The wrought-iron door opened and Papa stepped out. Sophie pitched one of her sexiest bonjours, much louder than a bailiff ordering the courtroom to rise at the entrance of the judge. Before Papa could reciprocate with an equally blithe salutation, Tomas doused him with a bucketful of water from the third floor balcony and ran in to hide in the closet in his mother’s bedroom.
Two minutes later the closet door opened. Papa Anton pulled him out, raised his hand, gave him a sharp slap on the cheek and walked away. Tomas’s cheek burned. It was the first time Papa had ever slapped him. Without a word he rushed, head hanging, in the direction of the bathroom.
*
The holiday Tomas liked most was Easter. It was the principal religious event of Armenian Istanbul. If they all prayed incessantly all day Good Friday and continued till the hour of resurrection the next day, Tomas thought Emma might return. Happy times would come. Europe would stop fighting. He could begin to imagine a new existence equal to his hopes. Anya would declare, ‘Easter is my favourite holiday too!’
Anya was an Orthodox Christian and celebrated Easter a week later than the Armenians. After all, as Christ was born twice, he could also be resurrected more than once.
Before Easter came the Easter cleaning. Prapyon, the maid, would take the carpets out on the balcony. Then Hasan, the jack-of-all-trades, a Turkish gypsy from Trabizond, would arrive. He was stocky, short and bald, with calloused hands and a scar on his face from having been beaten, as a young man, by a jealous husband. He looked more like a clumsy bear than a typical gypsy from the Black Sea region. He had, not too long ago, spent three years in a Turkish prison for killing a dancing bear, his motive being the bear danced better than his own and consequently attracted larger groups of spectators.
Hasan’s busiest time was before Christmas and Easter. With ever-increasing carpet beating and house cleaning calls his income multiplied and he felt as opulent as a well-bribed traffic policeman.
He beat the carpets with a contraption made of bamboo twigs called a tape-tapis. It resembled an old-fashioned tennis racquet of the type used at Hampton Court during the reign of the Tudors but still popular in the new republic. With each thwack Hasan would disappear in huge clouds of dust.
The dust from the carpets always evoked paroxysms of surprise from Mama and Prapyon. ‘Good Lord, we need a strong man like Hasan for the job,’ mother used to say. The maid naturally agreed with a smile and a polite nod.
The laundry was next. The backyard was crammed with clotheslines: rows of sheets, pillowcases, bedspreads, shirts, underwear, socks and small square cotton towels, much smaller than babies’ nappies but much in demand all through the pre-sanitary towel era. Despite Tomas’s curiosity, Mama always refused to tell him what they were for. The clotheslines divided the yard into four, five or six sections, creating an intricate labyrinth. Tomas ran from one section to another, inhaling the clean smell of soap and indigo, which gave the white sheets a light bluish finish, similar in colour to his grandmother’s hair.
Then came Holy Week. On Vodnlva, Holy Thursday, Foot-Washing Day, Tomas went to church with his grandmother (she was the only member of the family who attended Mass regularly) to watch the priest wash the feet of the altar boys – all thirteen of them. What he liked most was Easter Eve. He fasted all day like the grown-ups and went to church late in the afternoon. Although starving, he was proud of having survived since midnight without water, food, music or laughter. The service was exceptionally long. The celebrant had to be absolutely sure that Christ was truly risen and the sepulchre totally empty.
Then finally Communion! The priest, Der Khoren, who was so old that he could no longer get any older, would get down on his knees at the edge of the raised altar and give Communion. Tomas was jubilant. He would now be able to eat. As soon as he had received Communion he took a coloured hard-boiled egg from his trouser pocket, broke it against the marble baptismal font, peeled it, stuffing the broken shell in his pocket, and gulped it down in two bites. The choir announced, with blaring joy, ‘Kristos harïav i merelots’. Christ is risen! And Tomas imagined Jesus soaring so high that no one could see Him.
