The House in Smyrna

by Tatiana Salem Levy

  It was the first time I had prayed. I didn’t know what to do, how to do it, but I prayed. I asked God, if he existed, not to let the phone ring. I prayed quietly, whispering, with my hands clasped together in front of my chest. I prayed for the phone never to ring so I wouldn’t have to pick up, hear the person on the other end telling me what had happened. I prayed: don’t ring don’t ring don’t ring. I prayed: please God, if you exist, don’t take her away from me. Please don’t let the phone ring, never ever. But it did: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve times, I counted, telling myself: it’s not ringing, I can’t hear it, it’s not ringing. Then it stopped, and for a few seconds I believed it hadn’t rung. Until I heard a voice inside the flat, a roar, a cry of despair, and thought: He doesn’t exist, God doesn’t exist. It had been the phone, it had rung, there was no avoiding it. I hadn’t been the one to pick up, I hadn’t heard the voice on the other end, but it had all happened. My body buckled, my torso bent over my legs, I felt like I was going to faint, and then, as if hanging on to the last stretch of rope, I roared too, echoing the voice in the other room. I let out a wail, a howl that faltered, a voice in ruins.

  There was nothing more I could do, not even pray.

  I was heading for the city centre when the long black hair of a woman on the other side of the street caught my eye. Was it her? I couldn’t get her beauty out of my mind. I thought about her obsessively. Yes, it’s her, I thought, the woman from the hammam. Hypnotised, I crossed the street without looking either way, hurrying so I wouldn’t lose sight of her. In the morning there were so many people in the street that it wouldn’t have been hard. I bumped into people and stumbled, anxious to keep up. When she left the crowd and turned onto a wide footpath, I thought, with relief, that she wasn’t going to escape me. She was wearing a long skirt and a tank top. Under her arm, she was carrying a folder that was neither large nor small. She wasn’t far from me now.

  As I stepped through a door in a large wall, I realised we had just entered the Grand Bazaar, a kind of walled-off district, with its own streets and corners. But it was an area where there were only shops, rows and rows of them. It wasn’t long before the shopkeepers started inviting me into their businesses. Some asked: Spanish? Italian? Portuguese? The funnier ones said: Chinese? Japanese?

  She walked along quickly, oblivious to her surroundings. I quickened my pace and positioned myself diagonally in front of her. When I looked back, certain of finding the same gaze as the other day, I was unable to hide my disappointment. She stared me firmly in the eye, as if to say: What are you looking at? Unintimidated, I merely responded with a look of frustration.

  After she walked away, I lost myself in the bazaar, like a stray dog. I heard the voices of the shopkeepers coming from all sides. They all stood outside their shops, trying to catch the attention of passers-by. When someone showed an interest, they went inside to show them their wares, ever ready to reveal the secrets and qualities of each item.

  I was drawn to one shop by the colours, the lighting. It sold only candleholders, of every shape and size. Some to sit on tables, others to hang, others to rest on the ground like glass mosaics of alternating colours: red, blue, green, orange, yellow. They were small glass hexagons held together by a kind of plaster. Contrary to other shops of the sort, this one had lit candles in almost every holder, to attract prospective buyers. I stood at the entrance admiring them all, and a man came out to greet me. He told me that there were different kinds inside and invited me in. The shop was small but adorable. The objects were arranged well and I was truly enchanted by what I saw. The man observed me without speaking. It was hard to pick one. They were all beautiful and at the same time similar. I chose one almost randomly and asked how much it was. It was one to hang from the ceiling, and looked old-fashioned, reminding me of the palaces I had visited. Thirty euros, he told me.

  I smiled and said: I don’t have euros, I’m Brazilian. I had already been warned not to buy anything without bargaining, as they never give you the real price.

  Thirty-five Turkish liras, he said.

  It’s too much, I insisted.

  Thirty, he said.

  Twenty, I said.

  Twenty-five, I can’t do it for any less.

  Okay, I said, twenty-five.

