The Aziz Bey Incident

by Ayfer Tunç

  He stared with brimming eyes at his wife, who had now prepared the table and was waiting for him to sit down. ‘I’m not going to eat’ he said, and went to bed. All the time he pretended to be asleep he thought about his wife. He’d lost her in the house, forgotten her in the armchair in front of the window overlooking the Golden Horn. He’d never wondered what she thought about. When he got up towards evening he planned to say pleasant words to Vuslat, to make up for the years of pain, but they just stayed on the tip of his tongue.

  He would have put everything right if the telephone call that he’d been awaiting for months had not come the next day, if he’d had a little more time to think about his wife, or indeed, if the life outside he felt a part of hadn’t beckoned him back so hurriedly. But Zeki’s offer made him forget this frightening revelation almost immediately.

  The next evening Vuslat ate alone. Just as before.

  Aziz Bey was very happy in Zeki’s tavern. He had regained the respect, which, having been used to for years, he wholeheartedly believed was his due. He was delighted with Bahri and Mercan calling him ‘maestro’ and saying ‘after you, Sir, please,’ even though they belonged to rabble he’d belittled with the epithet, ‘Kumkapı-raised.’ His every wish was their command. Zeki showed an exaggerated respect, laid on an elaborate table after the programme and wouldn’t let Aziz Bey go before they’d finished a big bottle of rakı together.

  Zeki’s drunk tongue mumbled ‘Abi, if you had any idea how you’ve honoured me by accepting my offer’ flattered the old master no end, the man whom this offer rejuvenated when he was on the brink of falling into the lap of the pain of being forgotten.

  ‘Abi, you’d never believe it,’ he said ‘Look, Bahri here’s my witness. I intended to ring you so many times. But I just didn’t dare. In the end Bahri said one day, ‘Go on, phone him, what’s the worst that could happen? At worst he’d snap at you. Let him. He’s our elder, a maestro, isn’t he?’ I thought about it and realised he was right. Then I picked up the phone and rang you. Just as well I did.’ Repeating the same story, and at every telling of the story Aziz Bey felt he could barely contain himself.

  He rejoiced as if he wasn’t the one who’d painstakingly kept accounts every day, pen in hand, who’d cocked an ear to the most vulgar popular songs just in case an offer came from the wedding halls in the poorer districts, who was left unemployed and languishing in the musicians’ café, all the time Zeki was plucking up the courage. His head, forever surrounded by an arrogant halo, stood even more upright. As he bathed in this sea of respect and interest, he never once remembered his wife’s heartache, which he’d briefly glimpsed during that troubled time of unemployment.

  True, now he returned home more tired. He had no energy left after the programme to enjoy himself singing and drinking. After having a drink with Zeki and his fill of compliments, he’d wend his way home. He’d find his wife seated in front of the window as always, and believe she was waiting for him. But he never realised Vuslat had given up waiting long ago. She no longer expected anything; it was just a habit of years, staring at the houses whose windows spilled light, and envying the happy lives she believed were enjoyed there.

  Thus almost a year passed. The reverence and attention he received in Zeki’s tavern became run-of-the-mill. Bahri began to slack off, Mercan to do what he felt like doing. Davut no longer brought his rakı at a nod, or took much notice. The table spread after the programme with different mezes at first gave way to a plate of pickles and cheese at the end of Zeki’s small table. All the same, each time he got merrily drunk, Zeki still carried on praising Aziz Bey to the skies.

  ‘If this business still stands, it’s thanks to you, abi,’ he’d say, ‘All these patrons you see come to listen to you!’

  When he was drunk his words were sincere, he was filled with admiration for Aziz Bey. At times like that, he could cry without embarrassment. And it was unlike Aziz Bey to act with any modesty; even if those who came did not always listen intently to the music, he was utterly convinced it was he who filled the place.

  One holy night, when Zeki feared the place would stay empty, a group of eight to ten people arrived. They were very young and very noisy. It was obvious in every way that they had come out of curiosity. Laughing and talking, they quickly drank the rakı and didn’t really listen to the heavy, sedate songs that they were unaccustomed to. They weren’t familiar with the rakı culture either; they wanted inappropriate foods and upon hearing they weren’t offered on the menu, they sulked. Aziz Bey moved from fine, old-fashioned songs that appealed only to refined souls, to newer, lighter numbers. Seeing the group paid no heed to these new songs either, he was annoyed.

