by Orhan Pamuk
After the meeting, a number of people saw Sunay passed out in the back of the tailor shop on a small dusty floor mat, surrounded by scraps of cloth, paper wrappers, and empty boxes. It wasn’t drunken expedience. For years now, Sunay had been convinced that soft beds would make his body go soft, so he was in the habit of napping on a hard coarse mattress before any performance of great importance to him. Before he could lie down, however, he’d had a row with his wife about the script, which had yet to be finalized, so he put her into an army truck and sent her over to join Kadife at the Snow Palace Hotel and begin rehearsals.
Funda Eser sauntered into the Snow Palace Hotel like a woman to whom all doors are open; she went straight up to the sisters’ room, and I am able to report that the warm dulcet tones by which she so effortlessly created an atmosphere of female intimacy offered offstage a more compelling proof of her greatness than the play that night would ever allow her. Certainly her eyes must have been fixed on Ïpek’s crystalline beauty, but her mind was on the role Kadife was to play that evening.
My view is that her own estimation of this role derived from the importance her husband gave it, because during the twenty years she’d been touring Anatolia playing wronged and raped women, she never had another goal in presenting the victim above arousing the men in the audience. Marriages, divorces, the covering of heads or the baring of them—they were all just means to the same ordinary end—to reduce the heroine to such a state of helplessness that no man could resist her—and although it is impossible to say whether she fully understood her roles in dramas celebrating the republican enlightenment, it must be allowed that the male dramatists who invented these stereotypes could not see a heroine expressing a notion any deeper or more refined than eroticism or social duty. Funda Eser used these roles to splendid effect in her life offstage, and to a degree these male dramatists would have scarcely anticipated.
Not long after having entered the sisters’ room, therefore, Funda was able to suggest to Kadife that they rehearse the scene in which she was to bare her head and reveal her beautiful hair. Kadife feigned reluctance but not for long; when she loosened her mane Funda let out a loud cry, remarking on how healthy and shiny it was and that she couldn’t take her eyes off it. Sitting Kadife in front of the mirror, she picked up an imitation ivory comb and, running it slowly through her hair, explained that the essence of theater was not the words but the images. “Let your hair speak for itself, and let the men go mad!” she said.
By now she had Kadife’s head spinning so she kissed the young woman’s hair to calm her down. She was clever enough to see that this kiss awakened the dormant evil that Kadife kept hidden, and experienced enough to draw Ïpek into the game too. Providing a flask from her bag, she began to pour cognac into the tea glasses Zahide had set for them. When Kadife objected, she mocked her, saying, “But tonight you’re going to bare your head!” Kadife burst into tears, and Funda planted insistent little kisses on her cheeks, her neck, her hands. Then, to amuse the girls, she recited what she called Sunay’s unknown masterpiece, “The Innocent Air Hostess Protests,” but this, far from diverting the girls, only made them more anxious. When Kadife said she wanted to study the script, Funda proclaimed, “The only script we have this evening is Kadife’s hair,” the moment when all the men of Kars gazed dumbfounded at her long, beautiful, radiant mane. The women in the audience would be so moved by love and jealousy they would want to reach out and touch it.
As she spoke this, Funda kept refilling their glasses with cognac. She said that when she looked into Ïpek’s face she saw happiness, and when she looked into Kadife’s she saw courage and fury. But she couldn’t decide which sister was more beautiful.
Funda Eser continued in this amusing vein until a purple-faced Turgut Bey burst into the room. “They’ve just announced on television that Kadife, the leader of the head-scarf girls, is going to bare her head during this evening’s performance,” he said. “Tell me, is this true?”
“Let’s go watch television,” said Ïpek.
“Please allow me to introduce myself, sir,” said Funda Eser. “I am the life partner of the illustrious actor and newly anointed statesman Sunay Zaim, and my name is Funda Eser. I would like to congratulate you on having raised two such marvelous and outstanding girls. Thanks to Kadife’s heroic decision, I can advise you that you have nothing to fear.”
“If my daughter does this, the religious fanatics in this city will never forgive her!” said Turgut Bey.
They moved to the dining room so they could all watch the television. Funda Eser took Turgut Bey by the hand and said something to the effect that she could promise, in the name of her husband, the city’s supreme ruler, that everything would go according to plan. Hearing noise in the dining room, Ka came to join them, whereupon a happy Kadife informed him that Blue had been released. Without waiting for Ka to ask, she declared she was planning to keep the promise she had made to him that morning, and that she and Funda Hanιm were preparing to rehearse the play. As everyone watched television, talking at the same time, Funda Eser applied herself to charming Turgut Bey, lest he stand in the way of his daughter’s appearance.
Ka would often think back to this ten-minute interlude as one of the happiest of his life. He was now utterly free of doubt about his destiny of lifelong happiness and dreamily imagining life as part of this jovial family. It was not yet four o’clock, but the dark old wallpaper in the high-ceilinged dining room was already the shade of a childhood memory. Looking into Ïpek’s eyes, Ka could not help but smile.