  I left the shop with the wrapped candleholder in a plastic bag and continued strolling casually through the bazaar. The most beautiful shops were those selling spices, with enormous bags displaying chillies, saffron, paprika, herbs, dried fruits, olives, pistachios, and a vast array of Turkish sweets. Like so many other customers, I tasted a little of each, and ended up buying a bag of rose-flavoured Turkish delights to eat as I wandered.

  I kept walking, also fascinated by the shops selling silver and gold. Some looked very expensive. Others seemed to sell only costume jewellery, although they assured me that all their pieces were genuine. Many items were in several of the shops, with the same design — the same red, blue, or green stones, and strands of ornate silver dangling from earrings and necklaces. There was a ring called a harem ring: it had four narrow loops of silver or gold set with colourful little stones that, all together, formed a relatively large piece. I asked why it was called that and was told that it brought luck in love and helped you find a husband. I smiled. I passed many shops. It was hard to exit them, because the shop assistants insisted, argued, haggled, and weren’t content if I didn’t buy anything.

  But suddenly, in one such shop, a long, oval-shaped ring caught my eye. It was made with dark silver to look old, with a green stone in the centre. I asked if the silver and the stone were genuine, and the shopkeeper assured me that they were. I only had his word to go on and decided to trust him. The ring was a little big, but the man said he could adjust it. I asked when it would be ready, and he said the same day, later that afternoon. When he was measuring my finger, he noticed the ring on my other hand. It’s beautiful, he said. Where did you buy it?

  It was my mother’s, I said. And if I’m not mistaken, she bought it in Egypt. See all these little holes? There used to be a green stone in each one.

  If you want, I can set it with new stones, he offered.

  I hesitated, afraid it might not look nice. I’m not sure, I said. It was like this when I got it. And to be honest, I like things that have gone, that aren’t here anymore. I like ruins, secrets of the past. I don’t like restored things, as if they were built yesterday. I prefer marks, vestiges. Then I added: My mother bought this ring over thirty years ago. Do you think mine will last that long too? One day I’d like to give it to a daughter of my own.

  Yes, he said, and guaranteed that it would last a long time. I’m just not sure about the stone, he joked. That I can’t promise. And we both laughed.

  When you leaned over to whisper sweetly in my ear, I knew you were going to ask me to do something and I pulled away, tired of your requests. You pretended not to notice and leaned towards me again. I said: No, I don’t want to hear it, I’m tired of your requests. You held me tightly by the wrists, with just one hand. I shouted: Let go of me! You didn’t. You picked up a pencil that was lying nearby and ran its sharp tip down my arm. Blood trickled out onto the sofa. Like a madwoman, I hollered that you were a psychopath, mentally ill, that you hit women, that I was going to the police, that I hated you, you disgusted me, turned my stomach. When you let go, I pushed you with all the strength I could muster and, with my index finger hovering in front of your face, said without blinking: Next time I’ll pluck your eyes out. Both of them.

  The pale blue face of the deceased, nostrils stopped up with cotton, and the last smile of death are things I can only imagine. I’ve never seen a dead body, nor did I see you dead. I saw you dying, asking for water to wet your dry throat, saying you were thirsty, and the nurse telling me that I couldn’t give you any. I was torn, afraid to give you water and do you harm, afraid you’d die of thirst if I didn’t �
�� lost in my fear, a little girl about to lose her mother, not knowing what to do (if there were only one kind of pain in the world, it would be that of seeing someone you love perish and not being able to do a thing). You were still here, air still entering and leaving your lungs, but I knew that shortly we wouldn’t be together anymore; shortly the warm hand I was holding would grow cold and indifferent to my warmth. The doctor had already warned me: It’s only a matter of time. He didn’t say: Your mother is dead. He said: Your mother is going to die. She is alive, breathing, her heart is beating, her blood is circulating, her eyes open and close, but soon it will all be just a memory, soon her organs will stop working and she will die. It’s only a matter of time. I felt like replying: But she’s here, she’s breathing, she’s alive, so there’s still time, not to wait for her to die, but to do something to avoid it. You see, it’s almost logical: if she’s still here, then she can stay. But I knew there was no logic in this reasoning; in fact, it wasn’t even reasoning — it was my foolish desire, my colossal fear of losing you.

