by Selcuk Altun
Back on the road, the shock and relief of surviving an accident unscathed filled the car. “I saw the fury of a blind man trying to protect his seeing-eye dog in the way you attacked that Cadillac chauffeur,” Ariel said. I attempted a humorous retort, saying I wouldn’t like to lose my chauffeur. “Once I was the best fighter pilot in Europe, but unfortunately I don’t know how to drive.”
I couldn’t decide which road was more boring—Buenos Aires-San Antonio de Areco or Eskişehir-Mahmudiye. I listened to Astor Piazzolla in between Ariel’s anecdotes about customers who collected dictionaries, atlases, and books on incest. I tried getting acquainted with Fernando Ruibial’s town by studying the guidebook Ariel kept in his car. San Antonio de Areco, with a population of 20,000, was in the land of gauchos, cowboys. The writer Ricardo Güiraldes had glorified the place in his book, Don Segundo Sombra, published in 1926.
The town, whose name evoked the knights of the Middle Ages, was occupied by the small homes of farm workers. We parked near where some sleepy horses, a spotted type that I recognized from cowboy movies, were grazing. The few people on the street were quiet, probably out of respect for the others having their siesta. The sound of a squirrel family in the old trees or a distant tractor was enough to puncture the silence. To find out where the Ruibial mansion was, I bought a primitive souvenir box at the gift shop that looked more like a hardware store.
We walked down Segundo Sombra (Second Shadow) under rows of dwarf trees unacquainted with autumn. Hollyhocks adorned the iron gate of 462I. The gatekeeper, probably a retired gaucho, called his boss when told him I’d come all the way from Istanbul. I was amazed at being immediately let in, and felt that I was getting closer to Esther. The gatekeeper led me through the garden that was like a colorful rug to the front door of the three-story villa, where we were met by an archetypal majordomo, Luis. Luis called the master on his cell phone as soon as we mentioned Señora Arditti. Ruibial was on his way in from the farm twenty-five miles away, so we were sent to the neighboring café to wait.
The high-ceilinged La Esquinada de Marti was like a monumental joke in this miniature town. It had more waitresses than customers. Still, the new-age music that filled it wasn’t repellent. We were just finishing the vegetable omelettes we’d ordered with difficulty when Fernando Ruibial walked in with an artificial smile on his face. He was thin, of medium height, and looked about forty-five. Clearly he wanted to benefit from the mystery radiating from his deep-set eyes. His impeccable style and self-confidence were a bit unsettling. I took it as a good sign that he paid our check and invited us to his house. His accent revealed a slight American twang.
On the way to his house I was aware that he was making fun of his troubles at work and testing me at the same time. The two of us entered an old elevator while Ariel, gliding into the ground-floor library, said, “Don’t come back for two hours.” The third-floor study was choked with bronze statuettes of horses, glass cow figurines, and similar kitsch. It looked like a toy farm. I sat across from Fernando at the saddle-shaped table. I knew I had to explain the reason for my visit down to the last detail. While he listened he opened a bottle of red wine with a yellow label. I took a sip and dared to hope that it was something he was saving for a special occasion. He smiled good-humoredly when I uttered Professor Ali’s name, but on learning that he was waiting, crippled, in a Buenos Aires hotel room his face changed. I took it as a compliment that he could hardly believe I was an ex-fighter pilot now retired because of an accident. His eyes settled on the giant map across the room.
“I used to drop by the Café Velocidad when I was at university. That’s where I met Eli Arditti. He was a handsome devil. He wore old-fashioned but elegant clothes, and he was always modest and courteous. There was nobody who didn’t like him. His nickname was Profeta, the Prophet. He was the best friend of every waitress.
“One Friday evening I was waiting for my girlfriend at Velocidad when Eli came in and sat down at my table. He was shaking, and he quickly offered me a partnership in his car business. His face was as sad as a saint’s. I couldn’t bring myself to hurt him.
