Portrait of a Turkish Family

by Orga, Irfan

  It was the custom for my family to spend three months of every year at Sarıyer. Usually we went there during May, when the heat of İstanbul began to become unbearable, but this year my grandfather’s death and my approaching circumcision had kept us in the city all through the interminable dust and heat and flies of summer. We had suffocated beneath mosquito nets and insufficient fresh air, for the windows had been fitted with fine netting in an effort to keep the insects away and the shutters tightly barred at night. Yet just the same the mosquitoes found entry, filling the dark nights with their whining music. So that it was the middle of that fateful August of 1914 that eventually brought my parents to Sarıyer.

  Permission was readily given for me to return, on the following day, with my uncle and aunt – the remainder of the family to leave İstanbul as soon as my father’s business activities permitted. I was very excited to be travelling without the restrictive eye of İnci or my grandmother. I helped İnci to pack clothes for me and lovingly stroked my rocking-horse, for this was to come with me. Mehmet’s lamentations of grief I ignored and could not be persuaded to leave the horse for my father to transport, being convinced that if it were left after me Mehmet would pull off all its lovely mane and no doubt do other irreparable damage.

  Murat, my grandmother’s coachman, drove us to Galata Bridge, where we were to board the boat which would take us down the Bosphor to Sarıyer.

  Murat was a grumpy, miserable old man, who immediately made difficulties over my rocking-horse. My uncle however eventually managed to persuade him that there was plenty of room for it in the phaeton. Murat, in darkest retaliation, prophesied that it would get damaged on the boat. Unlike my uncle’s gardener he had no love for small boys and thought it beneath his dignity to drive us to Galata Bridge where, he said, all the riff-raff of İstanbul gathered. He liked best to be seen driving my mother and grandmother, both heavily veiled, around the quiet green squares of Bayazit, to one of the big houses to pay a brief morning call.

  Driving across the Galata Bridge, behind the high-stepping, cream-coloured horses, was an adventure in itself. In those days there was even less traffic control in İstanbul than there is today – and God knows there is little enough today. That morning, horse-drawn cabs, carts, porters carrying beds or other furniture on their shoulders, gypsies stepping out into the road beneath the very feet of the flying horses, peasants riding their mules – all were in danger of being knocked down or overturned, for Murat, with a fine disregard of human life, drove like the wind and was more autocratic than any Sultan.

  Boarding the boat was fraught with difficulties, for I lost sight of my horse and in the resulting confusion wailed long and loudly and would not be pacified, despite my aunt’s repeated assurances that she had distinctly seen Murat give the horse to my uncle. In the end, however, the horse was discovered to be safe and sound, seated all by itself importantly and looking over the rail of the boat with glassy eyes. Uncle Ahmet bought simit, a sort of crescent-shaped, sesame-studded bread, and we fed the following, crying seagulls.

  The journey took two hours and I was beginning to be bored with inactivity when the boat-station of Sarıyer came in view.

  It was good to be on land again, to catch a glimpse of my uncle’s greenhouses through the trees which enclosed the gardens from the curious eyes of the boats. Servants met us, taking our meagre baggage, and I swung happily along the dusty road, clinging to my uncle’s strong hand and keeping a half-fearful look-out for snakes – for which Sarıyer was notorious.

  That night I slept in a little cool room overlooking the house garden, a wilderness of tangled briars and tobacco-plants with their hot, hurting scent, and roses which were not considered good enough for the famous rose-garden. Jasmine trailed through the windows, and it was very quiet. I missed the sound of the sea, for the Bosphor was on the other side of the house and could not be heard from my room. I missed also İnci’s clever fingers to undo my buttons. My aunt had sent an old servant to look after me and she fumbled over my clothes and over my bathing. Crowning insult, she omitted my evening glass of milk and closed the door after her when she had put me in bed. İnci had always left my door ajar, so that I could go to sleep to the sound of my parents’ voices from downstairs and to the comforting clatter old Hacer made when she washed the dishes after the evening meal. I lay in my little bed, listening to all the unfamiliar sounds that assail one away from home. Furniture seemed to creak extra loudly and shift itself and the shadows in the corners were alive with fearsome things.

