Meanwhile, Mümtaz and Nuran apparently got along swimmingly without having to rely on her at all. Unforgivable. For quite some time now, she’d accepted being a catalyst of sorts between the sexes. This natural inclination ruled her home life and her days. Men and women were welcome to come, give each other the once-over, and even fall madly in love, but only under the rays of her golden orb, only if they depended on her mediation. After such an introduction, she might make mention of Nuran to Mümtaz, exciting his curiosity with subtle strokes, almost as if needling him, and on the next day, during another visit, she might do the same to Nuran, thus bestirring thoughts in both, before one night inviting them for an evening meal; thereby, she’d make the couple something like fixtures of the house, of dinnertime, and of the evening hours that she could not fill by herself! How she loved when a couple of her design sparked and caught fire. But she was not amused in the least by relationships so intense that they established an insular, independent life – under which circumstances she’d be forgotten whether she liked it or not. She took all necessary precautions to avoid such an outcome. She did, however, love to watch an incipient friendship develop step-by-step toward full-fledged love, to hear all the petite intimacies as confidant to each party, and to resolve any potential misunderstandings. Though if the matter grew and the relationship became truly serious, she would exert all of the efforts within her means to distance the lovers from one another, and because these efforts rested on well nigh ten or twelve years’ experience, more often than not, she succeeded. This much was certain: Adile could douse the flames of love as well as ignite them. Regardless, she held the institution of marriage in high esteem. She’d be much more content, however, if the women she knew married outside of her own milieu. She wanted to keep her friends to herself. They were available for limited dalliances only. Adile wasn’t so unrefined as to speak openly about this. Even if in the end the couple were to marry, Adile’s assistance should be sought in establishing the conjugal nest. Were the hardships of this life something worth enduring without such moments of satisfaction? Meanwhile, Mümtaz and Nuran had begun this flirtation through their own acquaintance. Adile, coincidently, had long felt the urge to initiate something between them. However, when she now saw the way Mümtaz gazed at the young lady, she quickly changed her mind about inviting them to her dinner table three days hence.
Adile made as many mistakes as the next person, but she was possessed of a virtue: When she understood her error, she didn’t hesitate to take appropriate action.
No, she wouldn’t be extending any invitations. Now she only desired one thing: to inform Sabih at the earliest convenience that she’d had a change of heart. It was nothing short of annoyance for a thought to remain in the good lady’s head without being expressed to Sabih, especially such a vital decision, without being conveyed in the most direct and concise manner. Not to mention that the gravity of this decision was on par with a death sentence. Mümtaz would later think that this verdict really had more to do with Nuran; Adile had a soft spot for men. They weren’t as devious as women; even the ugliest among them possessed such sweetness and tameness that ...
He was convinced that Adile wouldn’t make a sacrifice of him, that she’d even invite him over this very week; yet, he was also certain that Nuran would only be allowed to pay a visit alone.
Next to Adile’s fixations, Sabih’s were much more elementary. He was overcome with great hopes upon seeing the attraction between Mümtaz and Nuran. Since the last fiasco, having to do with bath fixtures – a Polish friend of his had circumvented that – Adile had taken out all her sorrows on her husband’s treatment for uritis. For months now he’d been eating boiled carrots and buttered vegetables. Especially after Nuri’s wedding, his diet had become exceptionally strict. For weeks he hadn’t seen a drop of rakı. Would that an unexpected guest stop in for a visit! As fortune would have it, not a soul stepped foot into their neighborhood. If these two fools managed this matter well enough, tomorrow evening even ... No, tomorrow night Sabih saw himself with a plate of boiled carrots and fresh zucchini before him again, as on the previous night and the night before. He sighed. People were cruel indeed. Life was unbearable; what difference was there between eating carrots and eating one of your own legs like a hungry spider? Eating one of its own legs ... He’d read about it in the French newspaper spread before him that morning.
