by Suat Dervis
EIGHT
Ahmet now moved in the most important circles.
Thanks to Muhsin’s patronage, he had only to knock on a door for that door to fly open.
As reluctant as Muhsin had been to help this man, and however much he hated him, he’d felt obliged.
There were several reasons why he felt he owed something to this cuckold who’d inspired such ire in him.
By Muhsin’s reckoning, he should feel nothing more than desire for a woman so easily handed over. He should take pleasure in her company, and no more.
But when he came to understand that he had fallen in love with this woman whom Ahmet had thrown his way in such an ugly fashion, he felt torment and shame.
His relationship with Celile—at least during the hours they spent together—was pure bliss.
But the moment she left, abandoning Muhsin to his own thoughts, the nature of their relationship brought him anguish.
There was nothing remarkable in a husband handing over his wife to a man who could help him make a few hundred thousand liras. At least there would not have been, had Muhsin been able simply to enjoy the gift. That he had shown such weakness as to fall in love with this woman—this Muhsin could not forgive.
Neither could he accept it.
What if these two had planned it all in advance? Each playing their part in the deception?…
If that were the case…
It did not bear thinking about.
Sometimes, when her head was resting on his chest and he was stroking her beautiful hair and gazing into her eyes, he’d imagined himself asking.
“Celile, tell me the truth…Please. Just tell me the truth!” But what was this truth he wished to hear from her?
What woman ever admitted to seducing a man for personal gain?
What Muhsin wanted was the truth…
So he asked her nothing.
The moment she walked in through the door, trailing the scent of violets…
“Celile could never be that kind of woman,” he’d tell himself. “It’s wrong of me even to suspect such a thing.”
What woman had ever given so fully of herself as she had done? She had surrendered to him unconditionally.
Could a woman who was not in love ever be like Celile—look at him as she did—sit like her, speak like her, or kiss like her?
In that case, what was she?
How could any woman leave the home she shared with a husband who knew nothing and run off to see her lover without a moment’s thought?
Without a thought for what her husband might do, and without hesitation, arriving at the appointed hour, on the dot?
Hadn’t her husband and the rest of the household noticed that she was coming and going as she pleased, like a bachelor?
Why had no one asked her where she was going?
Muhsin had no idea what a simple, solitary life she led.
But even if Muhsin had known, he would still have struggled to accept that Ahmet had noticed no change in his wife.
She seemed to enjoy a freedom greater than even a single woman would think possible.
So Muhsin could only wonder: what sort of man must this woman’s husband be?
What sort of man would feel no shame at having thrown his wife into a stranger’s arms?
And how could it be that a woman as haughty and refined as Celile would agree to such a humiliation, or indeed wish to remain the wife of such a man?
Yes, there was something revolting about this business.
But as much as he longed to put himself out of his misery, he could not bring himself to ask Celile for the truth.
He was tongue-tied from the moment she stepped inside.
One look at her and he could no longer remember why he had ever doubted her. Just to think ill of her was sinful, disrespectful in the extreme, impossible.
Celile had no idea how her lover was suffering.
She believed that he was as happy as she was.
Life was sweet, a beautiful dream still unfolding.
She saw no sin, no fault, in their affair. Muhsin must, she thought, welcome it as she did.
It never occurred to her that Muhsin might be tormented by doubt.
But how could it have been otherwise?
Drunk from his new successes, Ahmet had failed to notice a thing.
There was no room in his life for anything but the road to riches. If he wasn’t at the office, he was traveling.
To achieve his goal he needed more than a bank guarantee. He needed capital, and that meant bringing in other backers. Once he’d done this, he went looking for a way to deceive them so that he would earn more than they did.
The other backers did the same. A secret war ensued.
Ahmet fought like a wrestler, fending off defeat through constant vigilance, searching day and night for the ploy that would put him on top.
This meant many trips to the capital.
It also meant visits to the plants where they made silos, and the construction sites that needed them. He had to keep his eyes peeled, lest a subcontractor seize a chance to cheat him. There was also the time and effort that went into cooking the books or using materials that were below specifications—all to maximize his profits.
Though he knew nothing of the law, Ahmet had a devilish flair for inserting paragraphs into a contract that made them work in his favor.
Though he was new to the construction industry, he was able to get his own, even over partners who were construction engineers. This, added to his other successes, served to bolster his confidence.
The more confident he became, the more his ambition grew.
He was not going to settle for less. The war wasn’t going to last forever. If he wanted to stay in with the rich once the war ended, he had to take advantage of every opportunity the war offered.
His name now meant something in the world of business.
“He might be a newcomer,” people would say, “but he’s shown himself to be pretty shrewd.”
Although it must be added: all of Istanbul now knew of his wife’s affair with Muhsin.
