by Nazli Eray
“That is all exactly right!” Mustafa Bey burst out.
The pasha said:
“These things are all variable. See, you’re gradually getting to understand that. Facts that vary according to point of view.”
He paused for a minute.
“I have a guest,” he said. “Take care for now. See you again later.”
The seer stone had darkened. I put it on the night table next to my bed.
I was lost in thought. Was it really important if a person all of a sudden couldn’t find his or her way to a place that they went to all the time, every day? Mixing up the roads, just being unable to find the road that leads out to the square?
Then to become lost, to become lost in the labyrinth inside and to have all the doors to the outside shut. Not to recognize, not to remember. No one, nothing. This was important, without a doubt. This, then, is the eradication of a portion of a person’s life; perhaps, in some sense, a kind of freedom.
The conversations of the men in the Night Salon had a great effect on me. Their attachment to this life, to memories, to their freedom, and their realization that everything might suddenly vanish was an incredible thing.
They had all lived their lives one way or another and come to an end. They knew this, and they were resisting with all their strength, to avoid sliding down below.
The Night Salon was an unbelievable way station in the city and the endless night. I comprehended that.
My eyes were slowly closing. I feel asleep as the call to prayer was being recited.
BLONDE MESERRET
King Darius was scrutinizing the women in the chorus.
I felt that he liked one of them, but I wondered which one it was.
Alop the slave put the remote down next to the king’s armchair. Darius said, as though he had read my thoughts: “There, the third from the left . . . She’s so beautiful, so attractive . . . I’d like to meet her. I’d like to have her as a guest in my palace. Do you know her name by any chance?”
“Believe me, I have no idea,” I said. “She’s a member of the women’s chorus.”
“How can we get in touch with her?”
“I have no idea, Your Majesty . . . I’ll try to contact the chorus,” I said.
“Learn her name,” said King Darius. “Let’s invite her to Mardin.”
King Darius was fixated on the blonde in the chorus, third from the left. She was a very attractive woman, singing the song with great feeling and closing her eyes at the end.
Little details like that must have captured the king’s interest.
“We have to find her,” he was saying. “I’ll entertain her in the palace.”
That night I was able to get in touch with the station after calling a whole range of places. Finally I learned the name of the blonde. Meserret Zumrut (Emerald). She was a former radio artist. They called her “Meserret Hanım from Ankara.” Nobody knew who the women in the chorus were. The secretary I spoke to was devastated by the heat. She didn’t know Meserret Hanım, so she must have been very young. “These are old programs from the archives,” she said. “We put them on because it’s the summer.”
“If you could find me a telephone number.”
“I’ve asked, but no one really knows. Call back in half an hour,” she said, and hung up the phone.
A half hour later I was back on the phone.
The secretary had changed.
The girl I spoke to said:
“I have a very old number for her written in my book here. If you’d like, you can give it a try.”
I took the number.
I dialed it nervously.
A sleepy, tired voice from the other end of the receiver said, “Hello?”
I introduced myself.
“Meserret Hanım, I hope I’m not disturbing you. I’m just a go-between. I had a hard time finding your telephone number. The Persian king Darius is a great admirer of yours and would like to invite you to Mardin, to his palace. He would like to entertain you and get to know you,” I said.
On the other end of the phone, Meserret Hanım was flabbergasted.
“Who did you say?” she asked.
“The Persian king Darius.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” she said. “So he’s a king . . .”
“One of the greatest kings of the ancient world.”
“I understand. Thank you so much,” said Meserret Hanım. “He’s not connected with the Mafia or anything, is he? Please forgive me for asking. A person comes across such things in life . . .”
“Meserret Hanım,” I said. “You’re absolutely right in all your concerns. But you can relax. All it is in the end is just a trip to Mardin . . . They’ll send you a ticket and meet you in the Mardin airport. You’ll get to see this magnificent city.”
Meserret Hanım said:
“I’ve never seen Mardin. I’ll come. He’s a real king, right?”
“He’s real, it’s all real,” I said. “You know, nothing that exists ever disappears.”
Meserret Hanım repeated what I said excitedly.
“Nothing that exists ever disappears from the face of the earth. I think the same thing,” she said. “Should I bring my microphone?”
“Please do,” I said. “I’m having the ticket sent to your address. I look forward to seeing you here, in Mardin.”
I took her address and hung up the phone.
THE NIGHT SALON
The old men who had been dozing in their armchairs in the Night Salon were gradually waking up.
The first rays of the morning sun had started to filter in through the curtains of the salon, and this world that seemed to belong to the seventies gradually started to become illuminated. The ceiling lamp had long since been switched off, and the smell of freshly brewed tea filled the room.
Şevki Bey said:
“Thank God, we woke up to another day; we managed to open our eyes.”
“Amen,” said the old doctor. “We’re alive and starting a new day.”
The blonde woman came into the salon.
“Good morning!” she said. “How did you pass the night?”
“We were fine.”
The woman turned to Şevki Bey. “Şevki Bey, I put a pile of diapers in the bathroom; you can go and change whenever you want,” she said. “If you need any help, just call me.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Şevki Bey. He got up from his seat.
