by Loren Edizel
The doorbell rang. “Porca miseria!” he grumbled. It rang again. The maid had left for the day. He had to get up and walk to the door. His wife came out of the kitchen wiping nervous hands on her apron. He lifted his hand to show her he was going to handle this and to stay away. She retreated to the kitchen where she made more noise than usual with pots and pans. Leon opened the door.
“Leon?” Cacoyannis inquired with a pleasant smile, moving his body forward for an embrace.
“Vassilis. What a surprise….” Dimarco forced himself to say, ignoring his old friend’s move forward. He did not open the door wider, but remained there, blocking the view of the hallway. Vassilis had left his wife at the hotel. He was standing on the steps alone, surprised at not being let into the house.
“I came earlier…” he began.
“I know. My wife told me. She said you were looking for a vase. There is no vase, I never saw one.”
“But…” started Vassilis, “when you took over the house it was in the bedroom. It was blue. A Kütahya vase.”
“Don’t know anything about it.”
“Leon, come on. We were good friends. I left you all my possessions, my house, my antique furniture. I left it all behind. I’m not asking for it back. Even if I wanted it back, I couldn’t get it. But the vase was special.”
“Yes, my wife said it was a wedding present.” His tone was sarcastic.
“More than that. Inside was a key. Did you find the key?” pressed Vassilis.
“What key?”
“I need it. I need you to give it to me. It belongs to me, Leon. I came all the way from Athens for it. It has sentimental value.”
“Yes, right. Maybe it’s your treasure in the cellar, eh Vassilis? Maybe it’s your treasure box. It would have a sentimental value, of course.”
“You took the money, didn’t you? You took the money!” shouted Vassilis, at his wits’ end. “You took everything, you could have left that alone! There were envelopes there, letters, pictures. What did you do with those?”
Leon steadied himself by leaning on the door frame.
“What pictures? I shouldn’t even be talking to you, here. Who are you? What claims can you have? Sue me! And your lousy pictures and letters, they’re in the gutter. Fool! Get away from my house before I call the police,” he shouted, blood rising to his face, and slammed the door shut.
Vassilis stood there, stunned. The night was quiet but for the cicadas buzzing in the willow tree.
“That was all I had from my family, my parents. That was all that was left from my life, you louse.” He took a deep breath and shouted at the top of his voice, “Be cursed to hell, Leon! May this treasure you have stolen from me bring you and your descendants nothing but suffering and misfortune.” He raised his fists into the air, standing there, swaying from the strength of his own voice. He turned around and walked away. Leon had heard the curse. He saw Vassilis walk away from behind a parted curtain. The old man walked alone in the night, his steps echoing on the asphalt with Leon watching him until he disappeared from view.
The door of the terrace slammed shut with a sudden gust of wind blowing from the bay, making Leon jump. The gentle imbat breeze caressing the leaves of the trees had turned to a poyraz, shaking the branches until they slapped each other hard. The tall waves would reach the house in a moment. “Meryem!” he shouted. “Meryem, help me close all the windows!” Meryem had not heard him, so he ran all over the house closing the windows in all the rooms. The gold-rimmed glass of raki had shattered to pieces on the terrace. When Meryem called him to the kitchen for supper, he refused to eat, pouring himself another rakı and retiring to his study, alone.
In the morning, Vassilis and Theodora Cacoyannis changed their tickets to leave Izmir immediately. Theodora was weeping as she packed. Her husband stood gazing at the bay, eerily silent. They boarded their cruise ship and left, never to be heard from again.
Leon was standing in his office, looking out one of the large modern windows of the tall building he had constructed right across from the port as the ship taking the Cacoyannis couple back to Greece blew its horn to signal its departure. He looked dishevelled, having slept with his head on his desk in his study, fully clothed. From there, he had gone straight to work, before Meryem could wake up and inquire after him. His skin and breath still reeked of alcohol. He asked his secretary to cancel all his meetings and sat in his office alone until night fell.
I was there with him, inside of him, attached to the fabric of his mind: the tangled nerves, the grey matter of his brain imbibed with rakı, his blood forcing through the narrowing veins, the ache in his temples. When Cacoyannis uttered those final words into the night air, I was summoned to enter Dimarco’s mind and never leave him. From that moment on, I was his faithful companion, the whisper in his mind. As he sat morosely in his office, I started talking to him. What did you do, Leon? What did you do?
He did not reply in words. He thought, “I did what I had to do. I took the man’s money and threw out his memories and junk. I never thought he’d come back. How could I have known he would return? I did what I had to do.”
You could have been kinder. You could have told him the truth and apologized. He would have understood.
“Like hell, he would have. I wouldn’t have. I would have been mad no matter what. A man takes my money and throws my family pictures, I’d want to kill him.”
Don’t underestimate others, Leon. What is your life worth? Tell me. What is it worth?
“What kind of a question is this? It’s worth gold. I have made millions. I have brought wealth and ease to my family. I did this alone. I, the itchy bank teller in the white shirt. I’m proud of it. I sweated blood for it.”
Are you proud of this? Of being cursed to hell? He meant it with all his being, you know. You’re a cursed man, Leon, and your children are too.