So they would often add, with a smile, and never fearing that their words might get back to Ahmet: “Of course, this is a man who can digest anything!”
There were, nevertheless, those who, having had their laugh, remembered their fat, slatternly wives and their own limited horizons, and envied Ahmet for what he had.
And whatever they said or thought about him, they were all smiles in his presence, as they sought to profit from his connections.
Ahmet, meanwhile, was having the time of his life. As soon as he had the silo deal in the bag, he’d be buying an apartment in Taksim. After that, it would be the villa on the island, and the Bosphorus yalı…
These were his dreams.
And Celile didn’t mind that he was away so much. Not at all.
Sometimes he was away for whole weeks.
And when he did come home, loaded down with papers, he’d asked to be left alone. Another piece of luck.
By now they were living more comfortably than ever before.
They’d left the old apartment some time ago.
Their new apartment in Ayazpaşa had six rooms. It had parquet floors and a sunken bath.
They’d sent away their maids and replaced them with a higher class of servant. Celile now possessed a larger and more beautiful wardrobe.
But Ahmet was no longer the generous spender he’d been when he first started making money. For he’d learned now that money needed to work.
In the process, money had lost its old meaning. When he was just a little bank clerk, he’d seen money as a means to buy all the possessions he longed for.
But once he started earning money, he’d discovered what money really was, and how much power it wielded. It was no longer a means
but an end.
To have money was to have honor, influence, and respect.
Ahmet did not just love money now. He worshipped it.
His aim now was to increase his capital, using it to finance further growth.
It no longer made sense to spend half of what he’d made. A quarter was plenty.
He did not suspect that Muhsin might have darker reasons for being eternally helpful.
He assumed it was because he had won the man over.
He’d been impressed, Ahmet thought, by his shrewdness and agility, and his good company.
It never occurred to him that Muhsin might be helping him out of a sense of obligation.
Once Celile and Muhsin began seeing each other in secret, their social program had changed overnight. It was no longer necessary for them to go out as a threesome.
For a time, these outings continued. But Celile took no pleasure from them—all she wanted was to see Muhsin alone. As for Muhsin it was not just a case of taking no pleasure in these meetings. He hated them. Seeing Celile in Ahmet’s company was deeply troubling.
It left a bad taste in his mouth to see Celile giving him warm and meaningful looks right in front of her husband.
And to see Ahmet waiting on his wife hand and foot, as if he had no idea of what was going on. And then running off, leaving them alone, as if it didn’t matter to him that they were intimate.
Another thing that irked him—Ahmet wasn’t in the least jealous.
Muhsin hated this man so much that he couldn’t stop himself from hating Celile in his presence.
And so, for a time, Muhsin made an effort not to see them together.
This was jealousy!
Beneath all that disgust, Muhsin was madly jealous of Ahmet. It ate him up to think that this woman might love her husband, and that she might have thrown herself into his arms with such selfless abandon for no other reason than to advance her husband’s career.
And so Muhsin thought, “Why do I even have to tolerate this man’s existence, now that I can see Celile alone whenever I wish?”
It was Ahmet, and only Ahmet, who thought it necessary to continue meeting. After all the kindness Muhsin had shown him, Ahmet felt obliged to invite him to the house for supper now and again.
“My little wife,” he’d say. “This man has done so much for us. You might find him boring, fair enough, but would you agree to endure his company this evening, for my sake? My dear, could you at least greet him with a smile?”
Annoyed by his cajoling, Celile would cut him short: “But I am always happy to see him, Ahmet!” It exasperated her so much to see him fail to understand her true meaning.
Muhsin found excuses to turn down Ahmet’s first two invitations, but he had no choice but to accept the third.
It caused him great pain to pretend friendship with this man to whom he could accord neither value nor respect, and whose very presence revolted him.
To feign fellow feeling for this shameless reprobate, to nod in agreement with whatever nonsense he spouted while at all costs skirting the truth, to sit across the table from this man who had evidently used his wife as a pawn in his bid to enrich himself, but who still persisted in acting as if he didn’t know—it tormented him beyond measure.
Despite all the joy that love had brought him, it had turned him into a most miserable creature.
Sometimes, when he was alone, he imagined Celile slipping off the disguise she wore in his presence to become a woman he could barely recognize. He imagined her sitting at home with her husband, scheming, always scheming.
Who might they be plotting against now? Could it be him?
He wasn’t a man to be fooled. What good would it do to be taken as a fool?
How he longed to press Celile for the truth. To say, “Leave me in peace! Just tell me how much money you want from me! When will enough be enough? Please, name your price. I shall always have enough money to satisfy people like you. So tell me. What do you want?…Tell me, and then leave me in peace.”
Wouldn’t it be better to clear the air? To escape from this unbearable torment?
