melted away. Nobody else seemed to care what went on between us. I let go of my shyness or whatever it was that kept my body rigid and soon we were twirling a little. My chest was pressed to his, the smell of his aftershave in my nostrils. The only other time I had him so close was at the cemetery, during my father’s burial. His gold wedding band glimmered on his slender finger. He caught me looking at it. We were not ourselves, not our familiar selves at any rate. They were playing an American song that went, “In dreams, I walk with you.” In dreams, everything is possible and bittersweet. In dreams, the dead hold you and your boss is your lover. His sex was hard, pressed to mine underneath our layers of clothing. Desire was spreading into my thighs, making them ache. His cheek touched my temple, his hand moved down my back.