The Miracle of Yousef: Historical and political thriller

by Gonçalo Coelho

  Saying this, Meliha went out of the study leaving her husband stuck in his chair, puzzling over how to untangle himself from a clinging web of troubling thoughts.

  That night, Mehmet awoke at midnight soaked in sweat after a harrowing nightmare. He dreamt that the shipwrecked stranger was an infidel fighter who had come ashore with a horde of crusaders to pillage the entire island, including everything that belonged to him, while Okan looked on at the whole thing, laughing uncontrollably.

  6

  The moment he began to talk it was obvious that the castaway wasn’t speaking Turkish. But this hardly posed an insuperable problem since Leyla, Nefise and Okan spoke very good English, a language that the survivor, for whatever reason, also spoke, and with great ease. The possibility arose that he might be English or American and, considering the great diversity of English and Americans there are in the world, this was entirely possible. However, when asked if he spoke other languages, he simply asked,

  “For instance?”

  “¿Hablas español?” Leyla asked him in her best Spanish accent.

  “Por supuesto,” Yousef replied. And immediately he volunteered two or three more sentences in Spanish that left Nefise, Leyla and Okan very impressed. Yet their surprise was even greater when he admitted to them in English that he spoke yet another language, and that this was the one that shaped his understanding and filled his mind most of the time. That language was Arabic. For just a moment it seemed to the three members of this family that they saw in this man before them a true Islamic messiah, though it was nothing more than a fleeting fantasy. Shifting to a more practical theory, they agreed he might be from one of the world’s many Arab countries of this world or, even though he spoke and thought in Arabic, he could be an American of Arabic origin, since he spoke English so well. In fact he agreed that English came to him very easily, so that when he began to speak English, Arabic fled from his mind and his thoughts were composed exclusively of English words.

  Growing weary of this sea of theories and suppositions, Okan wanted to get at what was actually known, and told the survivor what Dr. Okur had said about his condition when he observed him, which occurred while he was still unconscious. The doctor had said that, broadly speaking, there were two kinds of amnesia: retrograde amnesia, which occurred when an individual couldn’t remember anything recorded in his memory prior to a particular brain injury; and anterograde, which happened when an individual was unable to remember anything after a given brain injury. Of these two kinds of amnesia, Dr. Okur had clearly diagnosed the first, retrograde amnesia, adding that, considering that the patient appeared to have his memory reduced to a genuine blank slate, it was also a kind of amnesia that could be classified as global, which was very rare, and which meant, just as its name indicated, that he was faced with a global loss of memory. The doctor, a seasoned physician who served as a beacon of medical science on the island, also said that, when their memory came back to them, those who suffered from the type of amnesia of this castaway initially would usually recall moments in their lives most distant from the time of the injury that caused the ailment. That is, first certain moments of childhood would come to light, then adolescence and youth, and so on, and if the patient should eventually recover all of his memory, the last thing he would probably remember would be the moments just before the occurrence of his brain injury. Before prescribing several medications, including anti-depressants and tranquilizers, Dr. Okur had made yet another recommendation. If the survivor could look at newspapers, magazines or photos relating to moments of his past, not in a sudden flood, but rather, patiently, so as not to provoke excessively intense and unnecessary nervous tension that might impair recovery, this could help to revive his memory. But how could one tell what was or wasn’t related to his past if this was completely unknown territory to all of the them, including the patient himself? As it was, the castaway was feeling deeply disconcerted, each act or thought made him discover a little more about himself, and this happened bit by bit, with each exchange of words, each emotion felt, and it was both agreeable to discover and assuage his curiosity as it was disagreeable to feel that he had no control over his own identity, as though it were being imposed upon him bit by bit, until he was compelled to be exactly who he had been prior to the unfortunate brain injury – as though his very own identity were not determined or constructed by him, but rather, imposed by hidden forces.

