Confessions

by Loren Edizel

  To my profound shame, the midwife confirmed my fears. She asked me if I were a practicing Catholic. I nodded. “Is the boy willing to marry you?” I could not answer. “You find out right away,” she said, “and come see me after that. I’ll see how I can help you.” There were knowing looks exchanged between the women as we left her house. I wanted to die. I felt as though my shame was strung out for everyone to see. It would be worse when my belly grew. I did not sleep at all that night.

  The next day, I went to work concealing my red eyes with powder and make up. There was no hiding the despair in them and Cem knew immediately, as soon as he saw me.

  “What are we going to do?” he was chain smoking at the restaurant, avoiding my eyes. “My parents will disown me if they find out. We will be penniless. Did you ask the midwife if she had a way…”

  “What way?” I asked fearfully.

  “You know, to not have it…” he looked down at his hands.

  “Do you love me, Cem?”

  “Of course I do. Of course, Angélique. I just can’t marry you at this very moment. They will not agree….”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they have someone in mind for me already. You know, the daughter of my father’s friend. It’s a family thing. I’ve known her since we were kids. They expect an engagement.”

  “You want me to have an abortion so you can marry her?”

  “No, no, of course not. I just need time, to break it off with her, you know, find a reason, and then wait till it is forgotten before I tell them about you. But like this, it is too rushed. I don’t know what to do!” He stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray.

  “If you loved me, you wouldn’t want me to go through such a thing. You … you would stand by me and marry me, no matter what they said.” I rose and ran out of the restaurant. I didn’t know where to go, and I must have walked all afternoon. When I got home, it was dark. I was exhausted and the soles of my feet were covered with blisters.

  Madame Lucine was waiting for me in the kitchen. She gave me a bowl of soup, sat me down and asked me how it went. I shook my head. There was nothing to say. I did not want her opinion on the “rich boy” either. She was kind enough not to say anything as I ate my soup quietly. I knew I had a lot of thinking to do. First of all, I had no one to turn to, no one to take care of me. Monsieur Kâmil could very well fire me too, for being pregnant out of wedlock. If I didn’t work, I would be penniless and homeless. My life was practically ruined and I was barely eighteen. I couldn’t bring myself to think of an abortion. I was going to have the baby, but how? And then, how to raise a fatherless child who would suffer taunts and insults all his or her life? I figured, if I killed myself after giving birth, she would be an orphan like me, she wouldn’t know shame. It was an option I had to consider. The only one I could think of, in fact.

  My landlady took me to the midwife that very night. The old woman gave me a bottle filled with a liquid, in case I wanted to “cause my period to come.” I took it home and sat on my bed looking at it all night. By morning I had come up with a vague plan. I went to work.

  Cem was nowhere to be seen. His brother came to my desk while I was struggling with the typewriter over a letter and whispered he knew the situation. The door to his father’s office was closed. He sat beside me and told me that Cem was distraught the night before and couldn’t keep the secret upon their mother’s insistence. He spilled the beans over dinner and asked for his father’s permission to marry me. He did the honourable thing, Can said. But their father was furious. He broke things, called him a brainless dandy, slammed doors and made a huge, ugly scene. “Cem is being sent away today,” he said. “To America. I was sent to speak with you. My father does not want to see you here anymore. I’m so very sorry, Angélique. It is all my fault. I have ruined your life. My brother loves you. He told me so. But no one can stand up to father. We are all reduced to stuttering, cowering fools in front of the despot. He uses his power and his money to torture us. Always has. I hate him.”

  “Why did you push me to Cem if you knew?”

  “Don’t ask me to tell you, Angélique. I am so ashamed of myself.”

  He hid his face in his hands.

  “You owe it to me.” I was cold, unforgiving. I waited.

