With the name of the hotel in hand, I turned down all taxi offers between the arrivals area and the airport exit and tried to find a cab myself. After walking a distance, I spotted a row of cars. There, I thought. I showed the piece of paper to a man, who, in turn, showed me to the car that would take me to my destination. I didn’t need to do a thing. Both the man to whom I had handed the piece of paper and the taxi driver put my bags in the car.
The airport was far from the hotel, and after a while the silence started to bother me. Do you speak English? I asked the driver. A little, he replied with a thick accent. I sensed that the conversation wasn’t going to go very far and didn’t insist. To be honest, I didn’t actually have anything to say. He was the one who asked if it was my first time in Turkey. You’ll love it, it’s a beautiful country, the people are friendly, very welcoming. After the praise, I couldn’t help myself and said with conviction: My grandfather is from here, from Smyrna.
From Smyrna? He didn’t seem to believe me. As he drove, he glanced over his shoulder once, twice, three times to get a better look at me. Suddenly, as if stating the obvious, he proclaimed: Of course. You have a Turkish face: the olive skin, the long nose. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. But… you don’t speak Turkish, do you?
No, unfortunately. My grandfather didn’t teach my mother his language.
After my revelation, he was even friendlier. We chatted all the way to the hotel. He told me I’d really like the city and, who knows, maybe I could return for a while to re-establish my roots? I slowly recovered the good mood that I’d lost in Immigration. Perhaps there were other things to do besides boat tours and visiting mosques and museums. The driver had already convinced me: I wouldn’t be just another tourist. I had a Turkish face.
I laughed my head off when you said you loved it when a woman had her period. What do you mean love it? What exactly do you love? The smell? The colour?
The taste, you said.
I laughed and half-grimaced. No way.
Oh yes, you assured me, yes way.
I hesitated a few seconds, the time I needed to take in your reply. Okay then.
Last night I had a strange dream. A nightmare. I arrived at my grandfather’s house in Turkey, a big, beautiful, very old house with ornate walls, like an embroidered dress. The salmon-coloured paint looked fresh. The door — of dark, chiselled wood, swirls within swirls — occupied almost half the wall. And the almost imperceptible lock, instead of being located on the right, next to the latch, was on the left, near one of the hinges. I plunged my hand into my bag, sure that the key was there, but to my surprise there wasn’t one but many — a dozen perhaps. All enormous! Proportional to the door but not to the lock. I threw my bag to the ground and, in desperation, began to rummage among the keys for one that was the right shape and size. But the harder I looked, the more keys appeared, and in the end there must have been a hundred lying around me. I repeated to myself: It isn’t possible. It has to be here. I know it’s here.
Suddenly, I heard a loud creak. It was the door opening. A man of about my father’s age appeared, inviting me in. It’s here, come inside, come into your house. I was surprised. Why was this man speaking Portuguese? Come, he said again. When I entered, the house was full of people, young and old, and they all had something familiar about them. The men were wearing kippahs, and most — but not all — of the women had white scarves draped over their shoulders. They surrounded me, hugging me, welcoming me: This is your home, they said. The table was laden with bread, honey, apples, matzah, wine, boyos, cheese, bourekas, and almonds. Come, take a seat, we’ve made you some treats.
I wasn’t hungry, but the smell was so inviting that I couldn’t resist. I started with the cheese and the eggplant bourekas. But I soon realised that I was the only one eating; in fact, I was the only one sitting at the table. As I ate, they all just stood there watching me, as if I were a strange animal, an exotic jungle creature. I stopped chewing and looked for a face that I recognised. I was afraid. They all noticed and began to laugh. I raced to the door, wanting out, certain that I was in the wrong house. Then I heard a deep voice say: This is your family! I tried to open the door, but it was locked again and now I had no key at all. The laughter grew louder and louder, as I screamed: Where’s the key?
I woke up drenched with sweat, lying in my bed, in my room, in my apartment.
Almost every day there are moments in which I do something and immediately afterwards think: That wasn’t me. Silly, everyday things, like smiling, curling up on the sofa to read the newspaper, or holding a cup of coffee with both hands. Suddenly, mid-gesture, I get the feeling that it isn’t me. When I start laughing and can’t stop, for example, I’m sure it’s you who’s laughing. It’s true; we’re very alike. I’ve had that feeling too and I’d look at you and think how alike we are. But it’s not just that, it’s a weird feeling, an absolute certainty that it isn’t me. It isn’t always you. Sometimes it’s Dad, sometimes Grandpa, sometimes it isn’t any of you. Sometimes I sense that it’s someone I’ve never met, but who speaks through me. As if my body weren’t mine alone. I sense this multiplicity all the time, other people accompanying me. But it’s just a feeling; it isn’t real. You are you, full stop. The rest, my dear, are just similarities that remind us of other people. No, Mother, I won’t reduce what I feel to such a simple word: similarity. I’m not saying that they are spirits, but the word ‘similarity’ doesn’t exactly do it justice. I might not be able to convince you, but I know that when my back hunches over like a hook it isn’t just me who is hunched over. I know, Mother, even if I can’t find the right word, that my body is not mine alone.