  Fidèle and Joly, the house-dogs, padded restlessly up and down the path under my window, sometimes brushing through the shrubs, sometimes stopping to bark ferociously – at some unaccustomed noise perhaps, or merely because they were bored. When they barked, Hasan – the gardener – or Thérèse – the Greek cook – would hush them to cease their noise. Once a big black cat climbed on the branches of a tree opposite my window and my heart leaped in terror, for it seemed so large there, so still and evil in the dusky light. Yet for all my little fears I slept soundly, awaking next morning to the friendly voice of my aunt bidding me get up.

  We had breakfast in the garden, my uncle fresh from a dip in the Bosphor. Afterwards I played with my aunt and the dogs, big, lovable Dalmatians, who gambolled on the smooth lawns, chased the innumerable kitchen cats and licked most of the gleaming paint off my horse.

  When I had been there a few days, one morning my uncle announced that he was going to his farm, in the hills, and proposed to take me with him. My aunt was bade prepare snacks for the journey for the farm was two and a half hours’ drive from Sarıyer. The phaeton was brought round and in we climbed, settling ourselves with much laughter amid the cushions, and my aunt’s face was covered with a thick motoring veil – a veil that fluttered in the breeze and sometimes tickled my nose. When we arrived at the farm, dogs leaped out to greet my uncle hysterically. They seemed very big and fierce to me and I clung tightly to Uncle Ahmet’s coat-tails. The dogs wore great iron collars around their necks and, because wolves always first attack an animal by the throat, these collars were heavily spiked for protection.

  We lunched in the farmhouse, in a low dining-room that had a big, open fireplace large enough to roast an ox and an uneven stone floor. The furniture was primitive and hand-made but the meal which was served us was delicious. There were roast fowls piled on a mountain of pilav – rice cooked in butter and chicken-water; swordfish straight from the sea and served with parsley, slices of lemon and various kinds of salads. There were dishes of grapes, water-melons and some kind of heavy sweet made of shredded wheat, butter, syrup and chopped nuts. Wine was served in carafes, and my uncle, answering the appeal in my eyes, poured a little into my glass. After the meal, Turkish coffee was served under the lime trees and my elders seemed drowsy, lying back in their chaises-longues, their eyes half-shut against the glare of the sun on the grass.

  I wandered away to explore. I went into the empty stables that smelled of horses and leather and I discovered seven or eight puppies playing in the straw. They were so soft and fluffy that I could not resist taking one of them into my arms to pet. The rest played about my feet, trying to climb up my legs. Suddenly two large dogs sprang in and I dropped the puppy to run, but the dogs were on me in a trice and I thought they intended to eat me. I began to scream and a farm labourer came running and I heard my uncle’s voice in the distance. My legs threatened to collapse and, ignominiously, I wet my trousers. The farm labourer told me in his difficult, peasant Turkish, not to be afraid. The dogs were the father and mother of the puppies and only wanted to play with me. I mistrusted however their idea of play. The peasant tried to press bread into my trembling fingers, with which to feed the dogs, but before I could take it, the dogs voraciously snatched it from him. The puppies, scenting sport to be had, got joyously under my feet and succeeded in knocking me down into the straw. So there I lay struggling, with dogs and puppies crawling over me and I screaming like one possessed. I was eventually sorted o
ut of the doggy mess by my uncle’s capable hands and taken, in floods of tears, to be changed and washed. My aunt and uncle were roaring with laughter, and the louder they laughed, the louder I bawled, feeling their amusement to be adding insult to injury.

  After that disgraceful episode, I took care ever afterwards to avoid the stables and was glad when we returned to Sarıyer.

  My uncle used to bathe every morning before breakfast and I used to watch him from the dining-room windows, running down the garden to meet him when he was returning to the house. Some mornings I was taken with him and he taught me how to swim. We had fun splashing about in the chilly water but would come to breakfast with great appetites. Now my uncle was very fond of grapes. He could eat with ease two or three kilos each morning, and because of this my aunt was miserly about cutting from the house-vine, which spread out over the terrace like a canopy. She treasured those grapes and would tie each cluster in a little muslin bag, to prevent birds or bees from blemishing the fruit. And she never gave my uncle enough of them – at least in his estimation. Instead, dishes of market grapes were set on the table, which would cause heated words between them, he saying that one of the few pleasures of his day was to reach up to his own vine and cut as much as he wanted. He would come on to the terrace each morning, eyeing with disgust the market-grapes arranged so temptingly but so futilely for him.

