by Loren Edizel
26Abla: big sister
Notebook III. Autobiography
THE DAY NURAY CAME TO BID ME goodbye we sat in the cumba, where the early afternoon sun filtered through the tulle curtains and fell on her black curls, the tip of her nose and the side of her jaw indiscriminately, illuminating a blemish on the side of her cheek and the dark circles under her eyes. She wore no makeup and her eyes were puffy. She grasped my hands across the table, squeezing my fingers together. There was an unopened package of Yeni Harman cigarettes and a green plastic lighter on top. She had quit smoking years ago, when she got pregnant and it seemed she intended to binge at some point during this long goodbye. From the way she had placed them on the table, one felt her determination to do herself harm by smoking the entire package. She and Ekrem had applied to immigrate to Canada, and their papers had recently come through. They were leaving soon. It was for Mehtap’s future, she said. They wanted her to start school there in September. The timing was perfect.
“You don’t look like you want to,” I said and she burst into tears, her head bent into her chest, eyes shut, nodding as if to suppress violent hiccups.
“I do, I do…” she moaned and blew her nose with the handkerchief stuffed in her sleeve. “We’re going to Montreal.”
“How can you go to a place you’ve never even visited?”
“We did, we did … before Mehtap was born. Ekrem’s older brother lives there and he’s been wanting us to move for a long time. We went in February. Freezing. I figured if I saw the worst, I would be prepared for it,” she sighed.
“You never told me….”
She waved her hand in front of her face as if to say it was of no great importance. “It’s a new life….” She meant for it to be a hopeful utterance, but as it came out her face contorted and she resumed her hiccupped weeping.
“They have squirrels.” She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “And so many parks! We saw the Olympic village.” She folded her soaked handkerchief. “It looks like a gigantic erection.” She blew her nose and sighed. “I will take you there when you visit. Ekrem wants to open some kind of shop….”
She was going on and on and it seemed to have a calming effect on both of us. I was too worried about her state to think about my own, and the definitive separation that awaited us. “Once you settle there and Ekrem opens his shop, maybe I can move and work with you two. I can do the bookkeeping…” I said encouragingly.
And she picked up from there, “That way Mehtap will at least have some family, an aunt….”
Tears sprang once more. “How am I going to do it? I have to decide what to take and what to leave. Mehtap, what am I going to do? How am I going to live without you?”
To this day, I haven’t quite figured out why I felt compelled to put on a brave face. Perhaps it was helping me go through the moment without losing my mind. “Listen,” I was firm. “I will help you pack. I’m good at that sort of thing. I will arrange for the shipping. Don’t worry. And I’ll come. I’ll take the plane and come.”
It was 1979. I was fifty. After she left with eyes puffier than when she had arrived, I sat down with a tall rakı glass filled with the banana liquor that had gathered dust behind my record collection, determined to numb my mind. As I gulped it down, I put on my favourite 45, the slow soft tango, “To love you from afar, is the most beautiful of loves,” that used to make me weep over Aydın in younger days, and wandered around the living room looking at the curtains and valance she had sewn over so many Sundays, with the pomegranate coloured boughs on the fabric positioned just so, and the red sofa she had made me buy as an accent in the room, and the ivory-coloured cushions to enhance the sofa and so on, wanting to feel melancholic enough to have a good cry and be done with it. It occurred to me that my living room had the panache of a classy whorehouse, not that I had ever seen one, but somehow I thought of that, and how she was so proud of her good taste, and how very far it was from my own and how I would have to live with it until I died, having sunk so much money to satisfy her decorative zeal and my need to be with her every Sunday. I burst into laughter, looking around. I laughed and laughed, hard enough to feel my belly shaking and then I had to run to the bathroom to pee. Hearing it tinkle into the water, still holding the glass, I began to sob. My voice echoed within the walls of the small bathroom with unrestricted force, just like the time when a kid had snatched my doll and I cried shamelessly loud in the schoolyard. I rose, managed to pull up my panties made my way back to the living room unsteadily and filled my glass once more, put the record on again. My sorrow smelled of ripe bananas. I was swallowing thick gulps that threatened to block my throat while I staggered into my bedroom in search of the bottle of sleeping pills I thought I had placed in the drawer of my bedside table. Five chalky white pills were scattered in there and I gulped them down with the remaining liquid which I was now chugging from the bottle directly, having done away with the bother of refilling my glass. I lay in bed, waiting for a forgetful sleep or death, preferably, my hands crossed on my belly and soon enough I passed out.