The old doctor said:
“Throw away the diaper, Şevki Bey. Get rid of it.”
“I’m still not so sure of myself,” said Şevki Bey. “Maybe tomorrow . . .”
“What’s the pasha doing, I wonder?” the doctor asked.
Mustafa Bey called out:
“Good morning, Pasha! How are you? You’re awake, I guess. I wish you a wonderful day!”
The pasha, from inside the painting, said:
“Good morning to you. I’ve been awake for a long time.”
The blonde woman said:
“I’m bringing a tea for you too, Pasha. I just made it. There are simits as well.”
“I’ll have a tea,” said the pasha.
The woman held the tea in the thin-waisted glass up to the pasha’s lips. The pasha started to sip his tea from within the painting.
“Should I give you some of a simit, Pasha?”
“I’ll have it later,” said the pasha.
The old men were talking among themselves as they sipped their tea.
Mustafa Bey said:
“I saw Kızılay in my dream last night. It was incredible. I went to Kızılay. Just like that. Without even thinking about it or asking the way. I found myself in the middle of Kızılay. I cannot tell you how free I felt. I went right into the Kocabeyoğlu Pasaj. I hadn’t been in there for years. But in the dream, bang! I went in. It was very nice, even though there was nothing there for me. The bra merchants, ladies’ underwear in all kinds of colors, slippers, towels, washcloths, tongs, hamam bath gloves, undershirts, slips . . .”
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“What a world!”
“I thought I had forgotten those places, but I remembered all the details. Over by the bras, there was this hot number behind the counter . . . We were just looking at one another. I walked around in the corridor a few times. I was in a great mood. What a wonderful dream. I left there and took a turn around Izmir Caddesi. Then I went back into the Kocabeyoğlu Pasaj. The girl was still there. I was walking around in the middle of the bras. The girl and I came face to face . . . So that’s it.”
Hıfzi Bey said:
“I’ve been thinking about how to get to Cebeci since yesterday. Over by Hamamönü. Old worlds. The old wedding halls, the conservatory building, everything’s there. I know the way, actually,” he added. “I can figure it out as far as Kızılay. After that it’s a little confused . . .”
“We’ll find it, we’ll find it,” said the old doctor. “We’ll all go together.”
“Oh, that would be great.”
The pasha sneezed from the wall.
“God bless you, Pasha!”
“Thank you,” said the pasha. “In my case, it’s an allergy.”
MESERRET HANIM
Alop the slave picked up Meserret Hanım from the Mardin airport and brought her to King Darius’s palace in the Dara ruins.
The lady was in a state of great confusion. King Darius had filled the whole place with freshly cut roses and bowls of fruit. The rose sherbet that had been prepared was being specially cooled in the wind, and two female slaves were sitting in a corner, playing some stringed instrument that I had never seen before.
Meserret Hanım was older than she had looked on television.
The moment I saw her, I realized that the archive program they were always showing on television was very old. She had put on weight, but she was still pleasing, not bad.
She was observing in bewilderment this strange world she had entered, eating the fruit offered, looking out from the terrace in admiration at Mesopotamia spread before her.
King Darius was pleased. He had presented her with a diamond as large as a walnut. A room had been taken in the Zinciriye Hotel next to mine for Meserret Hanım. King Darius said, “So she doesn’t feel alone.”
I went back to my room in the Zinciriye Hotel late at night. I sat on my bed and started to play with the seer stone.
The seer stone was far more diverting than television. It was full of surprises. For one thing, there were no advertisements. There was no way of knowing where the image inside would begin and where it would stop. I felt that it could become addictive.
I ran my fingers over the flawless surface of the seer stone.
A huge, strong man suddenly appeared in the stone. He was young, built like a tree trunk, wearing a dark blue track suit. He looked carefully in all four directions as though he were seeking someone in the darkness.
He saw me. He started to run straight toward me inside the seer stone.
I had no idea who he was, someone whom I had never seen before. I wondered what he was looking for in the seer stone.
The man came close to me.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said. “I wonder if you’ve seen them?”
“Who are you looking for?” I asked.
“I’m looking for someone named Şevki Bey,” he said. “He’s old. He’s started to have a little dementia. I put diapers on him, I’m his caretaker, and he ran out of the house in the blink of an eye. I went out into the airshaft of the apartment to have a cigarette. If you ask me, he couldn’t even get out of bed. So I went back in the room, the bed is empty; he split and left . . . I don’t know what I can do. I looked for him everywhere all night, and I wonder if he fell into the hands of the Organ Mafia. He’s an old man, he wouldn’t understand it. He used to be very rich; they say he used to live a life of luxury. He supposedly has a mistress. His wife is still alive and never leaves the card table. One of those. A problem woman, with a cigarette in her hand. She has no interest in the husband . . . the son-in-law is very rich. He does work in Russia, in Ukraine. He’s the one who found me. The daughter’s in her own world. Right now she’s at the summer house. The old man is alone in the house. Then I look, and whoosh, the bird flew away.