“But the real reason I put up with ‘Sí, Sí Usados Autos’ was Esther. She was a smart and charming woman who knew how to befriend men. I was bewitched immediately. We had dinner twice a month at my house or at Café Tortoni. I could hardly wait to be mesmerized by her conversations. At these dinner parties, attended also by her husband, I saw the constantly widening gap between them. I was aware that they tried to conceal the real reason for their antagonism. In my opinion, love had never been a part of their relationship. After her third glass of wine one evening Esther said, ‘By losing my money in every business venture of his, Eli is trying to make me pay the price,’ and fell silent.
“I was content to subsidize the company. Yet I knew that every two months Eli would come up with some ridiculous excuse to borrow money to meet his personal debts.
“I finished my degree and before going back home to San Antonio de Areco, I signed over my share of the business to Eli and wrote off his accumulated debt.
“Four months later came the news of his death. Eli had collided with a garbage truck in the gray Jaguar that he could never bring himself to sell. The official report listed the cause of the accident as ‘dangerous driving by the deceased.’ At the funeral I saw his daughter Stella, the former Miss Argentina, for the first time. Despite her beautiful features she was most unattractive. She was boasting about how she had come from the other side of the world with her diplomat husband for the funeral. It was said that she whispered to a childhood friend that she believed her father had committed suicide because of her mother’s constant and relentless pressure. Esther couldn’t cope with these rumors and fell into a depression, so I put her in a private clinic. When she got out two weeks later she didn’t want to go back home, so I agreed to take her to San Antonio de Areco. We went to her house to collect her belongings. It looked like a gang of burglars had broken into the apartment in that run-down building and made off even with the coffee table. ‘This is why I couldn’t invite you here,’ she said. ‘In the end we had to sell the furniture to buy food. What’s left not even the flea market would take.’ She was crying. I paid the landlord the back rent and told him to distribute the remaining furniture to the poor. He smiled cynically.
“As Esther told me the story of her life on the way home I waited in vain for her to curse the mother who had darkened her destiny. Eli assumed she was visiting old childhood friend in Istanbul all those years. Just before he died, Esther received a letter from Ali’s sister, pleading with her to set her brother free; she said that he was considering marriage to another academic. Esther believed the story—which now, after talking with you, I understand to be completely fictional—so, while passing on the news of her husband’s death to her friend in Istanbul, she included her own.
“Esther stayed at the villa for two months. Even though she wasn’t in her best form, she managed to captivate the whole neighborhood. It’s still difficult for me to believe that my own grandfather confided in her, ‘If I were a widower I would never let you go.’ Another strange thing occurred during her stay with us. A letter came to my Buenos Aires house from Eli Arditti; it was sent on the day of his accident, but arrived six weeks late because of a mistake in the address. Poor Eli! I couldn’t help laughing—my old partner couldn’t even get my address right. Really! Anyway, when I opened it a small piece of cardboard fell out of the envelope. On one side was the drawing of a coffin-like car and on the other was a flawless note:
Dear F.,
This time I will not fail. I know you won’t abandon Esther.
For the last time: Sorry.
The Graceless Prophet,
Eli(as)
“Which is to say, the ungrateful Stella was correct in her assessment. I had a hard time tearing up Eli’s last and perfectly realized design. Esther insisted on my finding a government nursing home for her. I never told her about Eli’s note, but it seemed to me that she
herself had reached the conclusion that her daughter wasn’t completely mistaken. I had her admitted to a private rest home that was like a four-star hotel. I doubt she believed my lie that her share of the proceeds from the company’s sale would cover the cost. I steeled myself to witness her gradual decline because of a guilty conscience. Over the next eighteen years she moved three times, and took to spending summers at our villa. We watched as she came to terms with the past and learned to forgive herself. She grew more relaxed after shedding her ‘mysterious woman’ identity, and even my grandmother had to confess that she looked ten years younger.