Seeing Fazιl standing at the door, Ka hastened to push him back into the kitchen and, before the boy could ruin the mood, pump him for information. But Fazιl resisted: He stood fast in the doorway, pretending to stare at the image on the TV screen, but in fact his angry eyes were fixed in astonishment on the animated crowd around it. Seeing Ka was trying to get the boy into the kitchen, Ïpek stepped over to them.
“Blue wants to talk to you one more time,” said Fazιl, and it was clear from the tone of his voice that he was happy to be ruining the party. “He’s changed his mind about something.”
“About what?”
“He’ll tell you himself. The horse and carriage will pick you up in the courtyard in ten minutes,” he said, leaving the kitchen to return to the courtyard himself.
Ka’s heart began to pound. It wasn’t just reluctance to set foot outside the hotel again today; he was also afraid that his own cowardice would betray him.
“Please, whatever you do, don’t go!” Ïpek cried, giving voice to Ka’s own thoughts. “After all, they know about the horse and carriage by now. No good can come of this.”
“No, I’m going,” said Ka.
Why, given his reluctance, did he decide to go? It was an old habit. In school, whenever a teacher asked a question he knew he couldn’t answer, he’d always raise his hand. He would go into a store and, finding the perfect sweater, perversely buy something else not nearly as nice for the same money, knowing all the while it made no sense. It may have been a form of anxiety that made him do this, or perhaps it was his fear of happiness. They went up to his room, taking care not to let Kadife notice. How Ka wished that Ïpek had used a little ingenuity, contrived something imaginative to let her linger peacefully in the room, but as they stood looking out the window, Ïpek could voice only the same impotent words: “Don’t go, darling; don’t leave the hotel at all today; don’t put our happiness at risk.”
Ka listened dreamily, like a sacrificial lamb. Soon the horse-drawn carriage appeared in the courtyard: He was shocked to see how quickly his luck had turned and it broke his heart. Without pausing to give Ïpek a kiss, but not forgetting to embrace her and say his farewells, he went downstairs; his two bodyguards were in the lobby reading the papers but he managed to slip past them into the kitchen and then out through the back door into the hated horse-drawn carriage, to lie down once again underneath the tarpaulin.
It is tempting to read too much into this moment—w
e are, after all, fast approaching the point of no return, and the mission on which Ka was now embarked would change his life forever—so I feel obliged to caution readers against viewing Ka’s decision to accept Blue’s invitation as the pivotal moment in this story. Certainly I am not of this view myself: Ka had not yet run out of chances. He still had time to make a success of his visit to Kars, and he would have other opportunities to right his fortunes and find “happiness”—or whatever it was he meant by that word. But when the events in this story reached their conclusion, and all his bridges were burned, it was this moment that Ka would look back on with stinging regret and undying curiosity as to how things might have turned out if only Ïpek had managed to keep him in his room. She might have said something to talk him out of going to see Blue, but even having racked his brain hundreds of times during the following four years, he still had no idea what the right words might have been.
As we turn back to the image of Ka hiding under the tarpaulin, we are right to see him as a man who has surrendered to his fate. He was sorry to be there; he was angry at himself and at the world. He was cold, he was afraid of falling ill, and he knew no good could come of this appointment. He paid careful attention to the noises of the street and the things people said as the carriage passed by, just as he had done during his first journey in this conveyance, but this time he was not in the least interested to know where in Kars the carriage was taking him.
When the carriage came to a halt, the driver prodded him and Ka emerged from underneath the tarpaulin; before he could make out where he was, he saw in front of him a decrepit building that, like so many others in Kars, was lurching to one side and shedding flakes of paint. Inside, he made his way up a narrow, crooked staircase to a landing two floors up. (In a happier moment, he would remember seeing a door lined with shoes and a child’s bright eyes staring at him through the gap in the door.) The apartment door opened, and he found himself face-to-face with Hande.
“I’ve made up my mind,” said Hande with a smile. “I’m refusing to cut myself off from the girl I really am.”
“It’s important for you to be happy.”
“What makes me happy is being here and doing what I want,” said Hande. “It doesn’t scare me anymore if I’m someone else in my dreams.”
“Isn’t it dangerous for you to be here at all?”
“Yes, but it’s only in times of danger that a person can really concentrate on life,” said Hande. “What I understand now is that I will never be able to concentrate on things I don’t believe in, things like baring my head. Right now I’m happy to share a cause with Blue. Could you write poems here?”
Although only two days had passed since their first meeting, Ka’s memories of their dinner conversation were now so distant that for a moment he stood there gaping like an amnesiac. How much did Hande wish to draw attention to her intimacy with Blue? The girl opened the door to the next room for Ka to find Blue watching a black-and-white television.