  Nonetheless, the hospitable way this Turkish family had taken him in, for a time dispelled the bitterness of the abyss of no memory into which he had fallen, while also showing him another side of amnesia, its liberating side, which he was beginning to explore and find delight in. In the first days of his convalescence he was treated with unstinting care by the two sisters, of whom he quickly became very fond, and this feeling ended up being reciprocated, which is what generally happens both when one is treated, as well as when one treats someone else, with genuine affection.

  On the first day he was able to walk around, the castaway found himself paying special attention to the framed photos scattered about the house as Okan took time to show them to him. It was as though, having no past himself, he had acquired a vivid curiosity about that of others. In Nefise’s clean and tidy room, one picture on the dresser in particular caught his eye, of a young man standing behind Nefise with his arms around her waist, his head appearing at her shoulder. This picture was in a heart-shaped frame. In Okan’s study, he saw the same young man in a family picture beside Nefise, Leyla and Okan, and then he beheld the face of the late mother of Nefise and Leyla. He learned that she had died when Leyla was only three years old, a victim of cancer. As for the young man in question, the castaway made no inquiries. Without knowing how or why, a state that was occurring quite often in his current condition, he found that he was feeling jealous.

  Inadvertently adding fuel to the fire, at dinner, Okan committed the gaffe of calling him Hakan. He instantly and earnestly begged his daughter’s forgiveness, but his apology was only grudgingly accepted. Nefise gave her father a baleful look and got up abruptly from the table, very red in the face, without finishing her dinner.

  “I’m sorry, Nefise,” her father repeated and set off after her, leaving Leyla and the castaway alone at the table.

  “Don’t feel bad,” said Leyla, seeing that the stranger appeared concerned. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “Yes, I know. It has to do with the young man in those pictures all over the house. Nefise cares about him very deeply, and she wasn’t happy when your father called me by his name. She was hurt.”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand.” Saying this, with a very serious air he shifted his gaze to his plate and put another forkful of stuffed eggplant in his mouth.

  “I doubt you do.”

  “I do understand. I understand that she wasn’t happy that your father addressed me by the name of her husband or boyfriend. It was a lack of respect, and I don’t wish to take anyone’s place. I must say this straight out so there’s no misunderstanding. Furthermore, I trust that I will get better quickly, and therefore will no longer occupy a place which, in truth, does not belong to me within the bosom of your generous family.”

  Leyla burst out laughing.

  “You’re going much too fast. I hope you’re not falling in love with my sister. She’s quite difficult.”

  “Difficult? I don’t find her difficult, she seems quite sensible. And very lovely. As are you.”

  “I’ve seen how you look at her.”

  “Oh, and how is that?”

  “Let’s just say it’s not the same way you look at me. Much less at my father.”

  She burst out laughing again.

  “Look, while they sort things out between them, let’s step out on the terrace and I’ll explain everything. Are you done? Great. Grab a cup from the cupboard.”

  Leyla went to the kitchen and got a box of dondurma, the traditional Turkish ice cream, from the freezer, from which she served herself and the
castaway. Supplied with ice cream, they went out onto the terrace. The evening was spring-like and pleasant, although neither of them could avail themselves of the luxury of clothing particularly suited to the season. The moon up above shone down on the sea and the beach, its glow reflecting on the silvery waters. In the vast night sky an infinity of stars could be discerned. They sat at a table on the terrace, savoring the dondurma.

  “It’s a beautiful evening.”

  “It certainly is. There’s no shortage of beauty in this place,” the castaway observed.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet. Wait till you get to know the island. And the mainland as well. Did you know that not far from here, on the coast of the Dardanelles, is Troy, the legendary city in the war between the Greeks and Trojans told by Homer? Can you summon up a memory of Troy?”

  “Unfortunately, no. That doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “I guess not, considering the state you’re in.”

  “Look, about what happened in there, I want you to know that I have no intention...”

