By the time he’d reached Beşiktaş, evening had fallen. The sky had cleared behind him; only the eastern sky was enshrouded in deep purple clouds. Within their shadows, the hilltops, buildings, and gardens receiving the last of the sunshine assumed unrecognizable, grotesque forms that stuck in one’s imagination, as if they’d sprung from a spell or séance.
A dark and dank ferry landing: within a bizarre shiver, a fever of sorts, he awaited the Bosphorus ferry. Like a prisoner of fate, his face pressed to the iron bars of the pier fence, as if maintaining contact with his world through bars and interstices, he stared at the Asian shore, toward haunts of Nuran’s habitation. In that state, Mümtaz might have recalled each prison türkü that had embellished his childhood with sorrowful hüzün.
Perhaps through this remembrance and through his own enduring efforts, he’d descended into a phantasy that would prepare the way for an episode of psychosis, or hysteria of sorts. Beset by delusion, he stepped back from the fence and sat on one of the wooden benches in the waiting room.
The waters before Üsküdar embraced an opaque night. This was no longer a summer’s or September’s night exposed like a daisy, whose charms laughed with open abandon. A few days of rain had drawn an impermeable shroud separating the yalis and seas before which the ferry passed and the summer diversions and iridescent, languid hours that howled in a mother-of-pearl seashell, hours that had lasted till a day beforehand. Nuran, behind this shroud, gazed at him in remorse brought on by fathoms of separation, as if through a maddening lack of possibilities. Everything remained behind the shroud. His whole life, what he admired and believed, fables, songs, hours of intimacy, riotous laughter, unions of intellect, and even his own self, languished there, beshrouded.
Tonight a faded and feverish shadow consisting only of desperate memories and vague intimations remained exiled along with Mümtaz; instead of paving stones, the sidewalks were covered with memories reviving at first contact and assuming the form of reminiscences of days-past; tonight resembled a passageway from whose walls seeped melodies of nostalgic songs instead of water, Mümtaz could do nothing but roam, seeking out and searching for his former self by striving to sidle up to familiar sources of light one by one so as to warm his bones – yet whatever light he approached simply sputtered out.
From the lowered shades of yalis filtered fuller and more woeful lights different from the radiance that had caught them so unawares on nights of the bluefish; street lamps sparkled through denser haze, and gardens and copses – like massive flowers with withered petals and faded colors – persisted as shadows that coiled around a name or a memory.
Things withdrew farther into the nether reaches, to an inner realm from where they sparkled like the scattered traces of ancient lives or legacies removed from anything personal, isolated and atomized. Just like the fiery glimmer of jewels in the old Topkapı Palace that he’d visited in Nuran’s company, with their own particular astral shine in protective glass encasements, displayed without any recollection of the luminaries who’d once borne and worn them – numerous white hands and slender, straight fingers – without any recollection of chests and necks that were the matron and mirror of all desire. The ferry passed before each, as if wanting to acknowledge them one by one; and Mümtaz, from the corner into which he cringed, watched the deserted streets twisting and winding down beneath street lamps until reaching the Bosphorus and the ferry dock, whose boards yet glistened, and the small public squares and humble coffeehouses recalling the solitude congregating under oil lanterns in Anatolian train stations, coffeehouses living sequestered lives behind misty panes of glass in a state of introspection; each its own presence, they were satisfied to conjure this autumnal night at a complete remove from all other things. Mümtaz frequently murmured to himself, “As if they’re part of another world,” astounded that the life he’d lived up until yesterday had exiled him overnight; and he wanted to be beside Nuran so he could simply ask, “This isn’t really true, is it? I’m mistaken, aren’t I? Do tell me I’m mistaken. Tell me that everything is just as it was, that everything is actually the way it’s supposed to be ...”
Part III
Suad
I
Stepping through the garden door, İhsan exclaimed, “I saw the pair of them, they’re on their way!” Then, in genuine elation, he quickly approached Tevfik, who was resting in one of the wicker armchairs beneath the large chestnut tree, his legs extended, feet resting on another chair: “The pleasure of your company, my dear sir ...” His jacket and hat were in hand, his breathing labored.