“Hogwash! I don’t believe in such superstitions.”
You took away that man’s hopes. He waited thirty years to see his house, the small fortune he had stashed away, his family photographs of babies, parents, brothers, grandparents. He lived for this in his miserable exile. You fool. What now?
“Nothing. If he did it for thirty years, he can do it some more. Enough with all this questioning. I won’t be listening to you anymore either. Get lost.”
You think I’m Cacoyannis? That you can shut the door on my face, and I’m gone? Sorry pal, I have news for you. I’m here to stay. This voice you hear inside your head, it is real. I am real. You will hear me awake, you will hear me asleep. You will grow old and forget everything, but me, you will not forget. You will have me until the moment you die. Most people die alone. But you will have my company.
Dimarco rose from his chair and got the bottle of scotch he kept in the closet across from his desk to offer his business partners and clients. He didn’t like whisky very much; but it was expensive enough, the proper drink to offer for a lasting impression. He poured a large amount in his glass and gulped it down. “That will shut you up!” He thought and heard no response. He quickly got out of the office, told his secretary to cancel all his meetings until the end of the following week, he was going on holiday with his wife. She nodded, not comprehending this sudden change in demeanour, the crumpled clothes, the smell of ethyl. He hardly looked at her when normally he would size her up with sleazy appreciation, commenting on her outfits and beauty. She was secretly hoping to become his mistress, to accompany him on trips abroad, and if she was skilful enough she might get an apartment in her name, a tidy sum in the bank. Being attractive and working for a rich womanizer was an excellent career path, she thought, though by the looks of him today, she was no longer that certain of its direction. “Of course, Mr. Dimarco,” she replied as he stumbled out of the office.
When Dimarco arrived home, there was no one there. A note on the dresser said: “We’re in Şakran at my sister’s. Back at
the end of the week. Meryem.” No “I love you” or “I will miss you.” After getting married and having children, she had dispensed with these formulas. He lay on the bed for a nap.
You’re drunk. Sleep … sleep. Maybe sleeping will ease your conscience. Rest well.
“What the hell do you want from me, eh? Leave me alone. What’s done is done. Get away!” Dimarco shouted these words.
You’ve been cursed, Dimarco. Your children. Think of your children. They’ve been cursed too.
“It’s not like I killed someone. The guy had to leave. Some stranger would have taken the house, perhaps burnt it. He would have still lost his pictures. What the hell, what’s the big deal here?” Dimarco questioned out loud.
He’s as good as dead Leon. He’ll arrive in Athens and die. His heart won’t withstand this insult. Imagine what he went through for thirty years. Imagine the hopes he had when he came back. If nothing else, he wanted to see you, his childhood friend, hear a kind word, reminisce over a glass of rakı. He would have forgiven you for taking his money and throwing away his photographs and mementos, in return for some kindness. But what did you do? You slammed the door on his face. You didn’t even have the decency to apologize, or thank him for leaving everything to you. He was a good man. And you are a thief.
Dimarco whimpered. “Let me sleep a little. Go away so I can sleep a little. Tomorrow I’ll make it right. I will send him money.” He kicked off his shoes.
Sleep, sleep… You think you can buy your way out of anything, out of broken hearts, out of thieving. You have bought everyone you could. Cacoyannis, you won’t. He will die before he gets your letter. Keep sleeping.
“Get lost!”
Dimarco turned in his bed and closed his eyes, but it was not possible to sleep. He tossed and turned, finally got up and put his shoes back on, deciding to take a walk on the beach. He grabbed a bottle of brandy from the dining room buffet on his way.
You do that, have a drink, go look at the sea, look at it and think of how you got that money. You searched frantically all over the house until you found that briefcase hidden in the cellar. Do you remember how delighted you were to find the treasure? You held on to some banknotes and danced. Then you stuffed your pockets with them and went to see your mistresses one by one. You were drunk for an entire week. Remember?
“I do,” smiled Leon, speaking out loud. There was no one else there to think him crazy. “Those were the good old days. I like to remember them.” He took a swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood on the pebble beach, looking at the moon’s pale light oozing over the quiet, shiny mass of water. He could almost make out some ships in the distance. He wondered about Vassilis’ life in Athens, how it had turned out. Was it miserable, had he succeeded? He had forgotten about the man in all these years. He had gotten used to his gifts, had lost the feeling of gratitude that was so strong when he first moved into the house after watching his own house burn down, side by side with his mother. She had lived with him in Vassilis’ house for a few years until she died. She used to remind him of Cacoyannis. She used to pray in gratitude for the man who first saved them from bankruptcy and then gave them his own house. She was his conscience, his mother, and when she died, he slowly forgot it all.
Don’t forget this: Cacoyannis took his family away on a caique from here, exactly where you stand now. He pushed the boat and started rowing at dawn. He had told you where to find the key to his house, he had told you to go live there because your own house was burning. You see that large grey stone there? Yes, that one, that rounded thick one. Put it in your pocket. That other one, that is red in colour and even bigger, that one. Pick that one up, too. It goes in the left pocket. Just do as I say. Keep putting them in your pockets, they are lovely rocks. Want to take a boat ride? Go get the oars. We’ll do just like Cacoyannis, row out to sea, get away from the house, be alone in the night sky. You, me, and the stars. We can talk about other memories, too. Go get the oars.