  “It’s not at all what you’re thinking. It happens that a few years ago, Nefise fell in love with a boy by the name of Hakan, a wonderful fellow and very handsome, my father and I immediately took a liking to him. He lived in Ankara, but after he met Nefise, he came by to visit us regularly, and she also went there a number of times. After a while they got married and he moved here for good. My father treated him like a son. He began to help him manage his business here on the island. He helped to build the big hotel we’ve got near here on the beach at Kaleköy. Tomorrow or after that you’ll have a chance to see it. It’s where Nefise works. Well, getting back to our story, the fact is that a year after they were married, he died in a motorcycle accident. He loved to ride around on that bike, not just on the island but everywhere. It left us all grieving and missing him terribly, but my sister most of all, of course. They were so close, they worked and lived right here on the island. They got used to having each other always close by, sharing everything, then from one moment to the next she’d lost him. It’ll be two years now since he died. You have to understand that all of us here really loved him very much. Very much indeed. That’s why his pictures are all over the house, and they’re here to stay. He was just such an amazing person – but what can you do? He’s gone.”

  “I see that I really had not understood at all.”

  “You see? But now you get it.”

  “Yes. Nefise does not want him to be forgotten. She wants to preserve his memory.”

  “She has to forget Hakan once and for all, and get on with her life. Mehmet, my father’s partner, who helped to carry you from the beach, and his wife, Meliha, are always trying to set up Nefise with their son, Burak. They’re patiently waiting for her to forget Hakan once and for all so they can celebrate the wedding.”

  “And what does she feel for him?”

  “If she really liked Burak I think she would have forgotten Hakan by now. I think…”

  Just then, Okan and Nefise appeared on the terrace.

  “So, everything settled?” Leyla inquired.

  “Yes,” Nefise replied, then looked at the survivor. “I owe you an apology.”

  “You don’t owe me a thing. I’m the one who owes you everything. Including my very life.”

  “I won’t feel right unless you accept my apology.”

  “Of course I accept it, but I repeat that you don’t owe me any apology.”

  Okan decided to step in.

  “I don’t know how I’ve forgotten about this again, but it’s absolutely imperative that we do something at once. I’m tired of referring to you as the castaway or the stranger. We have to give you a name.”

  “And what name will that be?”

  “Nefise and I talked this over before we came down and... do you want to hear the name we thought of?”

  “Yes,” put in Nefise. “We thought of Argun. It means ‘bright day,’ and it was a bright day when my father discovered you and brought you into our house for the first time.”

  Leyla tried saying the name aloud.

  “Argun… sounds fine to me,” the survivor assented.

  “Then Argun it is,” pronounced Okan.

  7

  Turkish cuisine is one of the richest in the world, and features a broad amalgam of contributions by various peoples of the erstwhile vast Ottoman Empire (which at its apex extended from the Straits of Gibraltar to the Persian Gulf, and from southern Austria to the Sudan). Based chiefly on the diversity and flavors of the vegetables and fruits from its fertile lands, Turkish cuisine has earned the healthy reputation of the Mediterranean diet, and is even considered by many to be a paradise for vegetarians. Despite the many kilometers of the country’s coastline, fish is not prominent among Turks’ general preferences. The great richness of the Turkish diet is precisely in its vegetables and fruits, along with meat savored, not infrequently, as a stuffing for the vegetables themselves.