The old salt said, “You’re getting old, İhsan!” Tossing away the small throw that he’d placed over his knees, Tevfik gathered his legs and invited Macide, “my fair lady,” to his side. Macide, tossing her sandy hair so it shone in the sun, kissed the elderly man’s hand. He smiled silently at Mümtaz and Nuran as if to say, “You’re a fine couple!” İhsan seated himself before Tevfik.
Mümtaz observed İhsan. He had worn the signs of age for some time. His hair had grayed and a slight paunch drew his torso to the fore. Large circles marked his eyes. But his arms were still sprightly and his body athletic. An expression of inner strength radiated from his face.
“Exquisite weather. Allah sizden razı olsun! May Allah be pleased with you lovebirds.” He closed his eyes tightly against the penetrating autumnal light, turning his face squarely toward the sunshine.
“What’s Sümbül prepared for us, Mümtaz?”
Mümtaz, smiling: “Today Sümbül is but the sous chef. Today’s offerings have been prepared by Nuran herself.”
“Under my supervision,” Tevfik quipped in his sonorous voice. The childlike defiance of a gentleman of refined habit flowed from his face. He was pleased to see İhsan. In fact this invitation of Nuran’s had consumed him. When Nuran announced that she and Mümtaz would be inviting İhsan, he said, “In that case, I’ll prepare the food!” He’d made the list of offerings and selected the ingredients himself.
İhsan uttered effusively, “Oh ... !” He hadn’t partaken of Tevfik’s fare for some time. “But is it only your fare? How long has it been since I’ve had the pleasure of your song?”
Tevfik raised his eyes to the firmament before gazing at the garden, the crimson-leaved trees, the tree trunks and branches turning purple in the distance, and the last of the grasses. His eyes traced the path of a bee to the garden gate. A peculiar and chilling warmth passed through his aging body. “D’you suppose anything remains of that voice, İhsan?”
His thoughts turned to bygone seasons, to a time when he’d been given the nickname “Honey-Toned Tevfik.”
“Certainly. It’s no secret that you bear a treasury.” The honor of the moniker had been made by Tevfik’s first mentor, Hüseyin Dede.
Through this recollection, the elderly man grew mournful and said slowly, “May Allah rest his soul. And besides, today you’ll be hearing quite a lot! Mümtaz also invited Emin along with Artist Cemil,” and in a soft voice he added, “I haven’t yet had the honor of meeting this Cemil.”
İhsan, overjoyed: “This Mümtaz is a true anomaly! He’s expanding his entourage to be sure. But how did you get the idea for this?”
“In three days’ time I’ll be moving to Istanbul. Before Nuran goes, she thought we should all gather again.”
“Where did you come across Emin?”
“I ran into him on the street. And he’s promised to play the Ferahfezâ suite.”
Tevfik leaned toward İhsan. “How many years have we turned back the clock, d’you suppose?”
“We exist in a region of timelessness, that is to say, forever in the same place.”
“Yes, always in the same place.” He felt like an aged, massive chinar that reigned over its surroundings. It’d be of no consequence should death catch him in this state. Hopefully he’d pass quickly through that portal, surrounded by everything he loved. He coughed slowly, and made as if to test the cadence of his voice: “I wonder if I can still keep pace wi
th Emin Dede’s ney.” Dying and succumbing to death are two separate things ... He’d witnessed the demise of acquaintances from a few generations one after another. The forests around him had thinned so this old chinar might stand out fully. The experience was so unsettling that for a time he’d thought, Maybe I won’t die at all! Maybe death has forgotten me, and such a thought was becoming of his self-confidence, his bodily strength, and the sybaritic selfishness nourished by them; but for a year now... Thus, he wanted to go up against Emin’s ney. Fifteen years ago such a contest wouldn’t have entered his thoughts. With an “Ah!” emanating from the depths of his being, he’d have made the parlor chandeliers where he was being feted chime, or with a single resounding high C, he’d have shattered the glass before him.
Communing with Emin Dede might demonstrate that everything hadn’t yet come to an end. The old man had even brought his kudüm drums along.