There were two cannibals, chests crisscrossed with white lines and masks covering their faces, talking about how they would eat me. One said they had to boil me first because my flesh was so tough. He showed me the large pot boiling a little farther away expecting the other to help him throw me into it. My wrists and ankles were bound with thick ropes and my head was stuck in a vise. His friend was not listening. He ripped open my belly with his bare hands and started removing my guts. I screamed in agony and found myself wrapped in sheets like a mummy. The hazy memory of sleeping pills flashed through my hungover mind. I rolled over unable to get out of my sheets momentarily and tried to open the drawer. The pain was pressing downwards; I knew I had to rush to the bathroom. In my efforts to rise, I fell to the floor and finally managed to disentangle myself and made it just in time.
From dawn to dusk I stumbled to and fro between bedroom and toilet. During one of my breaks, having sobered up from the exercise, I rummaged through my drawer in search of the bottle of pills. An unscrewed cap was sitting next to the rolling bottle of laxatives and the contents had scattered into the drawer. The box of sleeping pills was intact, tucked under a pile of handkerchiefs.
I took two aspirins for the hangover and slowly made it to the kitchen, holding on to furniture so as not to collapse. My mouth felt chalky and dry. The phone rang, drilling holes into my bruised brain. Cupping both ears, I rushed toward the living room to pick up the receiver.
“Mehtap?”
“Nuray, why are you whispering?”
“I don’t want to wake Ekrem up. I had a nightmare. Couldn’t go back to sleep…. I dreamt you couldn’t make it and I died a horrible death. There was … you were … on this huge sailboat in the middle of the Atlantic. The wind wasn’t blowing. I could see you somehow, standing on the deck. But the ship just sat there, never getting closer. I was jumping up and down, waving a white flag so you could at least see me waiting for you and not lose hope. But I tripped and fell down the cliff and broke all my bones on a sharp rock. I died waiting for you Mehtap…. Promise me you’ll come. If you don’t, I will die, I just know it….”
“I promise you, Nuray. I promise. What an awful dream….”
“Did I wake you?”
“No. Been up for a while.”
“What happened?” She sounded alarmed.
“I’ll tell you later. It’s not serious. Go to bed.”
WHEN I CALLED HER BACK LATER that day, I told her about my sorrow-induced purge to cheer her up. I said something flippant to the effect that in good movies or novels, heroines always managed to take the perfect dose of sleeping pills or poison, even when they were drunk while the best I could do was try to end it all on laxatives. It was droll and pathetic, I thought I didn’t have to embellish much to make her laugh, but it didn’t work. She pressed on to know if I meant to sleep or die. Which one? “Tell me the tru
th or I won’t forgive you,” she insisted.
“I wasn’t trying very hard. I’m glad I didn’t succeed. I just wanted to sleep for a long time. What exactly is there to look forward to once you’re gone? Not much…. I want to die of such sadness, but I don’t want to be dead.”
“Good,” she said, “good. Promise me you won’t do something stupid like this again.”
Then, finally, she neighed. The laughter poured out of her and into me until I started rocking with it.
She was flattered by the depth of my sorrow, and reassured, I could tell. She whispered sweet names that she used when we made love, and told me she was in a state of panic every time she thought about leaving. We had three months left. I assured her I would help her pack after work in the evenings or on weekends, at her house if she thought Ekrem wouldn’t mind it. I could also take my yearly vacation, that way we would be alone during the day, in her house, while packing. They had planned for Ekrem to take Mehtap to his mother’s house, so Nuray could have the time to pack, undisturbed.
