“You don’t have to explain anything to me, but I wish you could have told our grandmother’s family why they had to die. Our grandfather Ali was a soldier like you. He wasn’t an officer, he was a simple private but he showed more courage and honor than I would ever expect from you.”
“This argument isn’t going to lead anywhere. I just wanted to tell you to be careful. If I hadn’t protected you, you’d be in a much worse situation than you are. But there could come a point when I won’t be able to help you.”
On our way home my mother said, “It was nice to see you and your brother having such a nice chat.”
“We’ve missed each other, it was good to see him again.”
“Hopefully we’ll be celebrating his promotion to general soon.”
“That would be nice.”
My phone rang. It was the delivery service telling me that my package had arrived. Their office was only five minutes away, and we wound our way there through Bodrum’s narrow streets between high, whitewashed garden walls.
I tore open the package as soon as I was back in the car. It was a book.
MIMESIS:
THE REPRESENTATION OF REALITY IN WESTERN LITERATURE
The title page was inscribed,
With love from Max
At that moment I realized how very much I missed him.
CHAPTER 22
That evening my parents took me to a fish restaurant in Gümüşlük. My brother was going to an official dinner with his wife. My mother was disappointed that the whole family couldn’t be together for one more meal, but I was relieved. It was clear to me now that my brother and I would never see eye to eye.
The sun was just beginning to set when we arrived in Gümüşluk, and the restaurants on the waterfront were opening for the evening. They’d arranged rows of sea bass, red sea bream, and sole on the counters in front and placed heaters among the tables to ward off the chill that would come off the water once it got dark.
The sunset on this bay was particularly beautiful, and I felt the urge to get into one of the boats moored to the quay and sail out to sea. The nearest island was Kos, and after that was Kalimnos, then Leros and Patmos, where John wrote the Book of Revelations.
We’d traveled to all these islands one summer, eating sea urchins at Takis’s restaurant on Milos, swimming on the beautiful beaches of Leros and visiting the cave on Patmos where John is said to have received his revelation. Yet even these beautiful islands had their share of ugly history, particularly during World War II, and the Greek Civil War, when intellectuals such as the poet Ritsos and the composer Theodorakis were imprisoned and tortured there.
Perhaps Arthur Koestler was right to say that man ceased to evolve. No mother gives birth to a child with the thought that it will be killed in wartime. We all hope to grow old and die a natural death, but hundreds of millions die unnatural deaths at the hands of other people. Not long ago 50 million were killed in what has been considered the most civilized continent, in the lands of Goethe, Schiller, Beethoven, Dante, and Cervantes.
“Where has your mind wandered off to?” asked my mother. “Or are you worried about Kerem?”
“Yes, I wonder what he’s doing. I should call him.”
I got up, moved a few steps away from the table, called Ahmet, and asked for Kerem. It took him a little while to come to the phone.
“I’m with your grandparents in Bodrum. You’ll be here in three months, we can go out in a boat together. I’ve missed you so much. Is your father taking good care of you? How are you doing in school?”
He mumbled brief replies to each of my annoying questions, but just as we were about to hang up, he said, “The kids at school are talking about you.”
I felt a jolt like an electric shock.
“What are they saying?”
“They ask me if my parents are getting divorced.”
“Well, what do you say?”
“I say my parents are already divorced. Then they ask me if you’re sleeping with a man who’s old enough to be your grandfather.”
“And?”
“I say of course you aren’t, the man’s a spy and you’re keeping track of him.”
“Good for you.”
He sounded in such good spirits that I felt suddenly relaxed and happy. I could stay here for a while and begin my translation of Mimesis. I returned to the table just as the fish was arriving. It was so delicious that for a time we didn’t speak.
Then, when we’d finished, I said, “There’s something I have to tell you. I’ve been fired from my job at the university.”
They were dumbfounded.
“It was because of the slander they printed in the newspaper.”
My father said, “Don’t worry, I know you can find another job.”
My mother said, “Take your time. Relax here for a while and regroup. Kerem seems to be doing fine with his father.”
“Yes, in fact I was thinking of staying on here for a while. I’m going to translate a book.”
“Wonderful,” said my father. “Something more meaningful. Come on, let’s drink to it.”
We raised our ice-cold rakı glasses in a toast to the translation of Mimesis.
I felt lucky to have such supportive parents. When I’d told them I was leaving Ahmet they’d supported my decision without question.
I knew they were very curious about this Professor Maximilian Wagner who’d stirred up so much trouble, but of course they were too discreet to ask. So I told them Max’s story in detail, about his love for Nadia, their marriage, how they’d been torn from each other, and what had happened to the Struma. Then I told them that the professor was dying of pancreatic cancer and had returned to Istanbul to bid farewell to her in the place she’d died.
The next day I began the translation of Mimesis.
* * *
—
I’m nearing the end of my story. All I have left is some copying and pasting and a few minor corrections. I want to finish before they ask me to turn off my laptop when we begin our descent.
There’s a lot of activity in the cabin. People have had a good night’s sleep and a good breakfast and are moving around. The map on the screen shows that we’ve crossed the ocean and are flying over North America.