From where she sat, Adile resembled one such spider, and her thoughts – with an appetite of that voracity – were consuming her. Directly, she noticed Fatma growing increasingly more impatient at the other end of the table. The girl was rather pretty, but this beauty was undercut by an astounding brattiness. Apparently she was jealous of her mother’s attentions. A glint of hope sparkled within Adile, her heart opened up like a Japanese paper flower unfolding in water, and she was overcome by eternal compassion and affection. An entire horizon opened before her. As she looked at the girl, she realized that this budding dalliance would never come to pass. The poor little thing . . . Adile immediately began to fawn over her. With affection that would make daemons of torment weep, she asked the girl how she was. Fatma, realizing she was being pitied, furrowed her brows, and Nuran, stunned in the anticipation of the imminent downpour, glanced at her as if to say, “Please don’t.” Without returning the glance, Adile pranced down a path of compassion and consideration: “Tell me then, do you still dance as well as you used to? Like on the night you came and played at our house, you remember ... Whatever happened to your train set?” How her voice glided like velvet. How it knew to slip deep into one’s inner recesses. The train set and dancing had been a part of the previous New Year’s Eve celebration that they’d all spent together, her papa included. Adile’s sympathy had selected this memory carefully ... as if picking a dagger from an attic full of forgotten objects.
This alone provoked the most poignant reaction from Fatma, catapulting her out of the introversion she’d sunken into, out of the anguish of having been forgotten. That day Mümtaz learned the precise degree to which the mind of a jealous child could be an intrument of mischief. During the entire ferry crossing, Fatma didn’t allow Nuran a free moment. The young mother had been all but subdued by an afreet. Only with her smile was Nuran present among them. By the beacon of this remote smile, Mümtaz listened to Sabih’s insights into the present state of world affairs. Due to the deprivations he was forced to suffer, the Great Carrotivore was exacting his revenge from mankind. As though indicating, “Here’s my evidence,” the palm of one hand pressed down on the French newspapers before him, he denounced one and all.
Had Mümtaz not been able to see Nuran’s countenance in the arcane depths where it had withdrawn in faraway conversation with Adile, had he not been able to see her graceful smile illuminating her face, he’d have been forced to conclude that the end of the world was upon them – presently a rather welcome eventuality – and that this procession of fools known as mankind deserved such a fate as Armageddon. Nuran’s smile, however, her sandy hair gathered atop her head like a season complete, convinced him that life had its horizons, aside from and surpassing politics and causes, more beautiful and more apt to transport one to realms of tranquility; her presence convinced him that contentment came within an arm’s length at times, and that mortal existence was configured more soundly than he’d assumed. As the ferry approached the island, this optimism within Mümtaz met with strains of agony. Once there, he’d have to separate from Nuran and her daughter.
II
Mümtaz regretted hurrying away as soon as he’d left them. He shouldn’t have abandoned Nuran like that. Perhaps I can catch sight of her, he thought, and waited at some remove from the ferry landing. The crowd flowed ceaselessly. As the passengers and those who’d come to greet them thinned, he first noticed Sabih and Adile – Adile could walk only a short distance on the street without leaning on her husband. For her, in all probability, one of the sound ways of fully exploiting the resource known as a husband was to have him carry her, if o
nly partially, while they were out and about; presently they were locked arm in arm. Sabih, as if wanting to create a ballast of world affairs to counter Adile’s heft, which dragged down his starboard side, carried a roll of newspapers in the opposite arm, his forehead furrowed in aggravation; doubtless, he forged ahead with a litany of ideas and comparisons about the ordered regulations of ferry docking and departure in the countries of the West.
Mümtaz shielded himself behind another group to avoid being drawn into further conversation with the couple. Soon Nuran and her daughter appeared. Evidently, so she could walk with greater ease, Nuran had chosen to remain onboard until the very last. With her face lowered toward her daughter, wearing a sweet and simple grin, she walked on, explaining something or another.
