by Orhan Pamuk
Walking through Diners’ Lane, I was struck that even on a weekend there were no soldiers around, or any gendarmes to keep an eye on them. The hardware store, the blacksmith, and the grocer where Master Mahmut had bought his cigarettes every night weren’t where they used to be, but sometimes I wasn’t even sure that I was searching for them in the right places, without the reference points of all the old low-rise homes, each with its private garden, which had given way to indistinguishable apartment buildings.
I decided I needn’t be so apprehensive about this return to Öngören. The town I’d known was now a run-of-the-mill Istanbul neighborhood, crammed with concrete structures like any other. I did, however, manage at last to find some of the people who used to live here. I was reunited with my apprentice friend Ali, who greeted me with an affable smile. I visited Sırrı Siyahoğlu and his equally rotund wife for a cup of tea, soon to be joined by Necati and the other Sohrab directors. I was introduced to a cake-shop owner said to be a relation of Master Mahmut’s, and at the behest of a crowd of onlookers, we were made to shake hands, much to our mutual embarrassment. As I climbed the hill leading to the cemetery where Master Mahmut was buried, I concluded that aside from those with a stake in the local property market, nobody in Öngören knew who I was anymore, and so there was nothing much to fear.
“Our plateau” at the top of the hill had also transformed from the vacant plot it had been thirty years ago into a concrete labyrinth of six- to seven-story apartment buildings, warehouses, workshops, gas stations, and a wide array of street-side diners, kebab stalls, and supermarkets. With all these structures in the way, the road whose turns we used to avoid by cutting through the fields was no longer discernible, making it difficult to find the spot where we’d dug the well.
Sohrab’s diligent marketing team led me through the town’s backstreets to the wedding hall they’d hired out for the company presentation and the banquet that would follow. Looking through the hall’s wide windows, I tried to figure out what part of our plateau we might be standing on, and which way to look for the army garrison and the blue mountains that had framed our view in the distance. Our well had to be about half a kilometer away in that direction. What I wanted most of all, now, was to forget everything else and go there.
Soon to connect Öngören and the highways leading to the new airport and to the Bosphorus Bridge, a four-lane asphalt road was set to approach the old town center from the direction of our well rather than from the train station. Consequently, the value of land and houses on our plateau was rising. Most of those attending the presentation weren’t Öngören locals but members of the new, motorized rich contemplating a home purchase in this rapidly developing area. I was so restless that I could hardly tell whether these prospects were duly impressed by the plywood models brought by Team Sohrab, by the dazzling views guaranteed from our upper-floor units, or by the large swimming pools and children’s playgrounds we had planned. Our team had also brought in couples to offer testimonials on how happy they were in their apartments in Sohrab’s Beykoz and Kartal developments. Their talk of a so-called Sohrab lifestyle piqued the curiosity of those seated toward the back, who seemed to be idlers with nothing better to do rather than serious sales prospects. Hearing a number of sarcastic questions, I concluded that those in the back had a hidden motivation; perhaps they were orchestrating ways to embarrass me—insult me, even—and thus undermine our sales effort.
Though my presence had not been announced, the Öngören old-timers were expecting me. I gave a brief speech, mentioning how I’d come to this charming corner of Istanbul thirty years ago to join my master in digging a well. I paid tribute to Master Mahmut, whose successful quest for water had brought this dusty stretch of land to life, making possible the influx of new people and industries now settled here. The future buildings, whose models were being presented today, were but the natural continuation of that move toward civilization first undertaken thirty years ago.
As the hecklers in the back were making no effort to conceal their contempt, I thought they must be harmless, mostly there to amuse themselves. I craned my neck to scan the whole crowd of about a hundred; any real danger was likelier to come from those sitting in silence.
Like those who’d spoken before me, I was peppered with questions before I’d even had the chance to say, Any questions? I let the project manager answer one about payment plans. The same manager was responding to another couple wondering when they could expect to receive the keys to their apartment if they were to buy today, when—looking at the middle of the room—I caught sight of a mature woman with her hand aloft, and I felt my heart speed up.