“The architect of Esther’s journey back to life was Annabella Serna of Buenas Días Geriatrico, whom she met four years ago. Esther and this psychologist not only became bosom friends but each other’s educators. What Annabella acquired from Esther in the first session must have been the basic secrets of charming men. At first sight of this girl with glasses, ten years younger than me, I took a liking to her. In the past six months I’ve lost both my grandparents, and I plan to marry her as soon as my period of bitter mourning comes to an end …”
With a mind at peace, Fernando Ruibial refilled our wine glasses. As he wrote down the address of the Buenos Días Geriatrico, he made me promise to keep him informed about the Ali-Esther reunion. He didn’t intend to diminish the suspense of the final scene by sharing the news of Ali’s presence in town with Annabella. The heaviness I felt getting into the car probably wasn’t caused by the three glasses of wine I’d had. I was practically nodding off as I conveyed, without much dramatization, the story to Ariel. I revived somewhat when we got to the hotel, and there was almost a spring to my step as I walked to my room. I was eager to talk to Professor Ali but was disheartened to hear, when I checked my messages, that he’d gone out for dinner with Dr. Armenak. I called room service for food and went out onto the balcony. I realized that I missed hearing the evening ezan. I went down to the deserted bar in the lobby, where I drank beer and read every page of the Buenos Aires Herald, which somebody had left on my table. When a noisy group of tourists sat down next to me I escaped to my room and looked for a tango station on the radio that would help me sleep.
Professor Ali was tipsy when he woke me at midnight. He told me that during their Anatolian dinner at an Armenian restaurant he felt like getting up and dancing the horon. “Tomorrow we can take a tour of the town and then pack our bags,” he concluded, which didn’t exactly put me at ease. As I recounted what Fernando Ruibial had told me he groaned, “Kemal, I hope you’re not joking with me,” and as I concluded my report he collapsed into my arms.
*
The professor’s ankle hadn’t completely healed. He was walking with some difficulty, and if there was somebody’s arm to grab he seized the opportunity. I knew that he was going to choose his best outfit that morning. His efforts to pretend that he was relieved were in vain. As we went down to breakfast he assured me, “Don’t worry. I’m ready for anything.”
He perked up on hearing that Buenos Días Geriatrico was next door to the Evita Museum. The brochure at the empty reception desk in the foyer said, “Nos estaba buscando?” “Is it us you were looking for?” Ariel went to find somebody in charge while I concentrated on the dim lobby that smelled like a medicine cabinet. Quite a few old people were drowsing to the accompaniment of classical music; the Aphrodite statues at each corner seemed amused by them. When our guide came back with the good news that Esther’s room number was 211, I feared that Ali would drop dead on the spot. I told Ariel to wait in the lobby and helped my patient-as-a-stone neighbor walk to the elevator. The door to her room was ajar. We stood hesitantly in the doorway, through which only silence was seeping. The woman sitting in the plain room’s single armchair was knitting furiously and humming what sounded like an Aegean song to herself. She looked no older than sixty-seven and adopted a noble posture. I thought I should give a friendly nudge to Professor Ali, who stood frozen, his lips trembling.
“Ess-therr,” he moaned softly, and my heart fell to pieces.
A brief flash of her violet eyes made me believe everything I had heard about this legendary İzmir woman.
“Esther, it’s meee,” said the professor, and lapsed into silence.
Squinting in our direction, she said, “Aa-liii?” Had they traveled like a flash of lightning before my eyes back to their university days? She jumped from her chair, repeating “Aa-liii,” and I dragged the Professor into the room. They embraced hesitantly, timidly, and I found Esther’s not noticing me very poetic. I returned to the doorway and watched the scene that I deserved to enjoy all alone. Having survived the first shock, they tightened their embrace, then, like teenagers, began whispering and giggling to each other. When Esther started to cry Professor Ali sat her down on the bed. He put her head on his shoulder and caressed her hair and started to cry too. They were closing the account, I thought, of those missing forty-five years that were snipped from their lives like the middle of a reel of film. In their interlocked and trembling hands I saw their determination to bet everything they had on the time left to them. My heart eased, I shut the door and strolled up and down the corridor. I studied the cheap reproductions that cluttered the walls and bulletin boards. I phoned Fernando Ruibial and relayed the news. Instead of a joyous exclamation, he said, “I’ve made dinner reservations for five at Cabañas Las Lilas.”