  “Long ago, Cem seduced a girl I loved. We were young. He knew I loved her, and did it anyway, to show me he could. It made me bitter. When I decided I wanted to become a priest later on, I was not allowed to do that either. Cem was always the golden boy. He had all the girls. He was my parents’ favourite. I hated him for having it all. I know you will never forgive me, Angélique. But I have a plan. I think it may help you. First of all, there is some money in this envelope.” He passed me a brown envelope that was sealed. “You don’t have to worry about having the child. I will help you. When I wanted to join the church, I knew a priest by the name of Father Léon. He was arranging for me to go to Paris, so I could study theology there. I’ve already contacted him. I can take you to see him today. He can arrange for you to go to Paris, to a convent, so you can have your baby in peace, away from here. Perhaps from there you and Cem can get in touch. I will let him know so he can. I want to make it up to you both. I am very sorry.”

  It occurred to me at that moment that he was not so much to blame. I wanted to accuse him for my misfortunes, but what did he really do? I was the one who loved Cem. I was the one who had the affair. Cem was the one who got me pregnant. Yet Can was the one who felt guilty over my fate.

  Father Léon did arrange for my passage to France. I took the train through Europe all the way to Paris and into the convent. I waited and waited to hear from Cem, hoping he would come and get me and recognize his soon-to-be-born child. I never heard from him. The nuns who took care of me proposed I give the child up for adoption. They already knew a couple, a wealthy Parisian couple who could not have children of their own. I gave up my baby girl soon after her birth. She was beautiful, and had fine features, like her father. I named her Gemma, because it sounded like Cem. I don’t know if they changed her name when they adopted her. I asked the nuns to get me a photograph of my baby. For years after that, it seemed nothing could stop the torrent of grief sweeping over me. I wanted to jump from a bridge. There were many in Paris….

  The nuns helped me with their gentle kindness. Over time, I realized I had found a new family among them. I prayed with my sisters, and joined their work. I became a nun too. I was in the convent when the Germans occupied Paris, and I was still there when I got word that Cem had died in New York soon after landing there. He was the victim of an assault and bled to death on a sidewalk at night, they said. The news came from Can, through Father Léon and others in between. I also found out that Can finally managed to become a priest after his father closed his business because of the Wealth Tax in 1942.

  A decade later, when I felt I could face my old city again, I asked to be transferred to Istanbul, among the Sisters of Mercy who ran the Hôpital de la Paix in Şişli. This is where I have lived most of my life, in this very hospital, at the service of wounded souls, to help them find some peace; but mostly, in search of peace myself. This is where I am writing these few words, at my desk, in my small, bare room by the window facing the beautiful garden where patients take strolls, and sit in the sun. I can see the daffodils I planted a few years ago, blooming. I have the photograph of my Gemma, my only treasure in this life, in a secret pocket sewn to my undershirt, so that she lies right over my heart, day and night. I pray that she may be loved and cherished. I pray for her safety and I thank our merciful Lord for embracing me with his Divine Love throughout my life, even though never has a moment gone by without missing the earthly embrace of my lover, and my child’s warmth in my arms.

  Three Tales

  Tale One: Lemonade

  I CAN HEAR MY HUSBAND fucking the nurse downstairs. Her radioactive whispers and moans travel through concrete walls, through cra
cks and crevices, up the wooden staircase to seep into my ears and closed eyelids. He is more reserved, except for last night when he let out a small yelp, like a dog.

  First, he came upstairs to kiss my forehead and wish me goodnight. Then, she walked in with my glass of water and pills. I asked for the bedpan. She lifted me from the waist and squeezed the cold container under my sore buttocks. I haven’t worn underwear in months, to make this task easier. She decided it was better this way. She left the room after pressing the small bell into my palm and closed the door. I finished my business and rang it. This is what we do. She was waiting behind the door I suppose, and walked in right away, going to the bedside table to put on latex gloves and a blue paper mask before removing the revolting proof of my debility from under me. She placed it on the floor covering it with a lid and turned my body sideways to wipe my bottom. She sprayed some scent from a flowery can called Meadows in Spring all around the room, wished me goodnight and whisked away the bedpan holding it at arms’ length. I think I heard her retching farther away, but I may be wrong. I definitely heard the flush of the toilet and water running. Then there was silence for a while.