  I went home with the bags under my eyes almost trailing on the ground, my hunched shoulders transforming me into a hook. It’s only a matter of time, the doctor’s voice echoed in my thoughts. I didn’t see you die; I didn’t see you dead. It was the telephone ringing that told me we’d never look into each other’s eyes again, we’d never embrace or exchange loving words again. The telephone and the cry of pain coming from somewhere in the flat. We were only in the same room again the next day at the cemetery, you inside the coffin of polished wood, with the lid closed — because we bury our dead without clothes on, so they may return to the earth as they came into the world, so the end may be the same as the beginning. I wanted to open the coffin and yell: Take my mother out of there! But they didn’t listen. They didn’t want to listen. And that is why I didn’t see you dead. All I saw was the coffin that was to carry you under the earth and which, from that moment on, would be your new home.

  After a long night of insomnia, I came to the conclusion that I had nothing left to do in Istanbul. The city was beautiful and I could have stayed on for many days, but the longer I stayed, the more I distanced myself from the objective of my journey. I headed downstairs to reception and asked for help to contact an airline. I’d like to go to Smyrna today, I said.

  There wasn’t much time before I had to leave for the airport. I decided to go out for a wander near the hotel, have an orange juice, and say goodbye to the city that was already a little mine. The sun was hotter than it had been on the previous days, and everything looked even more turquoise than it actually was. I liked to look at people’s faces, their expressions of tiredness, enthusiasm, happiness, sadness, and boredom. But despite the variety of facial features and cultural differences, I felt as if they were all one, and that it didn’t matter if I was in Istanbul or Rio. I may have been wrong (many people would tell me so), but that is what I thought as I drank my juice at an outdoor table, on a narrow street around the corner from the hotel.

  Unhurriedly, I paid the young man who had served me and returned to my room. I wanted to call my grandfather before I left. We had spoken when I arrived, but not since. I imagined that he was anxious for news. He, more than anyone, was praying for everything to go smoothly; after all, it was he who was accompanying me — his story, his memory.

  On the other end of the line, I heard his cheerful voice: How’s my sugar plum?

  Well, thanks. I have so much to tell you. I’m dazzled by Istanbul.

  So tell me. Where have you been? What have you been up to?

  So many things…

  I told him everything, every detail of the things I had seen, the smells and flavours I had discovered, the colours of the city, the people. As he listened he expressed his delight, as if he were in my place. We were about to hang up when he asked: What about Smyrna, when are you going?

  Actually, that’s why I called, to say I’m going today.

  His silence struck me as odd. No sign of enthusiasm?

  But then I heard his voice, a little choked up, but strong. It sounded very far away: That’s good, darling, that’s good.

  We hung up, and I called the receptionist to ask him to arrange a taxi. I was anxious to go. Smyrna awaited me.

  When the rabbi came over with the scissors, I pointed to my heart and said: Here. I was supposed to wear the black blouse with a cut on the left side for seven days, in memory of the dead. And then throw it into the sea. It is still draped across my body, out of fear or fatigue — I’m not sure which.

  When she arrived he was lost in thought, sprawled across the bed, while a solitary cigarette burned in the ashtray. He sat up suddenly: So, how was it? He had stayed at home (he couldn’t risk being seen) while she had gone to the meeting. It was all much of a muchness, she replied in the same monotone as always. He sighed in relief (he had feared bad news) and said: Let’s eat. They went to the kitchen to rummage through the cupboard for some pasta and tomato sauce.

  I’m sick of eating the same thing over and over, she said. Not being able to go to restaurants, having to race in and out of the supermarket, trying not to attract attention, hiding all the time.

  Do we have another option? he asked.

