by Moris Farhi
Agop and his wife, Sabet, had cleaned up şιk Ahmet’s house, decked it with flowers and stocked it with food, books and records. What he needed most was weeks of rest. Consequently, we had planned to go to Istanbul immediately by taxi and get him settled at home. But şιk Ahmet, hungry for fresh air after his time in gaol, insisted that we go by boat. On such a beautiful summer morning, skating over the sea would be intoxicating.
So we went to Yalova, boarded the ferry there, found a shady corner under the awning on the upper deck and crossed the Sea of Marmara.
I imprinted the day carefully on my mind. For, by then, I felt certain that the fortnight or so I still had in Istanbul before returning to London to finish my thesis would probably be the last I saw of şιk Ahmet. (I had another motive – an unconscious one which revealed itself years later. Istanbul is where the spirit of Turkey becomes palpable. And although there are many ways of internalizing the city – ways that need countless lifetimes – the best way to absorb her, or rather to witness her divinity, is to ingest her from the sea. Every panorama from the Bosporus or from the Sea of Marmara or from the luxurious expanses of pine and cypress woods reflects centuries of history. Hues that could only have been created on God’s palette are scrolled on the huddled houses, on the majestic wooden yalιs, on their sun-stroked roofs, on pencil-thin minarets and their breast-shaped domes. And it is also by standing on the water that one can hear the numinous calls of Turkey’s soil – calls which, streams of poetry tell us, invariably conjured visions of paradise to warriors, martyrs, bards and mystics alike. No wonder those who behold this heavenly city swear, like Jews do about Jerusalem, ‘If I forget thee, O Istanbul ...’)
Much of the time on the boat, şιk Ahmet dozed, looking as if he carried the fatigue of several lifetimes. We took turns and held his hand. That – and no doubt the fragrance of the spray that the breeze occasionally sent our way – kept a smile on his face. And, as I had guessed, Melek’s presence delighted him. On one occasion, when she had gone to get us some tea, he told me he could easily believe that she was the daughter Leylâ had always yearned for but had never had.
In between his naps, he chain-smoked and questioned us all. What were we doing? What were our aspirations? And what were the chances of achieving them? He encouraged Melek, who had another year at Ankara University for her philosophy degree, to continue her studies and, like me, go for a doctorate. He discussed one or two points about my thesis; he knew a great deal about it because we had been corresponding regularly on its principal aspects. Indeed, by virtue of his network of sympathisers that covered the full spectrum of society, he had provided me with many important insights. But the fact that the authorities had confiscated my outline perturbed him. Much as I assured him that I had at least three copies tucked away in London, he kept saying we must find a way of getting it back.
Then he talked about himself. Though he was now retired – actually unemployable, particularly in education, because of his prison record – he was working harder than ever. He corresponded regularly with a number of ex-students who sought his advice not only on theses, lectures or speeches, as I did, but also on such intimate matters as marital and personal difficulties, the problems of bringing up children, the struggle to make ends meet and so on. The rest of his time – actually the bulk of his time – was taken up by his efforts to have the ongoing ban on the works of Nâzιm Hikmet lifted and, just as importantly, to have Hikmet acknowledged internationally as one of the greatest poets of the twentieth century. Hikmet was still alive, still living in exile in Moscow, still writing. But he was in poor health and only Allah’s grace – because Allah loved great poets as much as we did – kept his weary heart ticking. He, şιk Ahmet, still corresponded with him through various – and devious – channels, still received all that the great man produced. (During those times when he languished in prison, trusted colleagues collected these works and kept them in safekeeping.) He still disseminated a stream of Hikmet’s poems, plays, letters and polemics to lycées, universities and foreign publishers. Tomorrow, he would resume these activities.
When we had settled şιk Ahmet in his house, Agop, Musa, Naim, Zeki and Mustafa went to their homes.
Melek and I stayed behind to cook a special dinner. Much as şιk Ahmet wanted to praise our efforts on the delicacies we had prepared – aubergine salad, artichoke hearts in lemon and olive oil and swordfish in greengage sauce, all of which he loved – he could not manage to eat. Prison food, albeit meagre, was normally nourishing – and tasty – because, in the main, it was cooked by the prisoners with ingredients brought to them by relatives and friends. After years of maltreatment, however, şιk Ahmet had been left with a barely functioning stomach. Thus he could only eat small portions of bread, olives and white cheese and, as a luxury, some yoghurt with molasses.
We should have left then, but couldn’t bring ourselves to do so. şιk Ahmet was far too tired and we wanted to be around just in case he needed something.
As Melek and I settled for the night in the lounge, he called us.
We went to him.
He was sitting in bed, smoking. The skin on his forehead had creased, indicating that something was troubling him. ‘Davut, this thesis of yours ...’
‘Yes?’
‘You say you have all your primary material here with you?’
‘Much of it.’
‘Go and get it – every scrap of it. Leave it with me.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s best to play safe.’
‘But nothing that I have is secret. Everything is declassified – available to everybody.’
‘Everybody is not interested in it. You are. It’s the back-up to your thesis. That makes it special.’