“He will be happy you’re helping me. He can’t take time off work; it’s a busy time for him and he worries that I won’t manage by myself, so he will be delighted to know this.”
“Well then,” I said, “let’s start tomorrow.”
I took a taxi to her house after work with a pile of cardboard boxes that were in good order and we started on the project.
It all sounds a bit tedious in the retelling, after so many years. The closer I get to the finish line, and I think I’m almost there now, the less significant my struggles seem under that vast expanse of stars, and as many ants scurrying in their tunnels below, in this ever-growing city with its millions of faces I can’t commit to memory, each one containing a story of magnificent futility. And here I am, telling my own because Nuray once suggested I should. I never wear my wristwatch anymore; the gold rimmed one Aydın gave me as a retirement gift many years ago. Why keep his time when his own mind no longer comprehends it?
I’ve finally decided to take my Cretan bracelets with their fine engravings out of the drawer, out of so many years of hiding, and place one on each wrist, to affirm, unapologetic at last, that I am the child of a brother and sister expulsed from an island I have never visited. I want to show the world, the neighbourhood and especially those women whose beady gazes hiding behind lace curtains I have suffered and evaded all my life, that I no longer care to submit to their petty views. Not that I ever go out anymore, but if I were to…. And I daydream, mostly. I’m old. And I’m free. I have learned almost nothing. In youth we imagine it will all come together in old age, but it simply disintegrates and turns to dust in our souls before our flesh imitates.
The Letters
November 12, 1980
Dear Nuray,
I hope you’re all settled in Montreal now. I want to hear all about it. Your neighbourhood, where you shop, Mehtap’s school, Ekrem’s work, your days, your thoughts … everything. I hope you have time to write me a long letter.
Here, things are bleak. You left at the right time. We have to rush home because of the curfew. Military trucks are a frequent sight. Newspaper pages are littered with arrests. Soldiers with their machine guns seem to be stationed everywhere. I heard they just stormed into the dorms at Boğaziçi University and arrested some of the students in the middle of the night. The neighbour’s daughter who was studying computer science there couldn’t take the stress. She is home now and swears she won’t return. It’s all for our safety, they say.
Anyway, work is same old story. I find that I’m not able to sleep well, lately. I lie awake wondering about my future, yours…. This is inevitably linked to thoughts of death and dying; my mind wanders in that desert for a while, without a compass or an oasis in sight. Perhaps this happens to those like me who have been visited by love but spared its comforting domesticity. What do you think about this? I’m not looking for sympathy. I just have these observations and I couldn’t tell anyone if not you, my sister moon, my shining half on the other side of the world….
I awoke to rain this morning. I love it so, the patter on the windows and streets, the perfume of earth rising, wet stones, wet trees and flowers and the sea scents wafting over the wintry smell of burning coal, and puddles gleaming here and there like soft dark mirrors into which burly grey clouds frown… Do you remember awakening to rain together long ago? I hold on to so much, I realize … I hold on to all my memories of you. And memories of memories. Yes, I’m hopeless. I remember remembering things we did, and how it felt to remember them. I don’t know what use it is or why it even happens. I suspect memories are parasites of sorts, mindless creatures that feed off our thoughts and senses until they are fat and bloated with all that stolen life. What use is it?
Dearest, I’m sorry for passing my blues onto this letter. I realize it’s unfair to fill these pages with a sadness that will probably dissipate soon, but will still be there for you to open up and absorb after the fact. It takes ten to twelve days for your letters to arrive. And you always manage to sound cheerful in them, and to make me smile. I wish I had a bit of your light-heartedness. Please forgive me.
I’ve decided to take pottery classes a couple of nights after work. They have some evening classes. There is a lady who teaches art in the American Girls’ School. She lives around there too, so I take the streetcar back and forth. It’s very convenient. And I’m learning to make vases and jugs. It’s soothing to have my hands in mud like that, and to spin the wheel. Mind you, I have sent gobs of wet clay flying across the room on a few occasions. Thank God her atelier is already messy and she doesn’t pay much attention to the additional messes I make.