  ‘H’m!’ he would remark disparagingly, ringing a little silver handbell for the parlour-maid, who would timorously emerge from the house knowing full well what was to come. ‘What are these grapes doing here?’ he would demand, to which she would reply sadly: ‘Bey efendi, it was not possible to get any from the vine this morning …’

  And stand there before him, looking down at her feet, her face and neck slowly reddening. Before my uncle could any further embarrass her limited intelligence, my aunt would appear to ask what was the matter.

  ‘The grapes, hanım efendi – ’ the parlour-maid would begin.

  ‘These grapes, Ayşe – ’ my uncle would interrupt, waving to the parlourmaid to go away. ‘Why cannot we have our own grapes instead of these half-dead-looking specimens?’

  Then he would stick out his lower lip, looking charmingly at my aunt, and maybe she would sigh and proffer the grape scissors without another word.

  Having got his own way, my uncle would be instantly repentant, contenting himself with one outsize bunch and one meagre one, calling upon my aunt to witness his amazing economy. But victory was not always so easy. The results largely depended upon my aunt’s mood and she could very easily turn her face to all cajolery. So my uncle formed a plan. I was shamelessly instructed to pamper and pet my aunt and when her mood was judged to have been softened sufficiently look appealingly to the house-vine and beg for some of its grapes. This I did and my aunt responded in the way my uncle had prophesied but I sometimes wonder how much she guessed of his villainy. For he would come to the table buoyantly, his face wreathed in smiles at the sight of his favourite grapes and my aunt would now and then look thoughtfully at him, then turn towards me as if wondering how far she was being made a fool of between us.

  I used to spend most of my days in the gardens, my aunt sitting sewing under a magnolia tree and keeping an alert eye on my activities. I loved the magnolia trees with their shining green leaves, the thick, creamy texture of their flowers and sometimes I would pluck one, giving it to my aunt, who would place it behind one ear, looking suddenly exotic and strange. There was a pool in the middle of the grounds and I would peer into it for hours, watching the lazy goldfish with Fidèle and Joly panting beside me. They had adopted me as their own property, following me everywhere and howling dismally if I left them to look for Hasan. They were forbidden the rose-garden and the kitchen-garden but lived in the hope that one day an unsuspecting human would leave one of the wall doors open for them to slip through. Hasan would let me pick up the over-ripe apples that had fallen to the ground and on rare occasions he would give me peaches to eat, warm from the day-long sun on the southern walls. Once I let the dogs come with me and it was the only time I saw Hasan really angry as opposed to his not infrequent grumblings. He fussily hunted the two dogs off the carrots and onions, beat them from the raspberry canes and swore luridly when they trampled his strawberry beds. I took to my heels and ran, Fidèle and Joly flying after me, having had enough of sport – and Hasan’s curses filling the air with vengeance.

  My uncle had a rowing-boat and in the cool of the evenings he used to take me fishing. I used to look down into the Bosphor, into the clear blue waters and watch for fish, my uncle amused by my exclamations of delight. He used the line and we sometimes hooked mackerel or small tunny and great would be my excitement to see them flapping and gasping on the floor of the boat. Once I saw a school of dolphins and watched breathlessly as they leaped through the air. Then homing in the twilight, with stars beginning to prick the green evening sky, with mackerel or tunny at our feet and my uncle telling stories. Riding the Bosphor effortlessly, hearing and yet not hearing the voices of the shore people and the sirens from the big boats. They were good times for an almost six-year-old to remember, times that have lived on in the memory long after the pleasure has died.

  One afternoon, during siesta time, which was taken in long, cushioned chairs on the veranda, I awoke to laughter and heard my aunt saying: ‘You must be tired, travelling in this heat.’