  Despite his unshakeable obstinacy he’d learnt through the years to change his repertoire to suit the mood of the patrons, and provided good taste was maintained, he’d make sure the patrons who came to drink and be merry would get the sort of music they would enjoy. He took charge of the programme so masterfully that the patrons would give him their full attention. Those who knew them enjoyed the old songs to the full, while others found themselves delighting in Istanbul songs when they came along. But this young group defied every effort to entice them into the right mood.

  In any case, most of the youngsters became drunk as lords before ten o’clock. One girl started to cry, and two lads got into a scrap. Aziz Bey carried on playing, his usual composure intact, while Bahri strove to keep up. Mercan hadn’t yet emerged from the kitchen since he’d gone to stuff himself during the first break. As the quarrel among the group grew, all the good cheer drained out of them. They paid the bill and left, still quarrelling.

  ‘Let’s go, mates,’ said Zeki, ‘Tonight we opened in vain.’

  Fed up with playing the same things for years in similar places, Bahri and Mercan fled immediately. Aziz Bey took his tambur, said goodnight to those still there and left.

  Although winter had arrived, it was quite mild. A warm southerly blew, wrapping itself around Aziz Bey’s neck and face, and fluttering his hair. As he walked home he thought about Vuslat. He was filled with a comfortable, pleasant feeling. He felt he was missing his wife and he wanted to be near her for the first time since he had met her; and that felt a little odd. This unfamiliar mood made him think he must be getting old. How quickly that time of harboured pain and disappointment had passed... now he felt that he didn’t quite belong to the life outside, he couldn’t keep up with it like before. Now he preferred peaceful silence to all that merriment and laughter, and the exuberant tables with loudly sung songs.

  He grasped his tambur and decided to go home and play Vuslat’s favourite songs. But when he tried to remember Vuslat’s favourite song, he realised he could not. It dawned upon him that he’d never played the tambur to her, that until now he’d never thought it necessary. So he chose a song himself:

  The spring of my love, my first thrill.

  My love, my precious, my dearest darling.

  He was so sure of finding his wife sitting in her usual chair when he entered that he was astonished to see the place empty. The stove was out, and the room had gone cold. He called out to her but didn’t receive an answer. Then he became uneasy. The possibility that Vuslat might have gone made him freeze. He walked quickly round the house. When he went into the bedroom, to his annoyance, he found Vuslat in bed.

  Anger flickered inside him. This was the typical Aziz Bey. Yes, he had chosen the time he wanted to love his wife but, you see, his wife had gone to bed. As if the beautiful things that he had happened to think of had been thoughtlessly rebuffed, he got undressed angrily, put on his pyjamas and got into bed beside her. But he started when he touched his wife’s arm during the rough movements created by his anger; Vuslat had a very high fever. It was as though her almost non-existent body, soft and weighed down with all the heartache of a wasted life, was burning up. It was as though Vuslat, who was fading like a depleted battery making the radio sound ever fainter, had given up. Aziz Bey put his face near her head. Her bre
ath reminded him of steam, and a barely discernable moan issued from her dried lips.

  He sprung out of bed, put on a cardigan and threw a few pieces of wood onto the stove that was about to turn to ash. Then he went to the kitchen.

  Just as his aunt had done, he would wet a cloth in water with vinegar and place it on his wife’s forehead and wrists. The sharp smell reminded him of the time he fell unconscious in his aunt’s house on his return from that yellow-hot city. He had never forgotten that unwanted smell, which from time to time even trickled into his dreams and hurt his nostrils. Now he decided to at least mollify his inconstant conscience, even if he couldn’t make up for those unspoken yet heart-warming words that passed through his mind the day he suddenly noticed Vuslat’s hair had gone snow white.

  He didn’t know where to find the vinegar. He didn’t know where to find anything. He’d spent his life in this house with everything served on a platter. After opening and closing all the cupboards, he finally found it and brought a towel. In the soft light of the bedside lamp he placed vinegar cloths on Vuslat’s forehead until morning.

  At dawn Vuslat opened her eyes, her temperature had fallen a little. Aziz Bey was filled with joy.

  ‘You have been ill, Vuslat,’ he managed to say, ‘You had a very high temperature, but it’s dropped now, don’t worry.’

  It was the first time his voice reflected heartfelt love. Vuslat’s eyes filled with tears. An expression of peace appeared on her ever clear face. Her breath was still very hot.