Just one question remained. Could Muhsin ever bring himself to utter these words?
Was it even possible?
If he pressed Celile for the truth, he would in effect be sending her away.
While with every passing month his need for her grew.
She was a poison he could no longer live without.
Every cell in his body craved her.
A morphinomaniac! That was how he felt now. Exactly like a morphinomaniac. And this was love? Could this be called love?
No, it was addiction!
He had to bring an end to this torment. Settle this business for once and for all. Draw a clean line and move on. Time to come to an understanding with Celile, with Ahmet, and, finally, with himself.
Yes. But how?
How could he ever pull this off?
He knew that his affair with Celile was no secret in certain circles.
And because he assumed that Ahmet knew everything, he no longer wished to share this woman with him.
There was no compassion in his feelings for Celile. No understanding, either. It was only her beauty that spoke to him. Her charms.
Her skin, her curves, her eyes, her hair, her everything. Everything about her enchanted him.
The way she walked. The ring to her voice. The play of light on her skin. How he loved them all.
How he missed all these things whenever she was far away. When she was far away, and sometimes even when they were together, and so very happy to be together, he hated even her soul.
One night they were together in that dim little room in the dim little apartment. Celile was sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her hair.
Muhsin was stretched out on the sofa, watching.
She was wearing a full-skirted dress of pale violet.
Her red curls tumbled down over her shoulders.
He could see her pale face in the mirror, and her febrile lips. The impudence of her. Only moments ago, she’d left his embrace. Now she was preparing to return to her husband’s house. And it didn’t seem to bother her at all.
Did she not care what kind of woman she’d let herself become by agreeing to share herself between two men?
Suddenly Muhsin was overcome by a pure and bitter hatred for her, impossible to contain.
If he’d been brought up differently, he would have seized any excuse to give this woman sitting so casually in front of the mirror a good beating.
Even so, his good upbringing was not enough to restrain him completely. Still reclining on the sofa, he called out to her.
“Celile!”
“What is it?”
“How much longer will you keep coming to see me?”
“As long as you wish me here. Or not.”
“So if I said to you, don’t come anymore. What would you do?”
Celile’s eyes shot open in amazement. Was Muhsin joking?
What sort of joke was this?
She did not turn to look at him.
Her eyes fixed on the mirror, she said: “If you asked me not to come again, I wouldn’t come.”
“In that case, don’t ever come again!”
She watched as the face in the mirror registered first surprise and then anguish. That face in the mirror—how it frightened her.
She turned her head. Eyes closed.
A second. Two seconds. A minute, maybe more. Eyes still closed, she sat in silence.
Muhsin still reclining on the sofa, watching.
Watching this woman who was soon to wrap her slender arms around her husband.
Celile felt something cool on the tips of her long eyelashes. Something cool on her cheeks.
She had to keep her eyes closed and her head
tipped back, so that her tears would flow back into her eyes.
Could it be true? Had Muhsin really uttered those words?
Such a thing to say. Such a thing!
Had she been accustomed to telling others of her feelings, she would have run across the room to him, thrown herself on her knees and said, “Don’t you ever, ever, speak to me like that again. If you told me never to come again, it would kill me.” She would have said this with no fear of wounding her pride.
For her, Muhsin was not about pride. For her, Muhsin was desire. For her, Muhsin was life itself.
Muhsin was still on his sofa, looking at Celile. What was she up to? Why was she sitting there, so still and silent? Why wasn’t she speaking? Why hadn’t she uttered a single word?
Muhsin had been expecting her to drop her mask and change back into the woman she really was, revealing her true colors and responding to his harsh words with her own.
And then he could say: “Don’t you ever come to me again! For months now you’ve been trying to hoodwink me, and I hate you for it. Go back to your husband!”
But still, Celile said nothing. Nor did she move.
“Celile, why won’t you say something?”
“…”
“Celile!”
“…”
“Celile! Answer me!”
“…”
“Have I offended you?”
Muhsin stood up.
Why, he didn’t know.
Now he was on his feet and walking over to her.
Now he was standing just behind her.
Taking hold of her arms, he turned her around.
And to his amazement, he saw two great tears trembling on her eyelashes.
“Celile!”
“…”
“Celile! My dear Celile!”
“…”
“You’re crying. Did I make you cry? You poor thing. Tell me…
“My one and only. My dear, dear Celile. My love! I was only joking. Did you think I really meant it?”
Celile began to sob.
“You mad, silly thing! Without you I could never…Could I even continue living without you?”
“…”
“Please don’t cry, Celile. Please, I beg you. It never occurred to me that you might take me seriously. You’re my everything, you’re my life. My happiness. How could I ever live without you? If you never came back, what would become of me? I’d go mad! How could you ever have taken me seriously?”