The rest of the evening was an elaborate banquet at his grandmother’s, with traditional fried turbot with long, succulent bones to lick, pilaff rice, fried aubergine, pickles, coloured Easter eggs, sweetmeats and Easter chörek. Tomas wondered how many lies and deceptions Easter would bring this year.
*
Hasan, the stalwart, barrel-chested rug-beater, was also their vegetable vendor. He was so short and fat that his colourless felt pants seemed to cascade from his sloping figure. His age was uncertain, even to himself. When he was born his father, like most village people, forgot to register him with the village elder. When asked how old he was, he said he was somewhere between birth and death.
His patrons also availed themselves of the services of his wife, Saf iyé. She was a fortune-teller, the Oracle of Istanbul. In those days going to a fortune-teller was as common as going to the dentist. The ongoing war undoubtedly created a profound need for people to know what was in store for them, especially under an unreliable regime. This soft-spoken, pleasant-looking fortune-teller with a pretty smile was unhurried and even a little shy. She enjoyed an unsurpassed reputation in the town: among housewives, career women, virgins, extra virgins, cold-pressed, hard-pressed, young and old, handicapped, maimed and mute. Hasan’s clients and many others went to her sanctuary in the middle of the mosquito-infested marshes of Sulukule, the solar-heated gypsy quarter of the city – a neighbourhood of poverty and death. People went when contemplating marriage, adultery, separation or divorce, even murder. Or they went to her with rueful queries about fertility, productivity and serendipity. In fact, some visited Hasan’s wife before going to a physician, to make sure that the doctor’s diagnosis corresponded to her medical augury.
Her optimistic prognoses provided her with a substantial income, which she spent on food, silk scarves, print dresses, ornate slippers and white lace panties to arouse Hasan after a hard day of peddling vegetables door-to-door and beating rugs. She scrutinized people’s faces, as if in a trance, trying to decipher their identities from the world beyond. Within a fraction of a second the right name would be disclosed to her. Without wavering, as if still in a dream, she would reveal the first and family names of the person, followed by the year of birth. She had surely divined her husband’s age, but Hasan refused to know.
‘What’s the use of knowing how old I am,’ he’d say, ‘if I don’t know when I’ll die?’
Safiyé refused to foretell when and how her clients would die. She refused to meddle in Allah’s business. A learned professor of metaphysics and astronomy from the State University of Istanbul had been trying to discover her secret for years, researching, corresponding with internationally-known European and American astrologists and psychiatrists, and with prominent Indian, Chinese and Tibetan sages, yet he was unable to comprehend the source of her psychic powers.
Five dried lima beans (cryptic as tarot cards) were Saf iyé’s only dependable source of prophecy. Oddly enough, when people asked her about the war she seemed unaware that one was currently ravaging Europe. She said the gates were chained; war could never penetrate the city. And consequently she remained the only dependable source of national security.
*
Early morning, regardless of the season, was a time of shopping in all the residential streets of Istanbul. Women waited for itinerant vendors to pass with their ambulant outlets installed on the backs of donkeys, mules or horses, selling vegetables, fruit, milk or fish. More of an occasion was the arrival of the camels carrying charcoal, generating an instant festive atmosphere – even the Medrano, the circus, couldn’t create so much enthusiasm and enchant the children as these superannuated dromedaries could when they were in town. Tanks and fighter planes protected the national borders; camels supplied the energy to keep the country warm.
Every morning Hasan went from door to door with baskets of vegetabl
es hanging from each side of Jimjim, his beloved donkey, shouting the praises of the freshness, colour, shape and size of his merchandise. His clientele either waited for him in front of their apartment buildings or lowered baskets from the floor they lived on and shouted down their order. In no time the order ascended and, with equal agility, the basket was sent down again with enough money to pay Hasan.