  ‘Is it morning?’ she asked.

  Aziz Bey nodded and smiled. He turned off the bedside light. The barely visible, pale light of a day preparing to break gathered behind the curtain. A sweet and hopeful half-light enveloped the interior. Aziz Bey got into bed and cuddled his wife whose fever had abated a little. They slept together.

  When they awoke, the day had long since broken; the house was very bright. Aziz Bey lit the stove. He seated Vuslat on the couch in the sitting room, covered her with a blanket and brought her breakfast on a tray. Vuslat had no appetite, but she ate a few mouthfuls and drank some tea so as to avoid upsetting him. Aziz Bey threw some wood on the stove, opened the window for five minutes and aired the room. Then he went to Balıkpazarı and did some shopping, called in at the chemist and bought some medicine. He learnt the ins and outs of the kitchen, squeezed orange juice for his wife, and cooked soup in chicken broth.

  While he was doing all this he felt a warm feeling circulating inside. Sadly he’d developed this taste all too late. That it was his fault they’d never spent such tender days wounded him, and even made his eyes water while he was stirring the soup. As for Vuslat, she was astonished; she was afraid that this sweet dream too would rapidly come to an end.

  When Aziz Bey returned to the room after preparing the evening meal, working passionately like an ant in the kitchen, he found Vuslat again lying unconscious with a high fever. He thought his wife must have caught a stubborn ‘flu and phoned Zeki to let him know he was not coming. In reply, Zeki said, ‘No problem, abi’ and asked if there was anything he could do. If it were any other time he would have been annoyed that Aziz Bey wasn’t able to come, but they were in Ramadan and business was slow.

  This time Vuslat’s temperature fell quicker. But a week later a taxi came to the door. Zeki, Bahri, and Mercan helped Aziz Bey wrap Vuslat in a blanket and carry out to the waiting taxi. She was admitted to hospital.

  Aziz Bey had been used to acting as capriciously as the soloists in the wings, making life hell for the room service in the hotels and earning a considerable amount of money, which he’d spent in pursuit of pleasure, Now he was rushing with test tubes full of blood along the dark corridors whose walls were damp, running across wet floors in the basements of the hospital, waiting in queues in front of doctors’ doors. The same Vuslat whom he had never enquired about all these years, he now fed milk with a teaspoon, dunking a biscuit in her tea to try to feed her. He was now wiping her face and hands with a cloth and holding her arm to take her to the toilet. Suddenly, he was very afraid of losing this being whose value he’d come to appreciate too late. The same song kept going through his mind. I found her late, I lost her soon, life has grieved me deeply…

  In truth, he was just as much afraid of being left all alone as he was of losing Vuslat. When he went home to prepare her food or to get a clean nightdress, he started at every little creak; without her he found a wretched emptiness in the rooms of the house.

  The care, attention and compassion Aziz Bey showed in the last few weeks of a tired life weren’t enough to save Vuslat. On the third day of Bayram, Vuslat died. She had shown not the slightest effort to get better. Her face seemed to say ‘Let this state of melancholy, this unhappiness that has lasted for years end as soon as possible.’ She was peaceful because she had entered a road of no return. Aziz Bey had an inkling of this, and it made him feel terrible. At each moment as Vuslat’s breath became shorter and she neared death, the same question crossed his mind:

  ‘Did she regret loving me?’

  Then he remembered Maryam, and how he never regretted having loved her despite that fact that she had altered the course of his life with that invitation and no matter how much she’d made him suffer indescribable pain, and he realised that Vuslat had not regretted this one-sided, bitter love either.

  The mosque courtyard wasn’t terribly crowded. Aziz Bey stood among a few friends, childishly tearful, and realised those splendid days were gone for good and that a definite and merciless loneliness awaited him. Those cheerful sounds that at one time filled his table came to his ear from far away, then dispersed in the cloud-laden air. He had lost everyone and everything. He felt that among these losses the most painful was Vuslat. There was nothing to fill this void. He’d always viewed Vuslat as a shadow, a soft light, a part of the furniture fading in the walls; an object so ordinary that if it went missing its absence would not be noticed… He had not found time to love, or rather, he had never looked for it.

  After the burial, Zeki and Bahri came back to the house. They came in and sat for a while. Aziz Bey was confused. He stared at the kitchen door as though his wife would come through at any moment, but he couldn’t see the reflection of his wife’s calm face in the white tiles, or the shining surfaces of the pots all washed cleaned and lined up. After sitting for a while Zeki got up.