  I must have fallen asleep. I remember hearing echoes of children’s voices playing in the street. It comforts me to hear them shriek and laugh because somewhere outside my room, outside the sombre walls of this house, there is joy and hope and innocence spreading in waves, to remind those like me who have long forgotten its magic, that youth is immortal. I awoke to the sounds of cascading giggles. It sounded mature, imbued with sexuality — that of a woman being seduced. This is the hour they usually go at it, my husband and the nurse; right after the sun sets and the children withdraw from the streets toward dining rooms and homework. I no longer get hungry. They don’t have to prepare my soup for another hour and a half. They fuck. They feed me. The bedpan comes back. The light is turned off. They say good night individually and go into the night downstairs to continue where they left off. I stare at the ceiling mostly. What am I going to do? Ring the bell? I used to, when I cared. When I was still hopeful that I would get up and walk out of this sick room someday and have my husband. I had even complained about her vulgar ways, demanded another one. He said he would keep looking. But she is still here.

  Now I know I will not get better. It is a matter of time, and they are waiting for me to die. The children are grown up; they have all gone elsewhere. They have children of their own, husbands, jobs they cannot leave. My mother is long gone. There, he is doing it again. Why is he so noisy? I slept with him for thirty-five years and never heard the bedsprings creak under me. Sometimes I think they fall out of bed while they’re doing it, because I hear dull thuds. I asked him why he is cheating on me with that whore while I’m still alive, here in my own house. You’re imagining things, he said. It’s the morphine. Morphine, my ass.

  I have fantasized about poisoning her. Once, I almost did it. I crushed my pills with the paring knife left in my fruit plate along with apple seeds through the night, enough of them to kill her, and transferred the powder to my mint box. I asked for lemonade, told her to make herself a glass too and drink it with me. She brought the two tall glasses on a tray, spread a napkin on my chest, helped me sit up and fluffed a few pillows to place behind me. My husband was at work. We even made a toast to better days and took a few sips. I told her I heard a noise downstairs, looking frightened enough for her to go check. The few minutes I spent alone with her lemonade on my bedside were the most agonizing of my life. I wanted her gone. Even if they found out I killed her, what would they do? Put me in jail when I cannot even get out of bed?

  I couldn’t do it. She drank her entire lemonade like a thirsty cow, and my husband soon returned from work. They came to wish me goodnight smelling of sex. I still have the crushed powder in the mint box. I’m keeping it, in case. My husband is an idiot, but I need him to take care of me. I’m too ill now to care about his infidelity, but I hate hearing it; I hate the thuds, moans, and giggles. I’m revolted by the rhythm of bedsprings, her hastily buttoned up bosom, the liveliness of her healthy cleavage, her high heels and painted face, not to mention her sweaty odour breezing my way when she hurries to my side.

  One of my girlfriends comes to visit me once a week. I suspect she enjoys the sound of her own voice. Lately, she has been reading The Prophet to me, by Khalil Gibran. “Of the good in you I can speak, but not of the evil. For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst? Verily when good is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts, it drinks even of dead waters. You are good when you are one with yourself. Yet when you are not one with yourself you are not evil.” She reads monotonously. Today she is giving me the chapter on Good and Evil. Why are you reading this to me? I ask. You don’t like it? She raises her eyebrows, I found it very philosophical. Verily, I don’t understand a thing, I say flippantly. She closes the book. I’m joking, don’t be cross. Can you stay late today? Why, she asks nervously. Because I’m tired of hearing my husband bonk the nurse every evening. If you’re here they won’t do it.

