“I’m essentially speaking of foundations. In the East, particularly in the Muslim East, society is predicated on notions of liberty.”
“What difference does that make once it’s dismissed out of hand?”
“That’s another matter. That’s the result of an etiquette of altruism and self-sacrifice. The Muslim East has been in a defensive posture for centuries. Take Turkey. For a period of close to two hundred years, we’ve been living through phases of vital self-defense and security. In such a society, a fortress mentality naturally arises. If today we’ve lost the concept of freedom, the reason is that we’re living in a state of siege.”
Suad extended his glass to Mümtaz: “Mümtaz, please do me the favor of letting me exercise my free will.” His voice was as timid as a child’s. Or was it hissing? “The very liberty granted to me by Almighty Allah after He’s so effectively bound me hand and arm . . .” He took up the glass and stared within. As if he’d seen an ominous portent there, he reared his head and as if to dispel the vision he’d seen once and for all, he clouded the rakı with water: “There you have it, the extent of my liberty . . . but not as foolishly exercised as you might suppose. Don’t mock it!” Suddenly angry with himself, he set the glass back down. “But why did I acknowledge your censure by saying that? Don’t you all do the same?”
Nuran: “No one’s annoyed because you’re drinking. We’ve gathered here for a diversion, of course we’ll drink.” And she raised her glass. Mümtaz turned away to avoid coming eye to eye with her. She felt that they’d all surrounded Suad, in honesty involuntarily, maybe through his own instigation, maybe through their own apprehension, maybe even because they despised him, and had straightaway begun treating him like startled prey in battue or blood sport. This was nothing short of making a bad situation worse.
Not just in this parlor now but perhaps beneath every street lamp in every corner of the world similar scenes were unfolding. Mankind was inept, and for this reason ill-fated. The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley. An array of meaningless miseries and piddling sorrows . . . Mümtaz sighed. Suad will make a scene tonight. Simply thinking so is preparing the way for a crisis. Isn’t politics this way also? Fear and the defense mechanism, its counterpoint . . . as in music . . . and at the conclusion the golden tempest of a grand finale. He, too, was surprised at the sudden passage of his thoughts to Western music from the mood that the a la turca had conjured within him: How peculiar ... I belong to two worlds. Like Nuran, I live between two realms, two beloveds. That means I don’t constitute a whole! Aren’t we all this way . . . ?
Suad pretended not to hear Nuran’s response: “Everybody chastises and criticizes me. Some allude to my illness, some to my marriage. Neither of them is of any consequence.” He grasped his glass tightly. “Everybody brings some malfeasance to my attention. My wife, my friends, my relatives . . . Never once do they consider that I was born without a sense of responsibility. One is either born with or without it. Bereft, I don’t have it. My wife realized this during our first week together, but she still complains and nags. Maybe she’s waiting for a miracle . . . Won’t a miracle happen? Imagine that I experience a sudden transformation and begin to cherish my life! Imagine that at work, I’m pleased with the president, the branch director, the treasurer, and the legal adviser . . . Imagine that I’m happy when my children climb onto my shoulders. Imagine that!”
Macide jeered, “Did you have a little something before coming here?”
“I started last night, Macide. Last night, Yaşar took me along to Sabih’s. There we drank till midnight, then we went down to Arnavutköy, where we stayed till three or four. Then . . .”
Nuran inquired about the rest of the night as if after a fabulous adventure: “Then? What happened next, Suad?”
His face was a shambles.
“Next, naturally... well, Arnavutköy is the mecca. They have all types. Even ethnic types, you might say . . . but since we were being entertained en famille, we preferred Gypsies. Greeting the dawn to the beats of a hand drum. You know the infamous entertainment spots over on the Hürriyet-i Ebediye hill? We found ourselves there. From within the night, a Gypsy ever so slowly conjured the rose-faced dawn with his hand drum, as if drawing water from a pump. There was a nymphette there as well, a spring bud, a girl practically. Her name was Bâde, ‘wine.’ Just use your imagination ... or Mümtaz should do so, it’s his genre. An improvisation on drums, a Gypsy nymph named Bâde, her companions, rakı, dancing . . . Then sleeping it off on a divan at a friend’s house.” His face puckered. He brought his glass to his lips but sufficed with one sip. “It’s difficult in the mornings. I haven’t managed to get used to the fatigue that comes in the wake of a binge.” He deposited his glass on the table. The gathering was in a state of shock.