  We could leave the country, she said. Can’t you see the situation’s getting worse by the day? How many friends of ours are in prison? At the meeting today, they mentioned a certain Humberto. Do you know him? From what I understood, if they catch him, he’s dead, she said.

  He fidgeted. Did you see where I put the ashtray?

  I think it’s in the living room.

  Weak with terror, he left the kitchen to look for his cigarette, tripping over his own legs. She kept talking to him, talking to herself. She couldn’t bear the clandestine lifestyle anymore; it wasn’t the life she had dreamed of for herself.

  She brought the plates of pasta on a tray. He had smoked another three cigarettes, one after another. His pallid face was sweaty. She didn’t notice, engrossed in her idea to leave the country. With his head down, he whispered something that she didn’t understand.

  What?

  He looked up and repeated himself: Sit here, next to me. They were living in a bedsit in the outskirts of town, a flat the party had arranged for them. Nothing in it was theirs except for their clothes. She felt her husband’s cold hand holding hers like that of a boy frightened by a storm on a moonless night. She knew his heart was beating wildly, and hers sped up too.

  What’s wrong?

  He didn’t answer and bowed his head again.

  What’s wrong?

  Stay calm, he said, please stay calm. I need to tell you something, but please don’t hate me, don’t be upset with me. I’ll explain everything properly later, but right now all that matters is that you know, that you understand, that you accept that I’ve kept a secret from you all this time. Her silent eyes said what her voice couldn’t, and when he whispered: My love, I’m Humberto, she had already put her head down and pressed her hands to her ears so she wouldn’t have to hear what she had already understood.

  Outside, a light rain was falling. I still had no idea what the city was like. The plane had been almost four hours late, and I’d spent more time waiting for it than in it. By the time I got to Smyrna it was already night, so I took a taxi to the hotel. The trip had tired me out. My body ached, my shoulders were stiff. I wasn’t sure if it was the wait for the plane or being in a hurry to get to the end of this story that had installed pain in my body once again. In the airport lounge, it had occurred to me that simply not being able to go to Smyrna due to bad weather or something like that might be a fitting end. But I had eventually boarded the plane, and there I was, in the city my grandfather was from.

  I was already in possession of a phone book (the receptionist had seemed surprised by my request, but she was also helpful, and had offered to show me how to look for what I needed). I had to be prepa
red, because if for some reason I didn’t find either of the names I was looking for, I had no doubt that my body would seize up right then and there and go back to being the monolith it was before leaving Brazil. My room offered a few luxuries, and I made the most of what I could. A bath would do my rock-hard muscles good. I left the hot water running as I unpacked. When the tub was almost full, I lowered myself in, until my head sank under the almost scalding water. I felt my muscles melting like ice cubes in contact with water. I even heard my joints crack. There is nothing like relaxing in hot water. It was as if everything I had accumulated so far was working loose and sliding off me. I lost track of time as I lolled in the tub, barely thinking a thing, almost asleep, letting the water do what I couldn’t.

  It was only after I was dressed that I sat on the bed, back against the wall, with the phone book on my lap. I looked for the letter S — apart from a few differences, the Turkish alphabet is almost the same as ours — and, with my eyes following my index finger, I got closer and closer to my own surname. I took a deep breath, afraid my heart would leap out of my mouth. There it was, just like the name on my driver’s licence. I looked for the names that my grandfather had given me and found three Raphaels and one Salomon. I jotted down their phone numbers and addresses. Were they the cousins I was looking for? A shiver ran through me and I wanted to climb back into the bathtub and never get out again. I looked at the clock: it was almost eleven, too late to go calling people I didn’t know, in spite of the suspicion that we might belong to the same family. Better leave it for tomorrow, I told myself, as my eyes closed slowly, effortlessly.

  When you leaned over to whisper sweetly in my ear, I was scared, very scared. I shook. Take off your clothes. Take off your clothes and wait for me on the bed, you ordered. Feeling trapped, I obeyed. That day I discovered that what we felt wasn’t love.