The House in Smyrna

by Tatiana Salem Levy

  I was alone again, wandering the city. I thought about everything I’d done so far. The dinner with the family was still drifting through my thoughts, in a mixture of disappointment, contentment, and amusement. As I strolled through the streets of Smyrna, I felt that I’d already completed the first part of my journey. I didn’t have anything else to do in Turkey and I still wanted to go to Portugal, where there were neither relatives nor a house to look for. Nevertheless, it was my family’s country of origin and the place I was born. I was nine months old when I left, in my mother’s arms. Not enough time in which to form memories, to be sure, but even so I believed I might find some meaning in Lisbon for my body, my story.

  They had spent almost a month at the consulate without contact with the outside world, unable to leave, to make phone calls, receive visitors, anything. It was the eve of their departure for Costa Rica. The vice consul knocked on the door of the room they slept in. You know visits are not allowed, but she insisted. She decided to take the risk and come to see you. She says she can’t let her daughter leave without saying goodbye first. I’m going to allow it because you’re leaving the country tomorrow, and we don’t know for how long, but be brief. No more than fifteen minutes.

  She looked at her husband with tears in her eyes. My mother’s here. Good God, she’s crazy. She tidied her hair and went to see her. Fifteen minutes — no longer, repeated the vice consul.

  They hadn’t seen each other for over a year. They had spoken a few times by telephone, when she had managed to get to a public phone booth. But it was always in a hurry, and their conversations were strange, almost in code, with no names or places, just to say: I’m fine, don’t worry, everything will be okay. On the other end, her mother’s fretful voice, on the verge of tears: Don’t stay here, honey, leave the country.

  There she was, hunched over like a hook. The hall was large and she ran to get to her as quickly as possible. Her mother was shorter than her and fit into her embrace like a child. They cried without speaking, just hugging each other and sobbing. Nothing they could have said, no word they could have uttered, would have scratched the surface of everything they had to say to each other. How much they missed each other, the lumps in their throats, the clandestine life of one, the quiet life of the other, their plans, projects, home, lack of home. Do you know the risk you’re taking to come here? She didn’t answer. Of course she knew, but how could you weigh up the risk? How could she not see her daughter? The day she had children of her own, she’d understand.

  Does Dad know?

  No, he wouldn’t have let me come. She shook her head, as if reprimanding a naughty child. They touched each other, a confusion of hands, faces, and caresses. I miss you so much, darling; I miss you so much, Mother.

  They sat on the sofa. Her mother was getting old. Her stout legs, purple with varicose veins, couldn’t stand for too long. She tired easily and had many health problems — so many doctors, medications, pills with each meal.

  How are you, darling?

  I’m fine. We leave tomorrow. We won’t have to hide anymore.

  I’m relieved.

  You’ll come to visit us as soon as you can, won’t you?

  Of course we will, your father and I. Call us, write, send news. We’ll be on the first plane.

  She smiled and breathed easier, relaxing. There, in that hall, on that sofa, she left behind her fear, her anxiety, and the pain of separation. Although they were about to part, this time her heart was filled with the certainty that she’d see her mother again. And every certainty that came to her was a fear that left her. The vice consul came to the door: Your time’s up.

  They looked at each other tenderly, not ready to say goodbye yet. Fifteen minutes were nothing after more than a year of distance. She stood, went over to the austere gentleman waiting stiffly for her at the door, and said: What difference does it make if she stays fifteen minutes or an hour? She’s already here, nothing else can happen. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, and we still don’t know how long it will be before we see each other again. I could argue that we’re mother and daughter, and we have so much to say to each other, but all I ask is: what difference does it make?

  He frowned, and didn’t speak for a few seconds. Fine, you can have a little longer, but I’ll be back in forty-five minutes. And then I’ll have to ask your mother to leave.