  ‘Abi, don’t come to the shop until you feel fit,’ he said. ‘If you like, go away and have a rest. Don’t worry about the money.’

  He stared at Aziz Bey’s face with sympathy, then hugged him tight. He was really felt pity for Aziz Bey’s sorry state. He wondered how this high-spirited man who was suddenly shattered would be able to cope with a solitary life.

  Well, it was on that evening that the most crucial part of the story that ended with the tragic incident in Zeki’s tavern began.

  *

  On the evening of the funeral, Zeki had hurried to find a violinist to add to the team. The place was heaving, mostly with small groups of men and women over middle age and well immersed in tavern culture. They’d already begun drinking. Davut was wandering among the tables swearing, Zeki was bending over backwards to see to every wish of this crowd, who’d denied themselves throughout Ramadan and were now longing to enjoy themselves. If he saw someone not working properly he shot glances ready to kill; he had put aside being the boss and was helping with the service.

  Bahri and Mercan and the new violinist taken their places and the music had just started when Aziz Bey arrived. For a moment Zeki had a strange, unpleasant feeling. Then he berated himself and he tried to be sympathetic; thinking of how Aziz Bey could probably not bare to stay all alone at home. He greeted and embraced Aziz Bey courteously and with great respect. He seated him at his small table. After asking how he was and humouring him, he suggested, ‘Abi, perhaps it’s best if you don’t play tonight; Davut will lay us a table at once, and we’ll sit and drink. You’ll feel better…’

  ‘I’ve come to play,’ said
Aziz Bey, ‘There are a lot of songs I’ve not been able to sing earlier…’

  Zeki glanced quickly at the patrons who were champing at the bit to let rip, and then back at Aziz Bey; he was afraid that the melancholy gathering in the abstracted eyes of this old maestro would spread to the patrons. Then, sensing this would be the end of the man if he tried to prevent it, he murmured ‘So what! Come what may.’

  Aziz Bey joined the saz players with a dignified manner. The violinist who’d rushed over with the hope that perhaps these new bosses would like him and offer a permanent job, may have been put out, but he still he got up respectfully and gave his place.

  Aziz Bey sat down, his movements slow and deliberate. He squeezed the tambur between his knees and after a long, melancholy introduction he began his song.

  Let me cover and wrap my love in the mourning of the night.

  Now you are gone, where can I find and plead with you.

  Now I am just like an incurably bleeding wound.

  Now you are gone, where can I find and plead with you.

  At first the patrons did not want to pay attention to such a melancholy song. However much they liked traditional and poignant melodies, this evening they had come to enjoy themselves. One could read on their faces the wish to be accompanied by lively tunes. Glasses were being filled and emptied. Davut and the busboys carried on rushing around. But soon the sadness in Aziz Bey’s voice completely enveloped the atmosphere of this tiny tavern. Not even an hour passed before the patrons filling uncomfortable tables fell into the grip of a sadness that they would never forget. They became lost in thought, disappeared on journeys to who knows which moving memories and abandoned themselves to the melancholy songs.

  Aziz Bey sang his songs until he ran out of breath, put down his tambur and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. A wild burst of applause broke from the patrons who had, perhaps for the first time in their lives, come across a melancholy atmosphere that gave so much pleasure. Hearing the applause, Aziz Bey freed himself from the world he’d lost himself in; he stared briefly at the moist eyes fixed on him as if trying to understand what was happening. He remembered the golden years, smiled and bowed his head slightly to the crowd that had been so powerfully affected by the music. Women were quietly wiping their eyes with paper napkins, men were filling their emptied glasses and lighting up cigarettes. Zeki took advantage of Aziz Bey’s pause, went round the tables and explained the reason the tamburî sang such emotional songs was that he’d buried his wife today. This explanation increased the patrons’ strange pleasure twofold. When the evening ended and they were leaving the tavern, they praised Aziz Bey and offered their condolences. Some thought of the moment when they would experience a similar sorrow, and of what they would do on the night they lost their own partners. Zeki embraced Aziz Bey affectionately. It had been an amazing night of spontaneity. When Bahri was walking with Aziz Bey he struggled to find words to express his admiration while at the same time he felt great pity for this tired man who’d now go home to a cold bed and feel only emptiness beside him.