‘I don’t understand ...’
‘Look, if they’ve been holding on to your outline for this long, something is obviously rattling them. Give me all the material before they make a move.’
‘What sort of a move?’
‘A raid, probably. To confiscate what you have. To scuttle your work. Who knows? I’ll try and find out. I still have spies in the reactionary camps. In the meantime ...’
‘But I’m only writing a thesis.’
‘Theses contain words. That’s what frightens them. And the more truthful these words are, the more they’re terrified. Go on. Bring everything. I’ll find a way of getting it all to you in London.’
‘But ... at some point – for certain parts of my thesis – I’ll have to come back for further research ...’
‘Don’t. Stay in London. Until things get better. Whatever you may need from here, I’ll dig it up for you somehow.’
‘And if things don’t get better? Do I stay in exile?’
‘Exile is too big a word. Besides, if they tie up your tongue, bury your words or put you in prison you’ll be an exile in your own country. Let’s say, you need to retreat a little in order to advance better later. I remember suggesting the same to Nâzιm.’
I stared at him, unable to take in all the repercussions of what he had said.
He turned to Melek. ‘Do you two tumble?’
Melek blushed. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you like it?’
Melek smiled boldly. ‘Very much.’
şιk Ahmet nodded approvingly. ‘Good. If this world can be saved, it’s the lusty women who’ll save it. Does Davut like it, too?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Nothing to worry about then. Keep your honey sweet. He’ll always come back.’
I managed to control my apprehension. ‘Sir, aren’t we presuming ...?’
He looked at me fiercely. ‘You still here? Go on, off you go! Get your fucking stuff here! Now!’
I nodded and rushed out.
When I reached home – the apartment I was sharing with some friends – there was a message for me. A couple of plain-clothes policemen had called; they had left their phone number; nothing of importance or urgency; but would I ring them as soon as possible to arrange a meeting?
Panic seized me. I couldn’t think what to do. I managed to ring şιk Ahmet.
He chuckled as soon as he heard my voice. ‘Good thing you left when you did, Davut. The police came here looking for you. They obviously knew you’d been with me. Anyway, they want you to ring them and arrange a meeting.’
I spoke hoarsely, suddenly drained of all saliva. ‘They called here, too.’
A pause, ominous and increasingly alarming, ensued.
I wailed anxiously, ‘Sir – are you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think they want me because they saw me with you or because of my thesis?’
‘I don’t know. Because of your thesis, I’d say. Whatever the reason, I don’t like it.’
‘What shall I do?’
‘Let me think.’
I waited. Almost an eternity.
When he spoke his voice had regained its old authority. ‘No sense in being grilled by those hoodlums. They can trick you with any number of questions and hold you in custody for ages.’
‘What then?’
‘You’ll have to run.’
I began to shake. ‘Run where?’
‘This is what you do. Pack your things. Don’t forget your passport. Don’t take anything in writing – not even a newspaper. I’ll send an old friend, Bekir – he drives a taxi. Give him your box-files. He’ll bring them to me. You’ll get them in London in a few days. After Bekir’s gone, make straight for the airport. Take the first plane out – anywhere in Europe – and then proceed to London. I’ll make all the arrangements. Melek will meet you at the check-in with your new ticket ...’
‘Won’t you come to the airport too? I can’t leave without saying goodbye.’
‘You’ll have to. I’m always under surveillance, so they’d spot you. In any case, I hate goodbyes. When you and Melek stop kissing a moment, give her a hug for me. I’ll make sure I get it.’
‘Several hugs.’
‘And keep in touch.’
‘Of course, sir.’
He hung up.
I started packing while panic tore at my guts.
The first flight out was to Vienna. I would have to spend a night there, then pick up a BEA flight to London. No extra charge. şιk Ahmet’s contacts had rearranged things perfectly.
There had been no awkward questions at customs and immigration. Obviously, it had not occurred to the police that I might run away.
Melek had been allowed to accompany me to the departures lounge. She had approached one of the immigration officials, told them we were newly married and very sad to part even though it was only for a few days, and could we stay together until I boarded my plane. The man, looking implacably officious, just melted and waved us through. Talk about the contradictions in the Turkish character!
So we sat huddled on adjacent chairs, like mourners keeping vigil by a corpse.
Indeed, we were sitting around a corpse: our love. I knew that. Did she? I had realized, on my way to the airport, that I was about to kill the most precious thing in my life in order to save myself. I had turned – seemingly overnight – into the coward I had feared I was. The mere fear of arrest, of trials in dubious courts, of prison and torture was making me desert not only all my ideals – ideals entrusted to me by Atatürk as well as şιk Ahmet – but also my beloved country and my equally beloved Melek. I was exchanging my full-frontal confrontational Turkey for the veiled treachery of Europe. What a paradox! And I was doing it with deliberation, with my eyes wide open. So there was no longer any sense in lying to myself. I was not coming back – certainly not in the foreseeable future. And while many would condone my desertion, would even praise me for being wise like Hikmet and many others, I knew I wasn’t just another Turk forced into exile; I knew I was not withdrawing in order to fight another day. Nor was I disowning my country, as some bigots were bound to intimate, because, as a Jew, I was still considered by many as a non-Turk, or, at best a half-Turk. I was running away simply to save my skin. Decamping, like all cowards, at the first sign of trouble. I was failing myself – and everybody who had believed in me. And there was no way back, no chance of redemption, from such a failure.