My mind took longer, somehow, to grasp what my eyes had instantly recognized: it was obvious from the color of her hair that this lady in the middle of the room was the Red-Haired Woman. Our gazes met as she kept her hand raised amid the buzzing all around her. She smiled good-naturedly and I called upon her to speak.
“We congratulate you on the success of Sohrab, Mr. Cem,” she said. “And we hope you will consider making room for a theater in one of these buildings.”
A few of those around her applauded politely. I didn’t notice anyone unusually interested in our exchange or reading very much into her words.
The crowd began to thin out once they ran out of questions, and as people went over to examine the models, I came face-to-face with the Red-Haired Woman for the first time in thirty years.
Time had been kind to her; it had only enhanced the beautiful, inscrutable expression on her face, the shape of her nose and mouth, and the distinctive set of her full, round lips. She seemed neither weary nor hostile; on the contrary, she looked relaxed and upbeat. Perhaps that was how she wished to appear.
“You must be surprised to see me, Mr. Cem. I’m helping to set up a youth theater here with some of my son’s friends…I wanted you to meet them. They never said you would come, but I knew you’d be here today.”
“Is Enver here?”
“No.”
The youths she’d mentioned were standing in a group apart from everyone else. Necati discreetly led me and the Red-Haired Woman toward a more secluded part of the room, where he had some tea brought over and left us alone.
“For years I wasn’t sure whether our son Enver’s father was you or Turgay…I didn’t dwell on it too much. I did always wonder…But I wouldn’t have been able to prove anything even if I’d gone to court, and that would have done nothing but upset everyone and bring shame on you and me both. I’m sure you know I would never want that to happen.”
I drank in every word that came out of her mouth and meanwhile kept an eye on those still milling about in the hall, should anyone suddenly become too interested in what we were doing. Everything she said surprised me. It seemed impossible that she was sitting before me now, her delicate hands still moving nimbly through the air, her outfit the same sky blue as the skirt she’d worn thirty years ago on our walk through the Station Square, her face and her fingernails so wonderfully smooth.
“Of course neither of them ever suspected my doubts about who the father was,” she continued. “Turgay was often mean to us, perhaps because I’d been married to his older brother before him. He passed away some time after we separated, and it wasn’t easy having to explain to Enver that his biological father might actually be someone else, someone so successful and talented, and to persuade him to file the lawsuit. He did it in the end, but not before putting up a fight. Our son has yet to make his mark on the world, but he’s a proud, sensitive, creative boy. He writes poems.”
“So I’ve heard from Mr. Necati. I know he’s had some of them published—I’ve even found copies of the magazines. They’re good poems. But I’m not sure how I feel about his political views and those of the journals he’s published in. And unfortunately they didn’t include any photographs of the young poet.”
“Oh, of course! I must send you a picture of our son,” said the Red-Haired Woman. “I wouldn’t worry about his politics, though. Tod
ay it’s a religious magazine, tomorrow he might be composing odes to the army and the flag…He’s obstinate and he knows his own mind, but it’s all bravado. What he needs is a solid father figure to show him the way.” A few people were walking toward us now. “Enver must get to know and love his father,” she said. “I asked him to come here today, but he refused. I’m the one who taught these young folk here today about the theater. We get together on Sundays and go down to Istanbul to see plays. Some of them are Enver’s friends.”
As more people approached us, the Red-Haired Woman assumed a more formal air of a potential buyer inquiring punctiliously about apartment features and then continued sipping elegantly on her tea. I got up and wandered through the crowd for a while before finding Necati. I asked him to invite the Red-Haired Woman and her young theater aficionados to the banquet that evening.
“That went well,” he said, euphoric with relief. “Sohrab shouldn’t have too much trouble in Öngören anymore.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I said. “This isn’t Öngören now; it’s Istanbul.”