For a year now Tevfik had been curiously preparing for death. And he did so with the noble composure he’d displayed throughout life. He knew how to assume responsibility for his actions. And now he was attempting to confront fate. Not that he wasn’t afraid. He harbored a great affection for life. As he approached frailty and senescence, he’d come to appreciate the tastes and indulgences of this fluke phantasy, a chance composed of the material. He’d ceded all his visions and his existence became what it was; that is, a body riddled by all manner of disease. And this body wanted to reaffirm its existence.
İhsan: “Suad shall grace us with his presence as well.” Mümtaz’s face fell.
Macide, who’d witnessed this, exclaimed innocently, “Don’t do that, he’s the only person who’s flattered me in my life.”
İhsan, wearing his always saintly grin, said thoughtfully, “I knew it wouldn’t please you. But he does have an unusual appeal and strain of intelligence, though he’s the type who doesn’t know where or how to apply it ... And maybe that’s why he’s disturbed. It seems to me that he’s always banging his head against some wall or other. Apparently he caught sight of you the other day in Beyoǧlu, but you pretended not to see him!”
Mümtaz fumed with spite: “I did so see him, but he was in such extenuating circumstances that I felt I’d be imposing if I greeted him!” Then inwardly, Let’s see what else I’ll be accused of and how I’ll be belittled ... He described the encounter in the small tavern, the woman with the mauve hat, the impending abortion, all of it. It’s as if I’ve fallen into the depths of a deplorable well!
“As he descended the stairs he gave such a caustic laugh ... and the way he wrung his hands behind the woman’s back, as if to say, ‘Thank God we’ve dispensed with that.’” Mümtaz wrung his hands awkwardly. He knew this was despicable. An expression of disgust on his face, he fell silent.
While recounting the story, he hadn’t even once looked at Nuran. He spoke with his eyes trained on the ground; lifting his head from time to time, he addressed only İhsan.
“So that’s how it’s going to be then, eh? Whereas, he’d made mention of your weakness for alcohol. He commented that you probably drank in excess of what was salutary.”
Mümtaz made a gesture as if to say, “You know me better than anyone!” Strange sorrows flowed through him. He thought he’d driven Nuran to the brink of a rift. Suad, you’re vile ... accursed! But why am I so agitated! How is it that love has abruptly donned its mask of cruelties yet again? He’s confused me with himself, one more step and . . . , he looked at Nuran, practically with spite, as if to say, “Let’s see what else I’ll have to endure on your account.”
Nuran’s expression was a picture of indifference. But when she came eye to eye with Mümtaz, she smiled. “What’s it to us, Mümtaz? He’s a perfect stranger.”
İhsan tried to change the subject. “Three years ago this hill was nothing, but now I still haven’t been able to overcome my fatigue.”
“You’re still young, Aǧabey.”
“No, I’m not young, and furthermore, I’ve never been young. Neither have you. My father used to say that in our family we’re born head to hallowed ground.” He sighed, “I’m not young, but I’m full of vigor ...” He raised his arms above his head as if doing calisthenics, then he embraced his own chest in a sort of expression of strength, as if squeezing something beside his body. Mümtaz carefully observed the grace of his athletic form. His movements seemed to challenge the flow of time. “For humans this is genuine satisfaction, understand, Mümtaz? Knowing full well what’s ultimately in store yet nevertheless embracing oneself... it’s a simple maneuver, isn’t it? I’m wrapping my arms over my chest. I’m feeling my musculature. Quite simple. And despite the workings of death’s inexorable cogs, I’ve rejuvenated myself. I’m declaring that I exist, but I might not tomorrow, or I might become another person, a fool, a dotard. But at this moment, I exist. We exist, understand, Mümtaz? Can you appreciate your existence? Do you worship your physicality? Hail eyes! Hail neck! Hail arms! Hail seats of darkness and light! I sanctify you in the palace of the momentary, because we exist in symbiosis within the miracle of this instant, because I can move from one moment to the next together with you, because I can connect moments to create a continuous expanse of time!”
Macide heaved a sigh. “Doesn’t existence belong exclusively to Allah, İhsan?”
Mümtaz longed to listen to her voice, eyes closed as he used to do as a boy. He mumbled, “Adagio ... adagio ...”
“Of course, Macide, but we exist nevertheless, we also exist, and maybe because we do, He exists with such omnipotence. Mümtaz, what d’you think of this Macide?”