I plucked up the courage to look at Melek. For a mad moment, I had the urge to seize her, tear off her clothes, run my body all over her body, make endless love to her.
I mustered all the integrity I had left and mumbled, ‘I won’t come back. You know that, don’t you? I won’t have the courage.’
She tried not to cry. ‘Yes.’
‘When I told you I was afraid of my fears, this is what I meant. But I never expected it would be so soon. That I’d succumb so easily. I can’t tell you how ashamed I feel, if that means anything any more ...’
She nodded.
I held her hands. I asked my burning question, though I knew what her reply would be. ‘There’s another option. If you come to England ... I can lecture ... Turkish language, literature ... My college more or less asked me to ... We’d have enough to scrape by. And we’d be together.’
She smiled. ‘It’s tempting ...’
‘But?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’d wither there.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘I belong here, Davut. I’m not one who can be transplanted.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I do. In my guts. I’ve thought about this more than you think ...’
‘Even so ... Give England a try ...’
‘No. Maybe that’s the fear I have. That I might like it there. And choose to stay. I don’t want that. There’s much to be done here.’
‘You can do it from England.’
‘You can. And I’m sure you will. I can’t.’
‘What about our love ...?’
‘It will live on.’
‘Melek – it will die.’
‘Does love ever die? Never! It just moves on to another plane ...’
‘What good is that? If we can’t feed it? If there’s no touch ...?’
‘It will find a way to feed itself.’
‘You’re only saying that to make leaving you – abandoning you – easier for me.’
A sudden anger clouded her face. ‘What else can I say?’
I faced her – as bravely as I could. ‘The truth.’
Only her tears moderated the fury in her voice. ‘Very well. şιk Ahmet was wrong when he said all I had to do was keep my honey sweet and you’d come back for it. You won’t – ever. No matter how sweet I keep it. Your fears will send you running all over the world. Here and there you’ll pick up honey and feel saved. But, sadly for you, they’ll be synthetic – a semblance of sweetness at best, never pure honey. Even if you have a thousand women from every continent, you’ll never find a kindred soul like me. Never find a body so welcoming. Loins made just for you. You’ll be lost for ever. A wandering prick gradually putrefying.’
I began to cry. ‘That’s too cruel.’
She wiped her tears with her sleeve. ‘You wanted the truth.’
The loudspeaker announced my flight.
The fire, barely flickering in our eyes, went out.
‘One other thing. Even crueller because it concerns your soul. Wherever you go, whatever you do, you’ll find you’ve stayed here. You’ll realize you’ve never left our soil – neither our country’s nor mine. Or if by chance you manage to transplant a limb here and there, your mind will always return. Your conscience will be more unforgiving than my body.’
Again the loudspeaker announced my flight – this time in English.
‘That’s your flight.’ She brushed my hand with hers. ‘Goodbye.’
She turned away, walked a few paces and then ran.
13: şιk Ahmet
Go Like Water, Come Like Water
My dear child,
In the beginning, there is Death.
I’m trying to think which one of you told me that. Sadly, memory turns wayward with age. It was from
a Türkmen storyteller, I remember that. Yet I have difficulty recollecting the features of all my boys and girls, even their names. Which is why this letter does not have an addressee and is written as much to you personally as to all of you. On the other hand, maybe this is a good thing. This way I can abstract all my students – particularly those I love (how many are there? One thousand? Two thousand? Five thousand?) – into one, conflate them, as it were, into a kaleidoscope so that rather than running hither and thither in my mind trying to find them, I give myself a shake and up you all come in wondrous shapes and colours.
So to the beginning.
Death is sitting opposite. And she – yes, female as you rightly intuited – is just the way you described her in a song. (Am I confusing you with one of my girls? Or my wife?)
Anyway, naked she is – Death. Voluptuous. Bountiful breasts. A perfect oval vagina, wide open like the Creator’s mouth – which is what it is, of course – about to annunciate şιk Ahmet’s new beginning.
About to – not immediately. She’s nice, Death is. She will let me write this valediction. I’ve made her tea and put a fresh packet of cigarettes on the table. She’s even stroking my feet – bliss. My soles never recovered from the falaka lashes in prison.
As you know, my child, I’m not a religious man. But looking at Death, so desirable, so eager to bring me to life again, I now hope that my new beginning will be an extension of my old life, but with more, much more time with my Leylâ.
(Come to think of it, there must be another Death – the male one. He who wreaks havoc and deluges the world with rivers of blood. But no matter how hard he pursues us or breaks us, she – our beautiful Death – saves us. And makes sure we live again. And love again.)
Imagine: a new time with Leylâ ... How long is it since she died? Was it only yesterday? Fifteen years? No matter. She left me her aura. So, in effect, she never died, never abandoned me.