40
IT WAS THE marketing department’s idea to follow the meeting with dinner and drinks in the wedding hall. Liberation Restaurant, the caterer, was still in business in Diners’ Lane. I met the elderly owner, a man from Samsun, and as we reminisced, I thought of how I’d shared a table in that restaurant with the Red-Haired Woman one night thirty years ago. I decided to avoid her and her young troupe of actors and head back to Istanbul as soon as the meal was over. All I wanted before I went home was to see the well I’d dug with Master Mahmut. “That’s easy,” said Necati, but I became concerned when I saw that rather than asking one of the locals, like my apprentice friend Ali, to show me the way, he sent the Red-Haired Woman and one of her young friends over instead.
“Serhat is the brightest of my young thespians, and the most mature,” said the Red-Haired Woman. “His dream is to stage Sophocles in Öngören one day.”
“How do you know where the well is?” I asked Mr. Serhat.
“That well became famous as soon as it sprang water,” said Mr. Serhat. “When we were kids, Master Mahmut used to tell us stories about it, as well as old fairy tales.”
“Do you still remember any of those fairy tales?”
“I remember most of them.”
“Join me, Mr. Serhat,” I said. “Perhaps we can take a quick break from dinner later and you can show me to the well.”
“Of course…”
There was a glass of Club Rakı before me, some fresh cheese, a few cold appetizers, and the Red-Haired Woman sitting at the other end of the table, just as on that night thirty years ago. In the interim, I’d learned to love rakı as much as my father had. I refilled my young companion’s glass, gulped down my own, and looked anywhere but at the Red-Haired Woman and her protégés.
I asked courteous, rakı-loving Mr. Serhat which stories he remembered best from among those he’d heard as a child from Master Mahmut.
“The one I remember most vividly was about a warrior called Rostam, who killed his son by mistake…,” said the sensitive young man.
Where had Master Mahmut heard that one? Though he’d been to the yellow theater tent before me, it would have been difficult to piece together the plot from that patchwork of a show. It must have been the Red-Haired Woman who’d explained it to him. Or perhaps he’d heard it as a boy.
“How come Rostam’s story stuck with you? Did it scare you?”
“Master Mahmut wasn’t my father,” said logical Mr. Serhat. “Why would I be afraid?”
“He was like a father to me, one summer thirty years ago…,” I said. “My real father left us. So while I was digging that well, you might say I found a new father in Master Mahmut. How is your relationship with your father?”
“Distant,” said Serhat, lowering his eyes.
Was he wishing he could go back to sitting with the Red-Haired Woman and his actor friends? Had I pried too much into this taciturn young man’s life? The alcohol had galvanized the other guests. The hall rang with the ceaseless chatter of rakı-soaked hometown reunions and sports bars filled with soccer hooligans.
“How did you know Master Mahmut?”
“He used to sit all the neighborhood kids in a circle around him and tell us stories. I just happened to go over to his house one day. I was so scared when I saw his shoulder.”
“Would you mind taking me to Master Mahmut’s house, after we’ve seen the well?”
“Of course…They moved a few times, some of the places where he used to live have been demolished. Which one would you like to see?”
“I used to be scared of Master Mahmut’s stories…,” I said. “They always ended up coming true…”
“What do you mean they came true?” he asked.
“The things he told me in his stories happened to me in real life. And I was also scared of Master Mahmut’s well. I was so terrified that one day I just left him there and ran away. Did you know that story?”
“I did,” he said, looking away.
“How did you know?”
“Ms. Gülcihan’s son, Enver, told me. He is an accountant here in town. You could say Master Mahmut was like a father to him. They used to be very close.”
There was no hint of malice or duplicity in his expression. He didn’t seem to be aware of the truth. I fell silent. The night smelled of rakı and cigarette smoke, and I felt its grip deep inside my mind.
“Is this Enver here tonight?” I asked eventually.