  And my mother replying that it had been quite cool in the boat and that she was not tired. I jumped up and ran into the hall, and there stood my smiling family, in various attitudes of arrival. I was so happy that I could not speak for a moment or two but just stood there fingering the soft stuff of my mother’s dress, going redder and redder with suppressed emotion. My mother unwound her veil and stooped over me.

  ‘How brown you are!’ she exclaimed, kissing me, and suddenly my feelings were loosed and I started to chatter.

  I flung myself on İnci and Mehmet, only realising at that moment how much I had missed them. Immediately the comedian İnci started to roll her eyes at me and I roared with laughter, turning somersaults to show my appreciation. My father restrained my high spirits and put his hand on my head. He seemed quiet, unlike himself, and I was too young to know or understand that Germany and England were at war. Too young to know the difference that these far-off countries would make to Turkey and my own life.

  We sat on the veranda, where the vine sheltered us from the afternoon heat of the sun. Extra cushions were arranged, a maid brought glasses of iced water and Turkish coffee and I climbed on my father’s knee. He was absent-minded and did not take any notice of me, intent upon discussing with my uncle the manner of school I should be sent to. My uncle was opposing the whole idea, saying I was still too young to be sent to school in these troubled times, and here a secret look passed between them, which puzzled me but meant nothing. The subject was dropped and they began to talk of other things. I was too young to follow their meaning but in after years my mother pieced together most of it for me.

  That night, lying in bed in a bigger room which also held Mehmet, I could hear the voices of the grown-ups as they talked together on the veranda. There seemed to be a difference in their voices, an argumentative note not usually discernible. There was less laughter, more urgency – which was odd when the ladies were present. I crept from my bed and leaned out through the open window. I looked down on the thick mat of the vine-leaves, which looked pale green in places where the light of the lamp shone through. It was very still and I could hear every word of the conversation. My father appeared to be attempting to persuade my grandmother to sell our house! He said there was war in Europe and that no one knew the day our country would be in it too. He said anything might happen and that, in view of the poor way of his business lately, we ought to cut down on expenses.

  ‘Nonsense!’ came my grandmother’s voice crisply. ‘Why should a war in Europe make any difference in our lives? All my children were born in that house, Hüsnü, and two of yours. I came to i
t when I was only thirteen and I would rather die than leave it now.’

  Here my uncle interposed: ‘Hüsnü is right. The house is too big for you now. It has been too big for years but when our father was alive it was not our business to interfere.’

  ‘I should hope not indeed,’ said my grandmother but her voice did not sound so harsh – perhaps this was an old argument. ‘We have enough money,’ she went on. ‘And Hüsnü has your father’s business – ’

  ‘I have told you I am selling it,’ came my father’s voice, sharp with finality.

  There was a silence and I shivered in my thin nightshirt, although the night was so warm. I felt the tension in the air. I could not have explained my feeling or defined it in any way, but it is a fact that I was aware of a strangeness, an alien influence hanging over my family.

  Years later when I began to record family events in diary form, my mother most faithfully reconstructed that night at Sarıyer – the night when a small, inquisitive boy first discovered the cold breath of insecurity.

  My mother was the first to break the little silence.

  ‘Selling the business?’ she said, bewilderment in her voice as though powerless to understand what strange force was driving my father.

  ‘It is necessary to sell it, if we are to survive at all. When my father died I had hopes of reviving the business on a large scale but, as you all know very well, events were against me. Oh, it is impossible to explain all these things to you and make you understand. There are so many difficulties, labour, export, bad representation abroad; now the war in Europe writes finis to all my hopes of markets there. If Turkey comes in – and in my opinion she will – I shall have to go. Ahmet will go and who will look after things here? It is better to get rid of it now, and if one day I come back – well, with our name it is easy to build the business again.’

  Again there was that frightening silence, a grim, uneasy sort of silence that paralysed me. These conversations were the first hint of the changes that were to come. I was tearful standing there, insecure and wishing passionately for life to stay as it was now – no, not as it was now, but as it had been yesterday when I had gone fishing with my uncle, helping pull in the mackerel and we had rowed home singing, under an evening sky.