In the beginning we didn’t even see the light of day, shut away in the bedroom as if we’d spent our entire lives waiting for that moment. We forgot everything on the outside and spent days and nights in bed.
He learned of Rosa’s death in a letter from his sister. He had already been in Rio de Janeiro for a few months, working with a cousin and making plans to open his own hardware shop. He missed his family and wrote them at least once a week. The letters from home were almost always the same. It seemed that nothing had changed after he left. His heart sped up every time he received an envelope from Turkey. He’d open it in a rush, anxious for news or a word of encouragement. His sister wrote about their father’s work, their mother’s health problems, and a few bits and pieces about their older brother, who was soon to be married. The youngest did nothing but talk about Brazil. He wanted to follow in his brother’s footsteps, try his luck there. She, in turn, was waiting to see what would come of their father’s search for a husband for her. But I don’t want to get married like that, she wrote. I want to marry for love. Won’t Father ever understand? I don’t want a husband chosen by him. I want to be able to choose one myself. Don’t you agree with me, dear brother? His heart went out to her. He knew what she was talking about. I’m afraid I’ll go the same way as that girl Rosa. Remember Rosa, the daughter of your old boss at the shoe shop? Well, apparently she was in love with a young man of whom her father didn’t approve. Afraid they might elope, he quickly arranged for her to marry. He sent for a lad from Istanbul, the son of a good family, childhood friends of his. She refused to accept his decision, and didn’t want any man but the one she loved. But you know how things are done here. Rosa had no say in it. Do you know what she did?
He froze. His heart was in his mouth, fear of the answer flooding through him. He couldn’t continue reading the letter, but he couldn’t not read it. With a stone tied to her ankle, she threw herself into the well in the square. She killed herself, dear brother. They found her body floating there, her dress puffed out by the water. Can you imagine the scandal? The family refused to mourn her death, and now the community is using her as an example to convince young women to marry suitors chosen by their fathers. But shouldn’t it be the opposite? Don’t you agree that the whole story shows us the impossibility of a loveless mar
riage?
He shook, feeling his stomach churn, his legs incapable of sustaining his body. He was filled with regret: he should never have come to Brazil — or he should have brought her with him.
Before leaving Brazil, I had never imagined it could be so hot here. I stopped at a café for a juice and analysed the map that the hotel receptionist had given me. Seen like that, on paper, Istanbul struck me as a city like any other. I looked for the street the hotel was on — which took a few minutes — and realised I wasn’t far from the city centre. I just didn’t know whether to go this way or that, right or left. I wanted to go to Eminönü, where the main mosques were. I wanted to start with the obvious and then allow myself to be carried away by the unknown. I paid for my juice and asked the waiter which way to go. His answer was friendly but no good to me, as it was in Turkish, even though he’d nodded when I asked if he spoke English. I ended up taking a taxi: The Blue Mosque, please.
It was impossible not to be awed. I had no regrets, no fear; the minute I set eyes on that immense, imposing structure, I was certain I’d made the right choice. Not only was it monumental in size, with its tall, thin spires (at the top of which I detected a fine layer of blue paint), but also it was delicate and earthly in its tiny details. I forgot everything around me: the heat, the unpleasant smell, the hordes of tourists and street vendors. I forgot the reason for my journey: the key, the door, my grandfather, the past. It was just me and the mosque, as in all great love stories. We were eternal for a few seconds: the mosque, staring at me in its nigh almightiness, and I, staring at the mosque in my patent fragility. And that was how I adored it, how I admired it as I had never before admired a monument. I spent a long time walking around it, putting off the moment of entry for as long as possible. I saw a corridor with a row of taps and low stools. Halfway down it, two younger men and an elderly one were washing their feet, faces, and necks. I was so hot, and welcomed the idea of freshening up a little. I imitated them — sitting on a stool, I turned on a tap and wet the exposed parts of my body. The younger men looked at me and laughed and whispered. The elderly man stood and, before I knew what was happening, he was beside me, waving his hands, talking in a loud voice. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying, but I understood that I shouldn’t have been there, that I was doing something very wrong. I hurried out, red and embarrassed, and the young men laughed even more as the irate older man returned to his place and resumed his ritual. Only later did I discover that not only was the place sacred, but also that it was reserved exclusively for men, who had to purify themselves before entering the mosque to pray.
I walked away quickly and headed around to the main entrance. I climbed the stairs and found a rectangular paved area with a kind of miniature mosque in the middle of it. Behind it was an enormous wooden door, ornately carved, through which people came and went. Outside I saw lots of families — children, and women with scarves on their heads, others with veils, and one with a burqa, covered entirely in black, with only her eyes visible. I had already seen women like that in newspapers, on television, and in films. But seeing one in front of me, with everything hidden — her body, face, and hair concealed — was odd: I felt a great distance separating us, a deep gulf, and at the same time an understanding that is particular to women. That could be me, I thought, and wished I could uncover her. I wished I could see her. It wasn’t mere curiosity — it was as if I needed to be near her, to touch her, to pull down the barrier between us. When she realised she was being observed, she got up, crossed the paved area, and sat where I couldn’t see her, directly behind the central structure. I blushed again. It was the first time I had set foot in such a different world and I couldn’t hide the fact that I wasn’t a local. I was committing all kinds of faux pas that they wouldn’t. I felt ashamed. I didn’t want to be an outsider, but it seemed inevitable.