“What?” said Serhat. He seemed astounded by my question, as if I’d said something brazen or absurd. I hadn’t seen anyone that day, neither at the presentation nor among the guests at the dinner, whom I would have been proud to call my son.
“Enver isn’t here,” said Serhat. “Did he tell you he would be?”
I said nothing, but he’d sensed my agitation.
“He would never come here!” he said.
“Why not?”
Now it was Serhat who kept quiet.
41
I PUZZLED OVER why my son might be reluctant to show up. Perhaps he disapproved of his father. The thought made me indignant. But recognizing that my anger might be unjustified, I wanted to meet him anyway, even as I knew it would be better to leave Öngören immediately, before I could get into any sort of trouble. “It’s getting late, Mr. Serhat, shall we go and take a look at this well?” I said.
“Of course.”
“You go ahead and wait for me at the bottom of the slope. I’ll come and find you in five minutes; that way we won’t draw too much attention.”
He swallowed his last morsel and rushed off. The Red-Haired Woman was surveying me from the other end of the table. After a few more sips of rakı and another bite of white cheese, I left to meet Serhat at the foot of the black hill.
We paced silently through the shadows, darkness, and echoes of the past. I couldn’t work out where the slope was in relation to our plateau, or which way the well was, but instead of blaming this on the concrete blocks, walls, and warehouses that had sprung up everywhere, I put it down to the rakı clouding my mind. And if my mind was clouded, that had to be because my son didn’t want to see me.
We walked along a pale wall, passing a warehouse and a gray courtyard dotted with trees that shone pink under the neon lights. I saw myself and my young guide reflected as silhouettes on the dark windows of a barbershop that had closed for the night, and I noticed that we were the same height.
“How long have you known Enver?” I asked the young thespian Serhat.
“For as long as I can remember. I’ve always lived in Öngören.”
“What is he like?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I used to know his father, Turgay,” I said. “He lived here for a while, thirty years ago.”
“Enver’s problem isn’t his father; it’s his lack of one,” said clever Serhat. “He’s an angry introvert, a peculiar sort of guy.”
“I never had a real
father, either, but I’m neither angry nor introverted; in fact, I’m not so different from everyone else,” I said, enlightened by rakı.
“Of course you’re different; you’re rich,” said quick-witted Serhat. “Maybe that’s what bothers Enver.”
I was silent for a time. What exactly had this haughty young man meant? That Enver suffered because he was poor? Or that he didn’t approve of people whose lives were all about money, and that’s why he hadn’t come to the meeting today?
Tormented by the thought that he might have meant the latter, I soon noticed the slope leveling out and realized we must be getting closer to our well. I saw the same weeds and nettles from thirty years ago growing on empty lots and in the cracks in the pavement. I thought briefly of being reunited with that wrinkly-necked tortoise and of venturing, as in the old days, some musings on life and the nature of time. Here we are, thirty years on! the tortoise would say. An entire, wasted life for you. A blink of an eye for me.
Had the Red-Haired Woman told our son, Enver, that his grandfather was a romantic idealist who’d gone to prison for his political convictions? It was mortifying to think that my son might picture me as some superficial and morally corrupt version of his grandfather. I was growing increasingly irate at this supercilious Serhat for plunging me into this state of mind when I saw a familiar stretch of road. “Here it is,” I exclaimed. “This was the last turn before we got to our well.”
“Really? What a coincidence. For a while Master Mahmut lived right over there,” said sharp-eyed Serhat.
“Where?”
I watched the dim outline of his hand gesturing toward a cluster of depots, factories, and apartment blocks barely visible in the darkness. I saw the walnut tree where I used to take my afternoon naps. It had grown taller but was now enclosed within the walls of a factory. I saw a dull light through the windows of an old house nearby.
“They were here for a while,” said Serhat. “Enver and his mother, Gülcihan, used to drop by to wish him well on religious holidays. I met Enver in Master Mahmut’s garden.”