I have to fill out an immigration form. The same information I wrote on the forms at the U.S. consulate in Istanbul when I was applying for my visa.
The pilot has informed us of the weather conditions in Boston and that the local time is 2:00 p.m.
* * *
—
I was only able to work on the translation for two days before I had to rush back to Istanbul. Here’s what happened:
I was sitting on the balcony in Bodrum working on my translation. The book was open in front of me, I was using a beautiful speckled green stone I’d found on the beach as a paperweight, and I was writing the translation directly onto my laptop.
Later I took a break and looked up some articles on Bodrum. Alexander the Great had captured the city and appointed one of its previous monarchs, Queen Ada, to rule in his name. Bodrum was also famous for King Mausolos’s tomb, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World and the source of the word mausoleum. In the city’s famous castle was an underwater archaeology museum. When I took my morning walk, I walked on the same ground Herodotus had walked on.
I was planning to visit the museum the following day. I’d read that the oldest recovered shipwreck and most of its cargo were on display there. It was a 50-foot Lycian boat of cedar wood that had sunk 3,300 years ago, and was later named the “Uluburun shipwreck” after the location from which it had been recovered.
It had sunk in the fourteenth century BC and sat at the bottom of the sea until 1999. The ship had been carrying cobalt blue, turquoise, and lavender class ingots; the ebony logs so valued by the Ancient Egyptians; elephant tusks
and carved ivory; hippopotamus teeth; a kind of tortoise shell thought to be used in the making of musical instruments; pottery; metals; and a large number of ostrich eggs. It had also been carrying ceramic oil lamps from Cyprus; Canaanite jewelry; silver bracelets and anklets; a gold goblet; agate, gold, ceramic, and glass beads; two cosmetic boxes shaped like ducks whose hinged wings served as lids; and a trumpet made of hippopotamus tooth.
The next morning I walked out to the castle along a causeway paved with stones that had been worn down over thousands of years. The lighting in the museum created a murky, underwater atmosphere. A young, dark-haired man was guiding a group of tourists through the museum, and I tagged along after them.
Then, as I was looking at the Uluburun shipwreck, I wondered what state the wreck of the Struma was in. If this ship had survived 3,300 years, that one must still be fairly intact after fifty-nine years, though of course a torpedo hadn’t sunk the Uluburun ship. But I wondered if I might be able to start a campaign to recover the Struma. Perhaps this could be one of my new goals.
When the tour was over and we emerged from the museum, I asked the guide if he’d ever heard of the Struma.
“Certainly,” he said. “The Struma is quite well known.”
“If this ancient ship was recovered, couldn’t that ship be recovered too?”
“Certainly!”
“Well, why haven’t they made at least an exploratory dive?”
“They have, didn’t you hear about it? It was in the newspapers. Some friends of mine from the AUE found it last year.”
“I didn’t hear about it. What is the AUE?”
“The Association of Underwater Exploration.”
“Could you give me their number?”
“Of course,” he said. “Why not?”
As I left the museum with phone number of Levent, the leader of the Struma dive, my heart was beating fast. I was one step closer to the story.
As soon as I returned to my parents’ home, I called Levent. He wanted to know who I was, and this time I didn’t pretend I was still with the university. I told him I was researching on my own. I asked him for as much information as he could give me about the dives and the state of the ship, and told him that I was particularly interested in any pictures or video footage of the wreck. He agreed to meet me in Istanbul in a couple of days.
CHAPTER 23
The plane stayed in a holding pattern over Istanbul for over half an hour, and as I looked down at the city it seemed like a monstrous stain, shrouded in smog, spreading for miles in every direction. I regretted leaving the tranquility and clear air of Bodrum, and wouldn’t have done so if I hadn’t felt it to be urgent. For my parents, my sudden decision to leave had been an unpleasant surprise, but they didn’t question it, and besides, I would be back myself in a few days, and Kerem would join us in a few months.
It took me longer to get home through the traffic from the airport than it did to fly from Bodrum to Istanbul, and as I unlocked the door and walked into my apartment I felt suddenly as if I’d never left, as if I’d never been to Bad Arolsen or ITS, and as if Bodrum had been just a dream. Dostoyevsky once said that returning to St. Petersburg from Europe was like putting on old slippers, and I felt the same way.
I watered the plants, all of which had survived, unpacked my bag, and then called Ahmet and asked him to drop Kerem off so he could spend the night, and when he came he was so thrilled to be home that he helped me in the kitchen instead of going straight to his computer. As we had dinner together, he talked about every detail of his life, and I was happy to see him so cheerful.
Among the things he told me was that Ahmet’s girlfriend, Lale, visited often, and that they were talking about marrying. It didn’t bother me to hear this. I felt no jealousy whatsoever and indeed felt pleased, though I did pity Lale because she didn’t know what she was getting herself into.
The next morning I woke Kerem, made him breakfast, and sent him off to school just as I used to, and what had not so long ago seemed just a part of my daily drudgery now seemed like a pleasure.