When I went to enter the mosque, a man approached me and gave me a scarf to cover my head and another for my legs. I also had to remove my shoes. I saw two young men talking, both with credentials hanging from their necks. One of them introduced himself and we chatted a little, and then he asked if I wanted him to accompany me during my visit. I accepted. I wanted the company of a local, and he seemed nice. I’m not a guide, he said. I work here in the mosque and I can tell you a few things about its history. Then he told me when, how, and why it was built, the meaning of some inscriptions, why it was called the Blue Mosque, as well as its real name. He showed me the direction of Mecca and how Muslims prayed. A boy walked past us wearing clothes that I imagined a prince might wear. He was dressed like that because he was going to be circumcised. But at that age? I asked. Yes, some do it when they’re still babies, but most have it done between the ages of five and eight. It’s a moment of great joy for them. I asked the boy if I could take his photo. He agreed and posed with a big smile on his face, clearly proud to be dressed in ceremonial attire.
The mosque was enormous and there was hardly anyone in it. I tactfully asked the man accompanying me if I could be alone for a while. I am not Muslim, or even religious, but something about the place gave me a feeling of peace, and I felt an urge to be alone — just me with my sadness, me with my happiness.
I was about to nod off in the silence when he approached me again to say that I had to leave. In a little while prayers would begin, and tourists weren’t allowed inside while they were taking place. I left quickly, afraid of committing another gaffe. At the door, I returned my scarves and put my shoes back on. The young man was still there and said he wanted to show me one last thing. We crossed the paved area and he asked me to look carefully at the pillars to see if I noticed anything unusual. I said no, I couldn’t see whatever it was that he wanted me to see. He pointed to several names written in Arabic, almost completely faded. Those are the names of the stonemasons, he said. Every time they finished a section of the mosque, they’d leave their signatures.
We exchanged a few more words and then he excused himself: I have to go. I must get ready for my obligations.
I left the mosque in a state of thrall. I strolled across the paved area without looking where I was going: my feet were there, but my mind was elsewhere. I was sitting on a bench when I heard a voice flood through the square, through the city. It seemed to come from nowhere, from somewhere distant, somewhere unknown. It was rasping, melancholic, a true lament. I felt like I’d heard it before, but I was also certain I hadn’t. I saw people quicken their pace, hurry back and forth. It must be the call to prayer, I thought. The voice persisted, echoed, and continued to resonate even after the singing had stopped. It stopped and started again, finding a few people still in the street. I took out my camera, which also captured sound, and recorded it. I wanted to be able to hear it in the future, in other places, at other times. Again, the voice rested and then resumed the call. The square emptied almost completely: I didn’t see the boys selling knickknacks, the kebab vendors, or even the birds. Just tourists like myself. The singing continued, stopping and starting about four more times, echoing unexpectedly in some archaic part of my body, with some memory of which I was not aware. The voice — a wail, a mournful cry — spread across the entire city until it ceased. Then Istanbul appeared to be dead, and I felt that something very old in me had begun to be reborn.
In the lift, on our way down, I asked: Why the hurry? I was really enjoying our conversation —
You said, It’s you: the clothes you’re wearing, your loose dress, your habit of not wearing a bra.
I made a face. What do you mean?
That’s all there is to it. I can’t help myself, you drive me crazy.
I smiled, a little disconcerted, and drew you into a kiss that lasted longer than the time it took to reach the ground floor.
We barely spoke in the car. You drove fast, ran red lights. Take it easy, I said. You turned and smiled. That was the nature of our desire: it would strike suddenly, and we’d have to go with it. I saw the way you were driving
and understood that you couldn’t have stayed at the dinner. I understood, because it happened to me too.
At home, you took off your shoes and went to get some whisky. In spite of your urgency, you made an effort to wait. You served us and lit a cigarette. I’d like one too, I said. The cigarette was between my lips when you lit it. We sat there a while, drinking, smoking, looking at each other, smiling. Almost in silence, just the odd comment or two. Until you looked at me more lustfully, indicating with your eyes that the hour had arrived. I didn’t say anything or ask anything. I just stood and slowly began to undress. I slid the straps of my dress over my shoulders, showing the top of my breasts. You fidgeted on the sofa. I smiled. I lowered the straps even further, revealing my breasts completely, and stepped out of the dress. Turn around, you said. Unable to see you, I felt all the danger of the world at my back. I knew you were staring at my arse, your favourite part of my body. It was a pretty obvious choice, but I was pleased nonetheless. I kept my back to you as I slipped off my knickers. My naked body, a bookcase of dark wood in front of me, and the certainty that you were staring at my arse. Turn around, you said again. We locked eyes: you, fully dressed, and I, completely naked. I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to.
The House in Smyrna Page 3