“I knew you’d come,” said Blue. He looked pleased. “I have no idea why I’m here,” said Ka.
“You’re here because of the turmoil inside you,” said Blue. He looked very knowing.
They eyed each other hatefully. It didn’t escape either of them that Blue was very pleased about something while Ka was full of sorrow. Hande left the room and closed the door.
“I want you to tell Kadife not to have anything to do with that disaster they plan to stage this evening,” said Blue.
“Couldn’t you have sent this news with Fazιl?” said Ka. He could tell from the expression on his face that Blue had no idea who Fazιl was, so Ka added, “He’s the religious high school boy who sent me here.”
“Ha!” said Blue. “Kadife wouldn’t have taken him seriously. You’re the only one she’s going to take seriously. And it’s only when she hears this from you that she’ll understand how serious I am about my decision. And she’ll understand why after she’s seen the loathsome way they’re promoting this on television.”
“When I left the hotel, Kadife was already starting to rehearse,” Ka said with pleasure.
“Then you can tell her I couldn’t be more opposed to this performance! Kadife didn’t decide of her own free will to bare her head, she did it to free me. She was negotiating with a state that takes political prisoners as hostages, so she’s under no obligation to keep her word.”
“I can tell her all this,” said Ka, “but I can’t predict what she’ll do.”
“In other words, if Kadife decides to play this her way, you’re not responsible; that’s what you’re trying to tell me, is it?” Ka said nothing. “Then let me make it clear—if Kadife goes onstage this evening and bares her head, you too will be to blame. You’ve been involved in this deal every step of the way.”
For the first time since his arrival in Kars, Ka felt the peace of righteousness: At long last, the villain was talking like a villain, saying all the vicious things that villains say, and this cleared his head. “You’re right to think you’re a hostage!” he said, in the hopes of calming Blue, as he considered how he might get out of this place without angering him further.
“Give her this letter,” said Blue. He handed Ka an envelope. “Kadife may refuse to believe my spoken message. And one day, when you’ve found your way back to Frankfurt, I trust you’ll also find a way to make Hans Hansen publish that statement so many people risked so much to sign.”
“Of course.”
There was something in Blue’s face that hinted at frustration. He’d been far more relaxed that morning as he sat in his cell awaiting execution. Now he’d managed to save himself, he was already looking ahead in anger, aggrieved to know he’d never manage to do anything in life but generate more wrath. Ka was slow to realize that Blue saw what Ka could see.
“It doesn’t matter where you live, here or in your beloved Europe; you’ll always be imitating them; you’ll always be groveling.”“If I’m happy, that’s all I care about.”
“You can go now!” shouted Blue. “And know this: People who seek only happiness never find it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I Didn’t Bring You Here to Upset You
AN ENFORCED VISIT
Ka was glad to get away from Blue, but at the same time he knew there was now a bond, however damning, between them. It was not a simple bond—there was more to it than fear and hatred—for as Ka shut the door behind him, he realized with some remorse that he was going to miss this man. Hande appeared, all good intentions and deep thoughts, and though Ka tried to dismiss her as utterly guileless and even rather simple, he soon found himself ceding to her the higher ground. Eyes opened wide, Hande asked him to send her best to Kadife and tell her it didn’t matter what she decided about baring her head on television (she didn’t say onstage; she said television); Hande’s heart would be with her no matter what she did. Once she had said this, Hande told Ka how to leave the building without attracting the attention of the plainclothes police.
Ka fled from the apartment in a panic; on the first-floor landing he felt a poem coming, so he sat down on the first step, in front of the shoes lined up on either side of the entrance, and, taking out his notebook, began to write.
It was the eighteenth poem Ka had written since his arrival in Kars; its subject was the link between love and hate, but if he hadn’t explained the allusion in the notes he later wrote, no one could have guessed it. When he was at the Advanced Şişli Middle School, according to his notes, there’d been a boy whose family owned a prosperous construction company. This boy, who had won a Balkan equestrian championship, was very spoiled, but Ka was infatuated with his air of independence. There was another boy too—his mother, a White Russian, had been a lycée classmate of Ka’s mother—who’d grown up without a father, sisters, or brothers, and while he was still a student he had started using drugs. Although this enigmatic white-faced boy had never seemed to pay anyone any mind, it turned out he always knew everything to be known about the people aroun
d him. Finally, during Ka’s military training in Tuzla, there’d been this handsome, laconic, rather aloof wise guy in the neighboring regiment who taunted him tirelessly with small acts of cruelty (like hiding his cap). Ka had been bound to each of these fellows by both unveiled contempt and an adoration he kept secret. The title of the poem—“Jealousy”—referred to the feeling that bound together these two conflicting emotions and that also bound Ka to the task of resolving the contradiction in his mind, but the poem itself revealed an even deeper problem: After a time, these people’s souls and voices had taken up residence in Ka’s own body.