  They hugged again and now they began to talk, telling each other everything they hadn’t in the last fifteen minutes. Her mother told her about her brother and sisters, the grandchildren that had been born, her dad and his business, the work they’d had done to the house because of a leak, her tiredness, but also her walks along the beachfront, how she liked to watch the sun set in Leblon and get out and about when her body let her. She, on the other hand, didn’t have a whole lot of news. Most of all, she talked about the tension, the fear, and the places they hid, but she hoped her situation would improve from there on. Her mother knew she had been taken prisoner, but she didn’t know (or want to know?) what had happened in there. It was too much for her motherly heart, her fragile body. One day the daughter would tell her everything, because she believed that pain should be voiced, that silence was dangerous. She’d tell her everything that took place while she was locked up, but not today, not on this day of reunions and goodbyes, not after so long without seeing each other. She didn’t want to worry her mother unnecessarily. She’d wait for the right moment, when she was in exile — no longer in Costa Rica but in Portugal. When her mother went to visit her and they had time, lots of time, to themselves — not the time on the watch of the vice consul, the gentleman who returned punctually to say their hour was up, he’d been too lenient already. The time had come, they’d have to part and say their goodbyes, but not to worry, as it wouldn’t be long before they’d be able to see each other again. When he finished speaking he lowered his head, knowing they’d be giving each other a parting embrace, hugging tightly, stroking each other’s faces lovingly, and crying because they already missed each other, as mothers and daughters do when they have to say goodbye.

  There was no love between us. There was fear.

  When you left, it was as if I’d known from the beginning. Yes, you can say that everyone knows, we all know, death is our only certainty. But there is something beyond this certainty, an even bigger certainty, greater than the certainty of death. And that was where my fear came from. When you died, it was a confirmation, as if death had been lying in wait for us the whole time, watching our every move. When it came, I knew it had to be like that; I’d always known, from the outset. But knowing it hadn’t brought me any peace. On the contrary, it brought me the deepest fear, the most acute outrage, agonising discomfort.

  I want to scream, but my mouth is gagged. My body lying on the bed in this foul, lonely room is a body in silence.

  I doubt there is a person alive who has never felt the urge to kill someone. Perhaps few have felt it as intensely as I have, it is true, but I imagine that at least once in life everyone feels the macabre desire to see the fear of death in someone else’s eyes. I hatched plots during my nights of insomnia. I didn’t just want you to die — I wanted to be the one to kill you. I wanted to see the desperation in your eyes when you realised you were going to die by my hand. Like in a film or a book. Like in one of those cheap newspapers that are available every morning, whose cover story is a bizarre murder: a son who killed his mother, or a husband who killed his wife after catching her in bed with another man. I wanted to be the one in the news the next day: Young Woman Kills Boyfriend During Fight. All planned — the fight, the place, the weapon, the motive (self-defence: he killed me first). Sometimes I’d stare at your sleeping body, your snoring keeping me awake, the air blasting its way out of your mouth, and I’d wonder what it was like to perforate someone’s stomach, to see their blood spurt out, their life escaping, slipping through my fingers. Sometimes hours would pass and I’d still be staring a
t you. Sometimes you’d wake up and ask: What’s wrong?

  Nothing, I just can’t sleep.

  Then you’d pull me to you and press your body to mine, side on, legs entwined, and kiss my neck. You’d softly whisper words that I barely understood and fall back asleep. Huddled there in your arms, I’d continue plotting, just waiting for the first light of day.

  I went to Portugal to discover my origins and what I discovered was something else: don’t be afraid of the word love. He told me this with his green eyes almost scorching mine. He said the word even though he knew he didn’t love me (not yet), and love rang out in the room, echoing. I wanted to catch the sentence, trap its sounds in my arms. I don’t know if I’ve ever been afraid of love, but the word, at large in the room like that, had never sounded so sweet. Don’t be afraid of the word love.

  No. I’m not.

  How cruel (and beautiful) that life goes on after you.