Anyway, I have to go to work soon and I’ll mail this letter from there. Please take good care of yourself. I kiss your eyes. Please give a hug to Mehtap and my regards to Ekrem. Be well.
Yours,
Mehtap
December 21, 1980
Dear Mehtap,
Forgive me for taking this long to write you back. It’s been difficult and I have no excuses; being busy is never a good excuse for someone like me. In this case, it isn’t that I didn’t want to write, but that I didn’t want to speak of all those efforts I’m making every day. I’m exhausted. I want to stay in bed and make everything go away, most of the time.
Soon Mehtap will have her Christmas break, and I won’t be able to write with her around, so I’ve decided that today I will devote all my time to writing this letter and mailing it. Maybe you’ll receive it in the new year, in which case, I wish you the best: good health, joy, happiness. And above all I wish for you to visit. Will you?
You want to know where I live, where I shop, etc. One of these days I will take pictures and send them to you. Not yet. I live in an area of Montreal called Notre Dame de Grace, NDG everyone calls it. It’s very nice—brick houses with tall maple trees in their front yards. We live on the top floor of a three-storey apartment building. Brick, also. And there is a fireplace in the living room but it doesn’t work. I insisted on this place because of the fireplace, even though Ekrem kept saying the kitchen was small and shabby. Well, we’re stuck with a small and shabby kitchen plus a fireplace that doesn’t work, now. I’ve seen a few cockroaches too, lately, but anyway…. On the mantel, I have the pictures of my mother and brother and you. I talk to you when no one’s around. Sometimes I weep, looking at your picture. I wish you were here to hug me. Mehtap, you haven’t said anything about coming to live here. I’m waiting for you, you know. If you’re so lonely over there, and me here, this only makes sense. Doesn’t it?
Ekrem has found a job after four months. It’s a factory job; it pays the bills. Meanwhile, he’s looking into opening a shop of some sort. I don’t know, maybe carpets and copper things, something specifically Turkish. He doesn’t want to invest everything we have into something that may not work, understandably. If he opens a shop and it fails, then we will have lost all
our money. He tells me I have to look for work also, if we are to make ends meet, until we figure out what to do. My English is barely sufficient, and here, you have to speak French as well. They were very helpful at the immigration office. There are courses I can take for free. In fact, I will also get some money to do this. So, as of next week, I’ll be going to school full-time, to learn French and English. It’ll be good for me, and most importantly, it will keep me away from the grocery store. My God, you should see the size of it! Think of a museum filled with food, shelf after shelf, row after interminable row. You cannot even begin to imagine such a sight, Mehtap. Shelves packed with cheeses and yoghurts (well, what they call yoghurt here, it’s like a diluted version, all liquid and mixed with fruits) and meat packed in cellophane. There are no carcasses hanging from brass hooks, or the smell of blood and meat. Spotless rows of spotless food. I couldn’t resist bringing home vegetables and fruits I have never seen before. One is called avocado. It’s green and soft inside, and very bland. I wonder how you eat this. Another is called broccoli. Imagine a minuscule tree, with a green stem. That’s how it looks. I boiled it and put some lemon and oil. It wasn’t bad. Then they have tropical fruits called mangos. Anyway, I can spend my entire day wandering among the isles of this immense grocery store. I get hungry, and I keep buying food. I come home, and I want to taste all these things I buy. I’ve gained so much weight I can’t fit into my clothes. I’ve bought jeans a couple of sizes larger and very loose fitting sweaters. I look awful, my dear. It’s a pathetic life, when food becomes your main source of entertainment.
Mehtap is doing very well at school. She has already made a few friends and I think she will learn the languages in no time. Maybe she will help me learn as well. Already she is pushing me to read and watch TV so that I don’t embarrass her when I go to parent-teacher nights. She didn’t say it like that, but she made me understand she feels embarrassed that her parents speak broken English. She rolls her eyes and says “Mom, stop saying ‘v’ when you see a ‘w’. Repeat after me! Vase … Wine. Not … Wase … Vine. Annecim, come on, try harder!” It is so hard on my nerves to feel utterly stupid and helpless at this age.