Today Jimjim was agitated. While Hasan was busy weighing some tomatoes for Prapyon the maid on his copper hand-scale, the animal relieved itself on the pavement in front of the apartment building. Tomas was watching from the living room window above. Neither animals nor humans were allowed to behave so obnoxiously on the streets of Nişantaşι, one of the most respectable neighbourhoods in Istanbul. At one end of the street, between two apartment buildings, was a vacant lot where groups of teenagers played football after school every afternoon. And on the side of one of the buildings bordering the lot there was a sign written in thick white letters, intended for men with full bladders and mammoth prostates: WHOEVER PISSES HERE IS A JACKASS. A powerful stench of urine might make the daring transgressors faint before they had time to relieve themselves. Hasan’s Jimjim couldn’t read, let alone differentiate between pissing and shitting.
Prapyon was soft as a puppy’s belly but also hard as a grindstone. She blazed with the foulest of maledictions: ‘Take your shitty, stinking beast and go to hell!’ Her round red face turned redder.
‘Hanim, hanim, you’re not being fair.’
‘He’s shitting in the street! And you want me to be fair? Do you expect me to wipe his ass?’
‘Hanim, it’s the donkey that’s shitting, not me.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it was you!’ She pitched the bag of tomatoes into the street and dashed in, slamming the entrance door in Hasan’s face. Her hail of curses continued to tumble on the animal and its poor master.
Hasan was infuriated. He had lost a big sale; Prapyon had had a huge list for the Easter cooking. He knew from experience that, as well as tomatoes, he would have sold at least a couple of kilos of green beans, green peppers, okra, a dozen aubergines, courgettes, onions ...
The donkey brayed as if in pain, extending his dismal penis like a thick rubber hose, emerging from between his hind legs. Hasan didn’t need to guess what came next. He brutishly kicked one of the baskets hanging from the donkey’s back, trying to propel the mad creature away from the pavement. Green peppers, aubergines and tomatoes rolled into the middle of the road and the animal sprayed them with bubbling piss.
‘You fucking asshole, shit-full imbecile! I’ve told you ten thousand times. You don’t piss or shit in Nişantaşι, especially on Valikonağι Boulevard. The mayor lives here. Control your cock and plug your ass until we get home,’ Hasan roared.
The donkey showered the vegetables again.
A couple of sparrows appeared over the apartment door, twittering:
Dauntless Jimjim went up the hill,
Dropped his penis, discharged its fill ...
5
It was four o’clock. Tomas spotted Anya on her way back from school. She was trailing about twenty or thirty feet behind him. He slowed down for her to approach. Why didn’t she walk faster?
‘Here I am, Tomas,’ she announced with a smile.
‘Oh, how nice!’ Tomas pretended he hadn’t seen her.
He had heard worrisome rumours that Anya’s father was planning to sell his restaurant and go back to Russia, but he had refused to believe them. He wanted to plunge forwards, backwards, or whatever way it would take to hold her tight and not let her go with them.
‘Are you going back to Russia?’
‘Going where?’
‘To Russia.’
‘What are you talking about?’ She glared at him, totally confused.
‘I heard your father’s selling the restaurant.’
‘He’s doing no such thing.’
‘Then you’re not going?’
‘Of course not. We hate Stalin.’
‘Who’s Stalin?’
‘Joseph Stalin.’
‘Oh him!’ Tomas was thankful to Stalin, whoever he was.
‘I’m here in spring, summer, autumn and winter.’ She glanced at him, understanding what he was feeling. She smiled broadly.
She was wearing her school uniform: a light blue tunic with a round, spotless white collar. Tomas savoured her smile, then her curls, which were as limp and damp as tendrils. She was so pretty. Her tiny breasts were growing so fast. He wished he were her left breast, so he could be close to her heart. Her eyes matched the light blue of her school uniform. Never before had Tomas noticed the blueness of her eyes; they were blue the way sapphires were blue; they were blue like the blue of the planet Venus, and they sparkled. At him!
‘I love you,’ he uttered timidly after a brief hesitation, ‘Don’t go away.’ He flushed.
‘I love you too. I’m not going to go away.’ She flushed too.
Tomas was all joy, and Anya was all delight.
‘We’ll grow up together.’