  It was Saturday night, and the music was playing at full volume. I was dancing in my underwear as Linda Scott sang, I’ve told every little star. A beer in my hand and several empty cans on the table. Dancing is like having sex, I had said before putting on the music. You pretended not to hear me. You didn’t like to dance. You left me alone in the living room when I turned up the volume. That’s okay, I thought. Few things are better on a Saturday night than beer, music, and being alone. Go do something else, it’s fine by me. I danced and didn’t think about it. I didn’t think about anything. I smiled and smiled and danced and smiled. I swayed from side to side, my hand resting lightly on my hip.

  It wasn’t long before you were back. You couldn’t handle being alone when I was fine with it. You appeared in the hall with your usual sarcastic smile, holding a beer and a cigarette in one hand and a CD in the other. You turned off my music and said: I’m going to put on that song you love. I nodded, smiling, liking the idea, not knowing yet what song it was. You came over and stroked my neck, brushing back my long hair, and then you kissed me and pressed the cold can to my breasts and tipped a little beer on my breasts and sucked my nipples and asked: So dancing is like having sex, is it?

  I laughed, a drunken, light-hearted, happy laugh.

  Is it? Is dancing like having sex?

  I laughed again.

  You tipped your cold beer over me and pulled away. Then I heard the song, our song. My baby shot me down. You had that look in your eye that terrified me. Bang, bang. You took aim and fired. You didn’t even need a gun. You fired and fired and fired and your hands were free. You shot me down and I couldn’t dance anymore, I couldn’t move anymore. You left me alone again, and I didn’t even know why. Lying on the ground until morning, I cried, mourning my own death.

  He didn’t know anything. He didn’t know what I was doing in Lisbon, why I was there. When we met I still had my suitcase with me, and all he knew was that I had just arrived. And he thought that was all. That there was nothing before or after. I was at the A Brasileira. I had just had a coffee and decided to ask a passer-by to take a photo of me next to the statue of Fernando Pessoa. He was walking past with his hands free, so I said: Excuse me, would you mind taking a photo of me? He smiled, as I would too if someone asked me to take a photo of them in front of Sugarloaf Mountain in Rio. He didn’t say anything and just took the photo. Then he wanted to make sure it had turned out okay. I took the camera and said: See, you just turn this dial.

  What do you think? he asked.

  Hmm, would you mind taking another one?

  He smiled and nodded. I invited him to join me if he had time.

  Sure, but why don’t we go someplace else?

  It was my turn to smile. Okay, why not? But would you mind if we didn’t go very far? It’s just that I’ve got my suitcase with me and it’s a bit heavy.

  We continued the smiling game, each grinning at what the other one was saying, as if we were both exotic creatures with funny accents, but also as if we understood each other perfectly and knew what the other one wanted.

  The bar wasn’t terribly close, but at least I didn’t have to carry my suitcase. (I’ll get that, he said politely.) It was certainly less touristy and, perhaps for that reason, cosier. We had nothing to talk about; we could have talked about everything, or anything. We had our whole lives to tell, but none of it seemed to matter very much, as if everything or nothing were the same. We ordered two Imperials and just drank them. And looked at each other. The silence between us grew until it was enormous, almost absolute, interrupted only by the occasional sound of us swallowing beer or blinking. When silence grows unchecked, when it is really big like that, it is even more dangerous. And that was what happened between us: the silence kept getting bigger and bigger, and so did the danger. The silence had been there for so long that if we spoke we’d have lost everything we’d created, as if a single word could make us ugly and uninteresting. We didn’t hear the people shouting beside us, the men walking in and out, the women laughing too loudly, the young man arguing with the waiter because his sandwich wasn’t the way he wanted it. We didn’t hear the waiter asking us if everything was okay, or the glass falling off his tray and breaking on the floor. It was as if the world around us wasn’t the world, as if the world was merely what existed between us. We didn’t know anything about each other besides silence and stares, and, for that reason, there was no modesty, no shyness, no fear — there was just desire, silence, and danger, when we kissed for the first time.