But neither the smile nor talk lasted long. As soon as they exited the station building, Fatma shouted, “Papa! Mother, Papa’s coming,” and bolted forward. What Mümtaz witnessed then, he’d scarcely ever forget. Nuran’s face turned ashen white. Mümtaz looked about; twenty or twenty-five paces before him approached a blond woman, thick-boned and full-breasted, if not stunningly beautiful – when he thought of this scene later, he decided, At least beautiful for some men – accompanied by a swarthy man of about thirty-five with black hair, whose arms and face were bronzed by the sun and whose bearing gave the impression that he enjoyed water sports. Nuran’s entire body trembled. As the thick-boned woman passed, Mümtaz heard her whisper softly, half in Turkish, half in French: “But c’est scandaleux! Fâhir, for God’s sake, shut her up!” Fâhir and his mistress finally neared Nuran. In a flurry of “God bless” and “Oh, what a pretty child,” Emma took Fatma into her arms. Fâhir, meanwhile, stood as if he were made of ice. He’d only managed to bring himself to caress the girl’s cheek. A strange, awkward exchange ensued. From where she stood, Nuran continued to tremble; Emma, stressing each syllable she uttered to the breaking point, fawned, “Oh, what a beautiful girl!” and Fatma, distraught by this stranger’s affections, and especially by her father’s cool distance, clung to her mother’s skirts and wept. An onlooker might have concluded that the episode had been orchestrated by Nuran, or that Fâhir hadn’t missed his chance at a snub of indifference toward his ex-wife in front of Emma. Nuran put an end to the bitter episode, which could have lasted hours, with a gesture that revealed much of her character: Taking her daughter into her arms, she walked between the two of them and a short distance ahead boarded a phaeton-for-hire. As they passed, Mümtaz noticed that Fatma was convulsing in tears. He felt a twinge of distress. At the head of the road, his friends were awaiting him. He approached them:
“Where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you ...”
“Has İhsan come?”
“Yes, and he’s with a relative of yours!”
“Who?”
“Somebody named Suad. A peculiar fellow. He’s staying at the sanatorium here!”
“He resembles a horse ...”
Mümtaz said only, “I know him,” then turning to Nuri, “It’s true, he does look like a horse.” Though in his mind’s eye he conjured the way Nuran’s hair slipped frequently from her temples toward her eyes.
Orhan completed the analysis, “He’s something of a cannibal!”
“No, he’s only an assassin, or a frantic assassin, that is to say, suicidal!”
These terms referred to an in-joke that had begun at the university. One day at the Küllük coffeehouse, they learned how a renowned historian, Mükrimin Halil, had separated people into three main categories – “Lackeys of the Orient,” “Regulators of the World,” and “Thugs.” Then they’d furthered the categorization. “Cannibals” were fanatics of any ideology, whether on the right or the left. “Assassins” had certain hang-ups and discussed them with whomever they saw. “Frantic Assassins” subjectified these hang-ups to an extreme and were filled with feelings of revolt. And as for “Suicidals,” they turned these hang-ups into torturous double binds.
Arm in arm, as they had been years before, they occupied half the road and walked along laughing and talking. None of them noticed Mümtaz’s state of distraction.
At this afternoon hour, the restaurant filled with the presence of the sea. Suad and İhsan sat at a corner table. Light reflecting off the sea appeared to gather on Suad’s face. Since the last time he’d seen Suad, Mümtaz found him to be thinner and paler. His bones seemed to protrude.
İhsan said impatiently, “Don’t waste any time, come sit down.” İhsan drank quite infrequently. Rather than from any concern about health, he abstained in order to give alcohol its proper due in life. He’d say, “We shouldn’t let the secrets of alcohol lose their effect within us.” As for the times he did partake, he’d grow as impatient as a child. He’d picked this restaurant because it was near the ferry landing, and he’d eagerly awaited Mümtaz’s arrival. He abruptly turned to Mümtaz: “Your eyes are alight ... What’s going on?”
Surprised, Mümtaz said, “Seeing Suad is quite a pleasure ...” In fact, he hadn’t been pleased to see Suad, although he admired his intelligence and conversation. But there was something he couldn’t put his finger on that disturbed him about Suad.
“What a joy ... There are people in this world who are pleased to see me.”
In response to his laughter, Mümtaz thought, You see, this is precisely why I like you! Actually, Suad’s laughter had a force that came from the heart yet negated everything. He laughed and his face abruptly appeared to be alien and antagonistic. Is he fed up with his own life or is he mocking me?