“I was really surprised,” he added. “I put his water down next to him. I said, ‘Let me go outside for five minutes.’ . . . There you go, he’s gone.”
“I don’t know anyone like that,” I said. “I never heard of this family.”
“They’re very rich,” said the caretaker. “I’m afraid that my man fell into the hands of the Organ Mafia during the night.
“Where else could this old man disappear to?” he asked himself. “Bye,” he said to me. “I’m going to keep on looking for him in the night.”
“Good luck,” I said.
The caretaker disappeared into the stone.
Şevki Bey has to somehow get the news. Maybe the Black Rose of Halfeti would go into his dream and tell him how the caretaker is going all over the place looking for him in the Ankara night.
There was a tap at the door of my room.
“Come in,” I said.
The door slowly opened. It was Meserret Hanım.
“I’m not bothering you, am I, at this hour of the night?”
“No, please come in,” I said.
“I couldn’t sleep,” said the woman. “I couldn’t sleep at all. This strange world I’ve come into . . . this unusual and enchanting city, King Darius, the palace in the ruins of Dara, everything has affected me in an extraordinary way. I can’t believe what I’m experiencing. It’s like they gave me a sleeping pill and I’m seeing a dream. What is illusion and what is real? I can’t figure it out. You’re real, I understood that. That’s why I came to you. The king, his slave, that palace, that diamond as big as a walnut given to me, are all of these real?” she asked.
“This enchanting city of Mardin is real,” I said. “King Darius, the slave, the palace . . . They’re real too. Perhaps they’re in a place where some other fragment of time meets up with this one.”
“So these people are in a place where another fragment of time meets up with this one . . .”
“They’re all real,” I said. “If you open a history book, you can find the Persian king Darius right away.”
“So this king exists.”
“Of course he does,” I said. “In the ancient world he owned everything round here; he was the master.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“I ran into him here, while I was looking at the plain of Mesopotamia from a terrace café called the Seyr-i Mardin,” I said.
“You didn’t find it odd . . . ?”
“No, I didn’t find it odd.”
“That means it’s real . . .”
“It’s real.”
“Where did he find me? I’m very curious. Where did he see me? How did he come to invite me here?” Meserret Hanım inquired.
“He saw you on television,” I said. “He watches the chorus every day.”
“I’m completely astonished,” said Meserret Hanım. “What’s a television doing in that palace?”
“I helped him get it. They came from Mardin Arçelik and set it up.”
“Unbelievable,” whispered the woman. “The ones they’re showing are very old programs from the archives. They put them on for the summer season. Look at how much weight I’ve put on,” she said. “The years haven’t been kind to me. I’m wearing a corset. I feel like I’m going to faint from the heat.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t sing anymore,” she said. “My time is over. I gave up working in the chorus a long time ago.”
“But in your time you broke a lot of hearts,” I said, laughing.
“I did,” she said. “But there’s nothing now. I have nothing at all left. The other day I had a hard time finding money to get a permanent for my hair. I feel close to you, that’s why I’m telling you all this. It’s a good thing I got my hair done.”
; “Look, now you’re in a palace in Mardin. King Darius is full of admiration for you,” I said.
“Yes,” she replied. “There are such strange things that happen in life; well, thinking about them is why I couldn’t sleep. If only I were younger.”
“What difference does it make?” I said. “The king is an admirer. And you’re very beautiful.”
“Thank you,” said Meserret Hanım. “I’m very grateful, in the middle of the night . . .”
The seer stone suddenly lit up. A light like something from a shattered crystal flashed and then died.
Meserret Hanım cried out:
“What is this? It’s like a treasure of light!”
Both of us were staring in awe at the seer stone.
The Black Rose of Halfeti had appeared inside the stone. She looked lovely, with her black velvet gown, her hair cascading onto her shoulders, and her ivory skin.
Meserret Hanım was taken aback.
“Who is this beautiful woman?” she asked.
“That’s the Dream Woman. The Black Rose of Halfeti,” I said. “She goes from dream to dream.”
“That’s so fascinating,” murmured Meserret Hanım. “You mean a woman who ornaments the dreams of men . . .”
The Black Rose of Halfeti was all aquiver.
“Get yourself ready,” she said to me. “We’re going into the pasha’s dream. He asked for us. He has to be at his best. He’s going to go on Uğur Dündar’s program, live.”
“What time is Uğur Dündar’s program on?” I asked anxiously.
“Tomorrow night . . . a doctor who does illegal transplants is supposed to speak on the program. The pasha’s on during the political segment, and Uğur Bey’s going to do a special interview. Why is he imprisoned in that painting? What’s going on? Who listened to the pasha? An old diary that was found. Inside there were messages of love and passion. Uğur Dündar, he’s going to ask the pasha about these things,” she said.
“What is this diary?” I asked.
“That’s why the pasha was arrested. Because of a love diary. Tomorrow night on the program he’s going to talk about all of these things. The diary was found under the pasha’s pillow before they put him in the painting. There are supposedly some reminiscences and letters of the pasha’s in it.”