  Amnesty was granted in August 1979. One month later, she disembarked at Galeão International Airport with a dozen other political exiles. Photographers from most of Rio’s newspapers and magazines were there to capture the euphoria of those arriving and the people who were there to greet them. The baby she was carrying wasn’t bothered by the crowd, or frightened by the number of people who wanted to hold it. It seemed to recognise the home it hadn’t seen before. When the Amnesty Law was passed, she had said: We don’t need to go back right now, we’re fine here in Portugal. The magazine likes my work as a correspondent and you’ve made contacts in the party all over the world. And our daughter is so small — it’s too early to travel by plane, to change environments. But he had insisted: Our place is there. And it is there that I want to make the revolution.

  He ended up convincing her that it was time to return. They hadn’t seen family and friends, eaten cheese buns, or drunk caipirinhas for a long time.

  It wasn’t easy to pack. After all, they had been in exile for five years. They had to give away many things: paintings, sofas, their oven, their fridge. Many others — rugs, books, ceramics — they sent by ship. Their clothes went with them on the plane. She went ahead with the baby, while he stayed on for another two months to take care of paperwork and fulfil some party obligations. Before she left, she called her closest friends together and told them that, while she was happy she was going to see her loved ones after so long, she was sad to be leaving her Portuguese friends behind. There was one to whom she was especially close (they had met in Albania, where, at a party dinner, they had looked at each other and smiled when they saw a fly land in the leader’s soup as he delivered a long, pompous speech) and whom she knew she’d miss tremendously. Their daughters were almost the same age, and it hurt to think that they wouldn’t grow up together, as the mothers had so often imagined.

  As she disembarked, a shiver raced up her spine and her heart beat faster. Who would be there to greet her? The wait for her luggage seemed interminable, even though she was chatting with an acquaintance she had bumped into in the arrivals area. She wanted to get out of there quickly, to really arrive. When she noticed the glass dividing wall she walked over, her bold olive eyes searching for a familiar face. She was surprised to see her father coming towards her, trailing his hand lightly over the glass. It had been so long! She would have said he was exactly the same, if he weren’t a little more wrinkled and stooped than the last time they had seen each other. Their eyes glistened, but
no tears fell. Imitating his gesture, she placed her hand against the glass as if she were holding his, and it was as though the glass didn’t exist; they could even feel the heat of each other’s hands. Suddenly he pointed at his granddaughter, noticing her for the first time. She looked from one to the other, from her father to her daughter, thinking things that were too obvious, too simple, things that reassured her that returning had been the best choice.

  She felt a hand touch her shoulder. The acquaintance had come to say goodbye: I think your suitcases might have arrived. She was disconcerted. Oh, great, she said. I’ll go take a look. And they wished each other good luck, all the best. As she pulled her bags off the carousel, she couldn’t think about anything else: she wanted to rush out and hug her father, unfazed by the tumult that awaited her, the flashing cameras, the friends wanting to know how she was, her daughter being passed around. All she wanted was to feel that she had arrived.

  You won’t believe where I went today. Where? Strolling through Rossio Square, I suddenly saw, in large red letters, the name Pastelaria Suíça. You’re kidding! You went to Pastelaria Suíça? Yes, you used to talk so much about their cakes and sweets that I never forgot the name. I couldn’t believe it when I happened across the large al fresco area, with waiters walking back and forth holding trays piled high with goodies. I used to love to sit at one of those tables and have a nice strong cup of coffee with something sweet. I’d pick a different one each day. This is it! I thought. This is the place my mother always used to talk about. How could I not? I remember as if it were yesterday: your grandmother had died in October 1977. In June 1978, on a sunny spring morning, Rossio Square brimming with people, I nervously walked into Estácio pharmacy to pick up the result of a pregnancy test. Positive, it read. You’re pregnant! announced the little piece of paper. I jumped up and down, laughed to myself, beside myself. The square had never looked so beautiful. It was life’s reply. I went to celebrate at the Pastelaria, where I ate until I had no more room. That’s exactly what I did. I sat at an outdoor table, with all the clamour of the square around me, the tourists, people out for a stroll or hurrying along for whatever reason. And I ordered two pastries: one for me and one for you.