He did as he was told. He slipped the oars into place and started rowing his boat away from the shore. At one point he stopped and lit a cigarette. He seemed to enjoy smoking it, lost in his thoughts. I let him enjoy himself in the purple night light, left him in peace until I saw him shudder under his white shirt. I knew then it was time to get back to work.
Dimarco! Dimarco! What are you thinking now?
“Are you my conscience?” he asked. He was going to keep speaking out loud to me from now on, I could tell.
I am a whisper. A whispering voice you will keep hearing inside your mind till you die.
“Whose voice are you?”
What difference does it make? I was summoned to keep you company.
“But I don’t want your company. I never asked for it. I want to be alone.”
You should have thought before you slammed the door. Too late now. What a beautiful house the man left you, didn’t he? You left the lights on in the living room. Why did you get rid of Theodora’s grand piano? It was so lovely. She was wondering about that too when she sat on the terrace with her husband.
“I don’t play it. No one I know plays it. It was taking too much space.”
Do you know she used to play like an angel? Had you ever heard her in those days?
“She could have bought herself another one wherever she was. I have no use for music or large pianos no one knows how to play.”
Look at the deep sea, Leon. Look at the blackness of it. Like the piano. Do you remember Vassilis’ face when you slammed the door shut?
Leon didn’t reply. He lit another cigarette. One oar slid from its place, into the water as he had forgotten to place it horizontally on the boat.
“See what you made me do? You’re distracting me!” he shouted as he stood up and bent over to try and see through the black water. The boat rocked, and the other oar slid into the darkness with barely a splash. Both oars were afloat now, already a couple of meters from the boat, drifting away quickly caught in water currents.
“Damn it! Now what am I going to do? Are you going to take me home?” He had drifted quite far from the shore so that he could not see anything through the lit windows of the house. They twinkled like stars in the night.
Do you want to jump to get that one back? I asked him. It probably hasn’t gone too far yet.
“Are you kidding me? It’s pitch black in there.”
Leon shuddered at the thought. He took another swig from the brandy bottle and lit another cigarette. His thoughts were dancing inside his head, whirling. He closed his eyes to still the movement, but his mind continued swirling behind his dark eyelids. He took a long drag from his cigarette and filled his lungs with smoke.
“Why did you make me put rocks in my pocket on the beach? What do you want me to do with them now?”
You may want to have options.
“What options?”
Oh, I don’t know. You have a lighter too, and a bottle of brandy. That’s an option.
Dimarco saw the picture. He was a smart drunk. “Must I?” he shouted.
Do you want to hear me for the rest of your life?
“No.”
It’s easy.
“You don’t have to do it. I don’t want to do it.”
But I will and you must.
“My wife doesn’t love me. My kids don’t love me either.”
Then what’s the point of this? You know what’s going to happen if you don’t do it. You will keep drinking, you will take pills, and you’ll do anything to stop hearing my whispers. You will fail. You’ll turn into a smelly drunk who talks to himself in the streets. This fortune, this house, all will be lost. All will be lost.
“Will you spare my kids?”
I did not answer him. I waited. He took another swig. He doused the boat with brandy. He took out his lighter.
No one heard him scream from where he was
. The lights from his living room on the distant shore continued flickering, like stars. Clouds had wiped away the Milky Way from the vast darkness above. By morning, a soaked plank of burnt wood had washed ashore, hitting the pebble beach below the terrace with each wave. I hovered in the house, waiting.
Hôpital De La Paix
I HAVE LIVED HERE most of my life; here, within the walls of this very hospital built after the Crimean War for the victims, the dispossessed, and the psychologically wounded. Sultan Abdul Mecid gave this land to the Sisters of Mercy in 1858, for their work during the war. There is a marble plaque written in French dated February 27, 1902, to commemorate Sultan Abdul Hamid II’s bequeathing the hospital and its grounds to the French Consul of that time. I was born more than a decade later far from Istanbul and was put in an orphanage in 1917 after my parents and grandparents died. I was in the care of neighbours for a while. I vaguely remember their garden that had a cherry tree in bloom. In my memory, it has remained so. I have no idea how long I lived there before being sent to the orphanage where I grew up. Perhaps no more than a season. I cannot recollect anything else.
It was a Catholic orphanage run by nuns and they taught me everything I know: cooking, scrubbing, gardening, sewing, math and French. Devotion. Humility. Cleanliness. Austerity. We all learned through discipline and by example. No one ends up in an orphanage by choice, so one’s feelings toward it are, at best, ambivalent. You might say no one chooses their own family either. But one hopes to be loved by them. In an orphanage, you grow up certain you are unloved in the immediate sense, but assured of Divine Love, the more rarefied affection sought through prayers. You are someone’s responsibility, and you have a clean bed, food, protection. Perhaps it is more than most can hope to get in life. I now think I was fortunate to have had that place to call home.