“Eloquent; eloquent and beautiful ... She’s become increasingly more youthful.”
Macide chuckled. “I think I’ve grown old, İhsan, I’m easily flattered now. On the previous evening Suad – ” Without finishing her words, she turned to Mümtaz. “Mümtaz, you’ve lost a pair of wings today, are you aware of that? But don’t worry about it. If today was only the first time, it’s of no importance. The first three losses are of no consequence, but on the fourth time ...”
İhsan looked at his wife. “Did you make this up?”
“Not at all. Grandmother used to say so. It’s apparently written in the Sacred Book.”
Nuran, reappearing from inside the house, wanted to know what they were discussing. “What’s written in the book?”
“Macide’s asking Mümtaz whether he knows he’s lost a set of wings today.”
“But they grow back three times ... don’t dare be upset on my account, Nuran. My feet haven’t yet touched ground.”
“To tell the truth, I’ve never seen Mümtaz without a pair of wings behind him ... ever since he was a boy. Even those days I’d go pick him up from Galatasaray on weekends, I’d catch sight of his wings before anything else.”
Nuran, laughing: “Oh, Mümtaz, now I see how you’ve been indulged!”
Then Nuran grew annoyed, astounded that she was playing the game of guest-and-host in this residence, whose mistress she was not, wherein she maintained she wouldn’t be able to make herself heard.
“We’re experiencing the best of Istanbul days. The fall has been unequaled.” said İhsan, turning to Nuran. “Don’t mind Mümtaz. In fall, with thoughts of winter rains, he’ll grow heavyhearted. Do you know why?” He looked at Mümtaz with affection and laughed. “His covering up too much, wearing too many clothes. When he was a boy, I always advised him not to overdress. People who do end up with overly active imaginations. Mümtaz, on a single God-given day, how many times do you live out the measure of your life in daydreams?”
“Honestly, I don’t know for sure, sometimes five or ten times . . . but no more.”
“Hah, is that so? That means you’ve learned to live in the present. In that case, Nuran has triumphed where I’ve failed. May Allah be pleased with you, dear Nuran.”
Autumn hung before their eyes fully ripe, like a large, golden fruit. They partook of it and all its particularities, wanting to make it part of everlasting time or, in o
ther words, of memory.
“If you lowered this wall, would the Bosphorus be visible?”
They all turned toward the garden wall. The reddish ivy that overwhelmed it evoked a small, insular evening. To conserve this exquisite twilight and the warmth of the memories it roused, Nuran quickly answered, “No, it wouldn’t. The house isn’t located on the ridge. In front of us is a small plateau upon which rest the neighboring houses; after that, the downward slope begins.”
“Nuran made a worthy design for the garden.” Mümtaz’s eyes filled with affection as the couple recalled the semichildish composition of the designs that had lain on the table. “It upsets her that she’s two years older than me, whereas I at times love her like a child!”
Tevfik grumbled, “If you want to see the view, you can go outside. If you want to gaze at the Bosphorus, go down to the shore! The garden’s better this way, İhsan.”
İhsan: “Yet, your seasonal flowers are few. You’ve been snared by roses.”
Nuran, who’d dreamed all summer about planning the garden, looked about. For some time now she’d meditated over the first day she’d come to this garden, the apiarian buzz, the passing downpour they’d watched from the picture window, and above all the night entwined with bizarre emotions evoked by knowing Mümtaz; the night, a springtime hurricane. Ladies’ voices distilled from Debussy’s music scattered in her memory like the white petals of wild roses.
“Our climate produces wonderful seasonal flowers, all variety of Rose of Sharon, evening primrose, morning glory, Caracalla bean blossoms, and begonias.” He raised his sights toward the sky. “This light shouldn’t shine without blossoms.” Then he asked, “What was the name of Cem Sultan’s mother?”
“Wasn’t it Çiçek Hatun, Lady of Flowers? Anyway, how did the journey to Bursa go?”
“Yes, Lady of Flowers, a nice nickname. Nice, in fact, quite beautiful!”
Nuran blushed and with a childish lilt said, “We were meant to go, too. I’d very much like to!”
A Mind at Peace Page 28