  With the precious assistance of a cook from the Kaleköy Hotel owned by the company in which Okan and Mehmet were partners, as well as help from Nefise and Leyla, the four members of the Balaban family (including the castaway who had just taken the name of Argun) received the three members of the Topal family – Mehmet, Meliha and Burak – with a fine banquet. Filling out the guest list for dinner was also Ismail, Leyla’s boyfriend, a young man of eighteen, shy, with long hair and the detached manner of an artist. Upon arrival, all the guests left their shoes at the entrance and were led into the living room where a full table awaited them, decorated with an embroidered tablecloth, crystal glasses and silver tableware, festooned with colorful and aromatic specialties such as chicken with walnuts, peppers stuffed with raisin rice and piñola nuts, eggplant stuffed with ground meat and tomato, and to start, lamb soup with yogurt. As always when the Balaban family required her assistance, the hotel cook was on hand to be of service that night, and she was duly paid for working overtime. And so one can imagine the mood of plenty that prevailed as they all sat down at the table at last. At the head of the table we have the patriarchs, Okan and Mehmet, face to face, some three meters apart. The host sat closer to the door to the dining room and the guest farther way, since for Turks, to seat a guest near the door would amount to the discourtesy of making them think they were to being asked to leave in a hurry. Meliha, sharply attentive, let Nefise sit beside her father as expected, then signaled with a glance to her son for him to sit next to her, like the couple they had not yet become, but which would soon, it was hoped, come together. Meliha then sat by the head of the table next to her husband. Across from her sat Argun.

  “I’ll bet he’s never seen such a table,” Meliha put in, smiling. Then she looked at Argun and, indicating the whole table with her palm, said to him in her English which, though it was not celebrated, was perfectly serviceable, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Wonderful. Even though I can’t draw upon my memory, I believe I can honestly say that I’ve never seen such a lovely table!”

  “Ah, what a gentleman your castaway is, Okan!”

  “My dear Meliha, the latest news I can give you first hand, is that he now has a name. We no longer need to call him the castaway.”

  “He has a name now? Did he remember it?”

  “No. We came up with one for him. It was really such a nuisance, as much for him as for us, that he didn’t have a name, so we came up with one. His name is Argun.”

  “Argun? Most appropriate, of course. After all, he was found on a fine day with a clear sky. Pleased to meet you, Argun,” said Meliha, looking at him, then turning again to Okan: “But then he’s practically been adopted as a new member of the family!”

  “It’s best if we start eating right away,” Nefise proposed in English, cutting the thread of the conversation. “Otherwise it will all get cold, and that would be a pity.”

  “Quite right,” – Okan concurred, then solemnly declared, “Afiyet olsun!”[18]

  Immediately it was as if the starting g
un had gone off to launch the banquet. The standard noises of silverware tapping and scraping plates could be heard, with requests to pass this or that going from one side of the table to the other, and the first highly positive appreciations of the taste of the food. At a certain point Mehmet returned to the subject of the castaway, this time addressing him directly:

  “Is it true that you really remember nothing?” he asked in his best English.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Incredible! But then how do you manage to speak English?”

  “And that’s not all,” Leyla added. “He also speaks Spanish and even Arabic.” Okan shot her a swift glance of reproof, as if to say, don’t talk so much.

  “I don’t know, actually,” replied Argun, returning Mehmet’s gaze. “When they addressed me in English, I simply responded as best I could, instinctively. That’s how it’s been with everything. I keep on responding to the stimuli and situations that arise, and in this way, little by little, I keep on discovering what I know and what I am.”

  “Well, if you can speak several languages, that’s a sign that you haven’t completely lost your memory. All the better,” said Mehmet, smiling pleasantly.

  “It’s funny,” Argun began to explain, hesitantly. “It seems as though all that I know and all that I am is here inside me, it’s just so well hidden that I can’t manage to find it. In any case, even not knowing what I was before today, it’s is impossible to get away from it, because at every moment I feel as though I’m obliged to react one way or another to each situation that presents itself.”

  “Could that be instinct?” asked Ismail.

  “Perhaps, Ismail. Perhaps instinct is that part of me that I feel I can’t escape, the only part that doesn’t go away with the amnesia, but it’s not just that. There are certain things I’ve learned in my past that are structured inside and these things also mold me. How to speak English, for example. It’s as though all of my freedom were constantly reduced to a settling of accounts with all my past actions, with all I’ve done and all I’ve learned, and I know I can’t escape this settling of accounts. And I also have to be prepared for the risk inherent in the fact that, as soon as my memory returns in its entirety, when I know what my life was before today, perhaps it will force me to see I was someone quite different from what I am now before your eyes.”