  She seems appalled when I tell her about wanting them dead. What do you think, I ask her. Am I going to hell before they do? She whispers a prayer, holding my hand. Do you think he is taking Viagra, I whisper. He is jumping her daily, sometimes twice a day. I never got it more than once a week. Now that he is an old fart, he’s become completely crazed by this harlot. Did you see her long pink nails, her fat breasts and red lipstick? Don’t talk like that, she urges, offended by my language. Maybe you’re imagining it. Another idiot. I realize at the end of my life that I have no one to talk to. She did stay longer than usual, though, no doubt motivated by curiosity. They abstained, downstairs. My husband came and sat with us, making small talk about her children and her husband’s business. She was all smiles when she left.

  Why are you doing this to me? I wept.

  Don’t start that nonsense, please, he whispered back.

  Why do I hear giggles and thuds, her moans and your yelps if this is nonsense, I shouted with the little strength left in me. Why haven’t you fired her? You’re just waiting for me to croak so you can enjoy my money and my house with her. I gave birth to your children. I suffered your narrow, petty views. I spent my afternoons ironing your shirts. All those magical hours I wasted on your bloody trouser creases when other women swooned in lovers’ arms! You didn’t even make me come once. Why didn’t you do this to me when you could have? Bastard.

  I will call the doctor, he replied. I think she needs to come and see you immediately. My husband leaves the room, but not before I can catch a crease of sadness on his brow. I still love you, he says as he hesitates at the doorway. I’m sorry I couldn’t make you happier. He quietly shuts the door.

  A few hours later the doctor comes with her bag. My husband is in the room too, providing information, such as: I think my wife is hallucinating, could it be the drugs? How are you? The doctor asks me. As she removes the stethoscope from her leather bag, she thanks my husband and tells him he can leave the room. She smiles discreetly as I cough, breathe, not breathe, and the chilling metal circle travels over my chest. Do you think you may be hallucinating at times? Do you feel like you’re in a dream? More like a nightmare, I offer. My husband and the nurse: I hear them having sex daily. He is bent on convincing everyone that I’m going soft in the head. I hear them, I tell you. I smell sex on her clothes. I cannot get out of bed and they do this downstairs. How much longer have I got to live? You’re not in imminent danger, she says gently. Your condition seems to be stable. Why not invite a relative or friend to come stay with you for a while, maybe one of your children?

  I ask her to do me a favour and suggest it to my unmarried cousin. I give her the phone number. It would be better coming from you, I say. It is not my place to interfere in personal matters, but I can call her and tell her you wish to speak with her privately. I’ll ask her to visit you. Please tell her to rush, I plead. She nods with her p
rofessional smile still on her face. I will also change your medication; perhaps the combination is not agreeing with you. She scribbles another illegible prescription and leaves it on the bedside table. Would you rather I gave it to your husband? she asks. I’ll give it to him myself, I say, and she leaves, closing the door behind her. I hear whispers seep into the room from down the corridor. Is she discussing my descent into psychosis with the traitors? At least now I can look forward to something other than the sound of children playing outside and deep sleep. My cousin loves to tell stories, real stories, gossip. She opens her eyes wide as she tells her precious tidbits about so-and-so, her body reaching forward. Her voice gets raspy when she delivers the punch lines; she pulls her torso back, naturally making people move forward to hear better, not to miss anything. It’s rarely about inherently interesting stuff, mind you. Just that she tells it in a way that makes you feel you must find out what happens in the end.

  I hide the prescription in the drawer with difficulty. I cannot rise, reach over and twist my body, movements required to open the drawer and hide the paper. But somehow I’m able to reach sideways and pull the drawer from its bottom corner. It opens a slit. I grab the paper and slip it in before pushing it shut. All this activity exhausts me. I fall asleep staring at the furniture in the room, focusing on the stately black Singer sewing machine from the early 1900s sitting right across from my bed. A gift from my grandmother. The circular handle I used to turn and turn standing next to her while she told me stories of her youth to the rhythm of the needle going in and out of the fabric, her hands expertly moving the cloth around sharp corners, idling through small meanders, advancing on straight paths. I’m left with the feeling of fading into sleep or death, similar states, I realize, from the viewpoint of the moribund or the dreamer. Dreams have no continuity within them; neither does death.