Fahri grinned at İhsan and said, “I told you he’d come. You didn’t believe me.”
“But he’s two ferries late.”
“No, I only missed one.”
“When did you get up?”
Mümtaz again recalled the great triumph of his evening, and said, “I finished the book last night. I went to bed late and couldn’t sleep. No matter what I tell her, I haven’t managed to get Sümbül to wake me at the right time!”
Sümbül was the maid who saw to Mümtaz’s domestic affairs in Emirgân.
Suad asked, “What have you been reading these days, Mümtaz?”
Gravely, Mümtaz examined the plates of appetizers being placed before him. He’d seated himself opposite the door despite knowing full well that the young lady whose acquaintance he’d just made wouldn’t appear. “Practically everything Turkish ... Ahmet Cevdet’s History, Sicill-i Osmanî biographical entries, Taşköprüzade’s Şakâyık . . .”
Suad responded dismissively, “Disaster! Now how are we supposed to converse? Mümtaz and I used to discuss things easily enough in the past. First I’d ask him which writer he was reading, then I’d begin talking from that author’s perspective or through those concerns.” His inscrutable face cracked open with an abrupt, puerile laugh. Completing his earlier thought, Mümtaz mused, You see, this is also why I like him.
“Isn’t everyone more or less reading this way?” Nuri interjected. The four of them, inseparable friends from Galatasaray, were immensely fond of Mümtaz and couldn’t tolerate any innuendos made against him.
Suad gestured with his hand, “I meant to make a joke. I always needle Mümtaz this way. Of course, I know what he’s all about. We’re relatives. But to tell the truth, I often wonder whether everyone reads as much as we do.”
Fahri’s opinion took a different tack: “Europe reads much more than we do. And a number of languages at once. That’s not the point, but ...”
“There’s another problem still. We’re not comfortable with what we read.”
İhsan was examining the transfiguration of ice in his glass, how the clear liquid slowly became clouded as if being enhanced by veins of marble. Now the glass was full of a less benign liquid.
“Bottoms up!” he said. Then he answered Suad. “The issue is this: The things we read don’t lead us anywhere. When we read what’s written about Turks, we realize that we’re wandering on the peripheries of life. A Westerner only satisfies us when he happens t
o remind us that we’re citizens of the world. In short, most of us read as if embarking on a voyage, as if escaping our own identities. Herein rests the problem. Meanwhile, we’re in the process of creating a new social expression particular to us. I believe this is what Suad is saying.”
“Indeed, with one leap to shake and cast out the old, the new, and everything else. Leaving neither Ronsard nor his contemporary in the East Fuzûli . . .”
“Is this even in the realm of possibility?” And Mümtaz succumbed to Nuran’s locks again. Does her hair always fall that way, slightly ... Does she always brush it back with her hand while lifting her head?
Suad listened, none the wiser about Nuran’s tresses. “Why shouldn’t it be a possibility?”
“It’s impossible because ...” But what was impossible was his discussing such matters at present. I’m on this island and she’s here too ... How distant we are from each other. It’s as if we are in the same house but in separate rooms. “Because, to begin with, we’d be creating a tabula rasa in vain. What do you think we’ll gain through such refutation besides the loss of our very selves?”
With a beatific look, Suad said, “The new ... We’ll establish the myth of a new world, as in America and Soviet Russia.”
“And do you think they actually cast aside everything, all of it? If you ask me, neither our denial of the past nor our resolve to create can establish this new myth. If anything, it rests in the momentum of the New Life itself.”
“Then what d’you expect us to do?”
But Mümtaz didn’t answer. His mind was preoccupied with the episode between Nuran and her not-husband – it had to be Fâhir. How her face fell. She was upset enough to burst into tears herself. And suddenly, through a compassion that rose up within him, he promised to bring her happiness, for as long as he lived, to bring her happiness. And immediately at that instant he was ashamed of his childishness. So infantile! He acknowledged for the first time how sentimental he could let himself be.
A Mind at Peace Page 10