Forty minutes later I was summoned back to the room. I was a bit apprehensive about whether there would be a whiff of embarrassment or self-consciousness. Esther stood and looked at me as if we had known each other a long time. As she took my face in both her hands I felt I was being squeezed between Greta Garbo and Doris Day.
“Back home I used to feel envious whenever the Muslims said something like Allah razı olsun. ‘May God be pleased with you.’” She spoke in Turkish that hadn’t rusted. “During my marriage I always knew that those three words would never flow from my mouth because I was constantly cursing. But after hearing what you did for us I think that you’re a saint come down to earth. Allah razı olsun. May God be pleased with you, my kind-hearted boy.”
She took her hands away just before the tears trickling from my eyes reached them. I felt a pleasant warmth rising in my breast. Was this the ultimate state of satisfaction, reserved for helping a friend in need? I committed the feeling to memory.
Professor Ali delivered a few words of gratitude and kissed me ineptly on the cheek. I was stunned when he whispered in my ear, “I know it was you who sent me that note, but I don’t mind anymore.” At last I understood the reason for the cynical expression on his face when he listened to my scouting reports. But it was too late for me to reply that I had suspected him of the same thing. The same demonic character had sent me to Mahmudiye, Tirebolu, Ayvalık, and Buenos Aires: I was thoroughly disgusted with Suat Altan, who was toying with me as if I were his pet guinea pig.
We left the rest home with Ariel. He could sense that I was agitated, but that I would be furious with him if he uttered a word about it to anyone. It didn’t help contemplating the rows of arid books in his shop. I strolled down Avenida Corrientes and my mind cleared somewhat. Was I being unfair to Suat, who flashed in and out of my life for the purpose of pushing my buttons like a robot? It was the clue he sent that had brought his ex-neighbor Ali and Esther together. As I walked the Buenos Aires streets, I realized the psycho was probably following me. I supposed his next gambit would be to hook me up with Haluk’ granddaughter Sim. I wondered if he knew that this girl, whom I knew only from a painting, was blind? I strongly suspected that his role as “remote-control Cupid” was a cover-up for an even more deeply hidden agenda. I smiled to myself like Suat’s naïve puppet, but I was hatching a plan to spring a trap of my own. Marching vigorously into a music shop, I prepared for the second act of the drama by buying thirty tango CDs recommended by the salesman.
The dinner party composed of Ali and Esther, Fernando and Annabella, and the companionless Kemal never grew dull. Conversations in Turkis
h, Spanish, and English ricocheted around the room. The freckle-faced Annabella reminded me of my primary-school teacher Miss Nimet, whom I loved and feared (her response to my lack of interest in Rumi’s poetry was totally artificial). Professor Ali, whose ankle had suddenly healed, wouldn’t leave the city before getting married. I had decided to leave the next day. The prospective groom had once told me that Gogol, as he lay dying, cried, “A ladder, quickly, a ladder.” I was warming up for the game …
VI
The flight back to Istanbul wasn’t full. Before falling asleep in a row of empty seats, I tried to decode the meaning of the checkers pieces my mysterious benefactor had spilled on the table in front of me. Suat Altan had no twin brother: it was he himself who emerged onstage in the role of Fuat. (The Poe character Sami, who admitted he had never seen them together, might well be on Suat’s permanent staff.) I had been sent on Haluk’s trail because of a clue from Count Nadolsky, who was the ex-tenant of the flat that had been bequeathed, first, to Suat by his uncle Izak Toledo, and second, to me by Suat. (What if an old letter or photograph were even now awaiting me in the study, which I’d considered a laboratory for some time now?) Whoever had attacked me in the building doorway at midnight and helped Professor Ali give me aid belonged to Suat. He knew that the incident would result in the professor and I becoming close. (I didn’t wonder that Sami, who rarely went out even in daylight, happened to be away at midnight. I could imagine him on the fringe of the gang of attackers.) Izak Toledo and Luna were good friends of Ali and Esther. Perhaps when Luna emigrated to Israel and saw Izak, who was already living there, she let it slip that Esther had never actually died. (An interesting detail was how Esther’s first Buenos Aires address had been passed on to Suat; but we all know the things diaries are capable of in romantic novels.)