Then I went to my meeting with Levent and three of his colleagues from the AUE. They were curious about why I was interested, so I told them briefly about Max and Nadia. Then I asked how they were able to get permission to make the dive. They looked at each other and laughed, and then told me it had taken years of writing proposals and fighting bureaucracy.
The next problem was to locate the wreck. Their first clue was from fishermen whose nets were getting caught on what they referred to as the “Jewish Ship.” They spent three years making sonar soundings and later made three dives to wrecks that displayed similarities to the Struma. Their job was complicated by poor visibility, strong currents, and often extremely low temperatures. They were able to eliminate two of the wrecks and concentrated on one that was the same length and width as the Struma.
“There are people who claim that the wreck we found was not the Struma, but I’m absolutely sure it is. Unfortunately the hands-off approach we committed to out of respect made bringing up any positive proof impossible. My certainty was based not just on what I saw, the unmistakable resemblance, but also on what I felt. I’ve seen other shipwrecks, but I’ve never felt what I felt there, the sense that I was seeing a mass grave.”
I asked whether they could give me a copy of the video footage of the dive, and they were able to give me a DVD.
The next day I left Kerem with his father and returned to Bodrum.
I spent the next two months working on the translation, exploring my memories, and enjoying the opportunity to spend time with my parents. I slept a lot, took walks along the shore, and gained almost five pounds eating my mother’s food.
Then, one day, when I was checking my email, I saw a message from someone I didn’t know, someone named Nancy Anderson. She’d been Professor Maximilian Wagner’s assistant, and was writing to inform me that his illness had progressed more rapidly than expected and that he was now in the hospital in critical condition.
For a time I just sat there, stunned, with no idea of what to do or how to respond. Then the obvious struck me. I had to go see Max. I wrote back to Nancy, thanking her for informing me and saying I would come to see the professor as soon as possible.
Then I called Tarık. I was now unemployed, which would make it difficult for me to get a U.S visa. He told me it would be no problem. He would list me as an employee of his firm.
“I’ll need some more money too. Dollars this time.”
“That’s fine. You can withdraw as much as you want from the bank anytime. Now, have I earned at least a dinner with you?”
I laughed. “Yes you have, as soon as I get back from America.”
* * *
—
We’ve been informed again that we have to turn off all electronic devices, bring our seats to an upright position, and close and lock our tray tables. As she passes, Renata tells me nicely that I really have to turn off my laptop. I smile and say I need just one more minute.
“You really have to turn it off.”
“Just one more sentence.”
And I keep typing as fast as I can.
Soon I’ll get off the plane, pick up my suitcase, get into a taxi, and go straight to Mass General Hospital. With the score of Serenade and the DVD of the sunken ship.
How will Max respond when he sees me? When he sees the sheet music, and the DVD, the images of the Struma lying underwater?
“Log off!”
I’ve made some typographical errors…but the flight attendant won’t leave//* me alon…
EPILOGUE
Below me is a large black-pepper tree that, with its red berries and feathery leaves, gives off a bittersweet fragrance when the wind blows through it. And everywhere there’s bougainvillea, spilling in cascades over balconies and down walls in a riot of bright colors. The afternoon sun shimmers on the sea, and there
’s a hint of pine and thyme in the breeze that drifts down from the mountains. From inside comes the sound of a novice on a violin, a scraping, screeching sound that’s almost a torture to hear.
I’m very happy.
When does a girl stop growing up? At puberty? At eighteen? When she marries? When she gets her first white hair? Or does she never feel she’s grown up no matter how old she gets? Is she still filled with girlish dreams when she takes her last breath?
But she goes through changes. Life constantly changes her, and the principal agent of these changes is always a man. Even Ahmet helped me to become mature, and though Tarık had less impact he helped, too, but I owe the deepest changes in me to an elderly man. A man I knew only briefly, with whom I shared neither passion nor sex, or even a common culture or language.
A new Maya has emerged, a Maya who’s learning to come to peace with herself and to be more compassionate and considerate. I’ve begun to understand Ahmet and the nature of his problems, and also to see the ways my own faults contributed to the breakup of our marriage.
I can see now that my harsh attitude toward people was based on insecurity, and on trying to control people and situations rather than controlling myself. I can also see how controlling, manipulative, and overprotective I’ve been as a mother, and how I kept Kerem from being himself.
I light a cigarette and inhale with deep pleasure. And as I write this, I glance at my finished oeuvre.
MIMESIS:
THE REPRESENTATION OF REALITY IN WESTERN LITERATURE
Translated by: Maya Duran
I dedicate this translation to my esteemed teacher Professor Dr. Maximilian Wagner who not only led me to this outstanding book, but also helped me to gain enough depth to distinguish between right and wrong, and to his dear wife, Nadia Deborah Wagner.
After months of work, I’ve finished both the translation and the story of how Max, Nadia, Mari, and Maya entered my life and changed it. I didn’t set out with the desire to write a book or to be a writer. I simply felt I had to tell the story, to confess, to pour it out. I feel no need to edit or rewrite, to polish or perfect, or even to correct minor errors.
Serenade for Nadia Page 27