‘Wow!’ he grinned.
‘Do you remember when I told you that you weren’t my type?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘I was lying.’ She whispered him a kiss.
‘It doesn’t really matter. I’m used to lies.’
And Tomas never forgot that day, that very moment, and her voice uttering, ‘I love you too. I’m not going away.’
And that night, when she looked up, Anya caught zillions of stars winking at her before they fell into her lap.
*
They walked hand in hand, stopping at the children’s park in Nişantaşι. A little girl was on the swings. Another was playing in the sand-pit.
‘I’ve already told my mother that I love you,’ Anya said.
‘What?’
‘I told my mother that I love our neighbour Tomas.’
Tomas blushed. He was speechless.
‘And she said you were a nice boy. She likes you.’
‘You’re having me on.’ Tomas didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed.
‘It’s true. Cross my heart.’ And she made the sign of the cross on her heart.
Tomas was sure his mother would never have reacted like hers. She would have told him that he was still too young and that he needed time to learn about love, and that love could weaken his lungs, like poets who suffer from tuberculosis and ... He pictured Anya’s mother, who was tall and very thin for a mother. The next time he met her he would surely feel embarrassed and nervous.
‘I’m glad your mother likes me.’
They kissed, their lips hardly touching. The trees, branches, leaves whispered like fading shadows. Anya and Tomas pounced from giddy heights. The little girl on the swings and the one in the sand-pit were gone. It was getting dark. A soft dimness spread over the playground. Innocent shouts of children swirled into the park through the wide-open wrought-iron gates. They were not shouting; they were reciting ... twirling verses ... for young lovers: one who hated Stalin and another who was used to lies.
6
Papa lit the gas range and placed a round metal plate on the burner to make some toast. When the toast was done he doused the slices with olive oil and sprinkled them with freshly squeezed lemon juice. Slices of pancetta and eggs were hissing, fizzling and sputtering in the black frying pan. Tomas loved the smell of fried pancetta more than the taste. As for the look of it, the twisted, wrinkled slices reminded him of long scabs smeared with vaseline.
‘The best of all breakfasts,’ Papa repeated to his son as usual. ‘I first had it with the British, in Jerusalem ... during the mouhajirlik.’
Tomas glared at him questioningly. ‘What’s mouhajirlik, Papa?’ He had heard it before and had asked the same question.
‘Mouhajirlik! That’s a Turkish word. It’s aksor, deportation, in Armenian. You’re still too young to understand. I’ll tell you when you grow up.’
The same old reply. ‘Tell me now, Papa. I am o
ld enough.’
‘You will be, sooner than you think.’
If he thought that it would help him grow faster he would have drunk a bottle of castor oil a day instead of the agonizing spoonful of cod liver oil that his mother made him swallow every morning. She’d chase him through every room in the house incanting a long litany in praise of this most vile-tasting of liquids. Ever since Emma’s death, more than three years ago, the days had progressed at a snail’s pace. If time carried on this slowly he would never be big enough to find out about aksor. The word aksor reminded him of his friend Grigor: aksor–Grigor. But Grigor was a nice, good-looking boy and a good friend. Whereas aksor sounded ugly, nasty, scary, aksor ... sore ... war ...
*
‘Good morning, manchougues, my little boy.’ Getting no reaction, Mama realized that something was wrong. ‘What’s the matter, Tomas?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Tell me, what’s wrong?’
‘I told you, nothing’s wrong.’
‘Did Papa say something?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did he say?’
Papa was singing Ochi chornye (black eyes), the ever-popular Russian folk song ... Ochi chornye in the kitchen, Ochi chornye on the radio, Ochi chornye at the cinema, before the film began ... and Ochi chornye with pancetta ...
After a moment of indecision Tomas asked, ‘What’s aksor, Mama?’
Mama’s face dropped. She heaped Tomas’s plate with slices of pancetta and began to sing: Ochi chornye ... Ochi strastnye ... ochi zhguchiye ...
The Lamppost Diary Page 4