“Is this enough, Nuran? It’s quite shameless, isn’t it? But if you want to know the truth, nothing of the sort happened. We didn’t go to Sabih’s nor did I hit the bottle. I was together with my wife last night, and I came here directly from Paşabahçe.” He smiled sweetly: “I’m not drunk, you can be certain that I’m not.”
Macide asked: “In that case, why did you lie?”
“To unsettle you. So you’d chastise me. To appear like a man of some import.” He was cackling between short, dry coughs: “It bothers me when my marriage comes up.”
Nuran: “Nobody brought up your marriage.”
“It doesn’t matter . . . I mentioned it, didn’t I? That’s enough, it means I’m under societal pressures!” He wiped his brow and turned to Mümtaz: “Mümtaz, shall I give you material for a story? Think about this, just let me set the scene . . . A man, a man of virtue, a civil servant, a professor, if you like – conjure a saint! Draw him so that he is possessed of every virtue. A man who hasn’t once faltered in decency ... yet he despises commitment. Peculiar, is it not? He’s a narcissist: He wants to live only through himself and for himself. His life is full of random but kindly gestures, and these acts become increasingly more generous. He likes to exercise his freedom of thought and he recognizes no sense of obligation. One day he up and gets married, perhaps to a woman he loves, an experience that completely changes him. He becomes grumpy, fussy, and ill-willed. The thought that he’s been pigeonholed slowly begins to drive him mad. The burden of being labeled, of living paired off like a draft horse, affects him. He begins to act despicably toward almost everybody; he’s cruel to animals and his fellow man, to all things. He becomes petty and he can’t endure anyone else’s happiness. And in the end . . .”
Hastily bringing down the curtain, Mümtaz said: “A textbook scenario . . . he murders his wife.”
“Exactly, but it isn’t that simple. He has protracted debates with himself. He ponders his life like a riddle and concludes that his marriage is the only obstacle resting between himself and humanity.”
“Why not divorce?”
“To what end? D’you suppose that two people who’ve lived together can separate, I mean truly separate from one another?” He said this staring squarely at Mümtaz. “And if he left her, what would come of it? Even if he could break off all ties, those intervening years spent together will haunt him. Will he ever be able to escape it all, a vast, terrifying existence of darkness, every excruciating minute of which he’s lived through? Not to mention habits of mind. At which point he’ll succumb to even greater hesitation. Think about it, this is a man who’s consciously committed every affront and indecency against his circle. Leaving his wife would just be adding insult to injury.”
“Once he murders, will he then forget?”
“No, he won’t forget. Of course he won’t forget. But his spite will diminish. The constricting resentment within him will evaporate.”
Nuri, unable to restrain himself: “Mümtaz, if you ask me, in place of writing about him, if you happen to come across him in the flesh, kill him outright. It’d be the nobler deed.”
Suad shrugged: “What would that solve? We’d only be dodging the issue. Not
to mention that Mümtaz wouldn’t be able to. To kill him, he’d have to meet and single him out. Why should he kill somebody who resembles everyone else? More or less, everybody resorts to acts of depravity as a reaction to one person or a handful of people. Rest assured . . . behind each downfall you’ll find a precipitating one. Each of us digs his own grave. The man in question resembles all of us, he’s an Everyman . . . but he refuses to accept this fact. In the end, he seizes upon the only available solution to end this pitiless game. A single act, a bloodletting, a deed that resembles vengeance. And as soon as he takes action, as if having crossed an enchanted threshold, he discovers he’s broken through to the other side, to his old world, rich with the treasures of decency he’s borne all along. His face shines, his soul assumes all of its generosity, he loves his fellow man, he pities the plight of animals, he empathizes with children . . .”
“How, through murder?” İhsan’s mood had soured. Brooding, as if at the edge of an abyss, he recoiled within himself, staring at Mümtaz. Nuran went to Mümtaz and placed a hand on his shoulder: as in an altercation, everybody stood by his most trusted and beloved companion. Only Selim was alone: short of height, his arms crossed, observing the conversation up front with an expression of immense entertainment. Or rather, he resembled an urchin at a neighborhood cockfight.
“There’s no acknowledgment of murder.”
Macide: “Are you crazy, Suad? Why are you discussing such things? Take pity on yourself.” And startled by the word “crazy,” which hadn’t been uttered in her presence for years but had now passed her own lips, she withdrew behind İhsan, her body atremble.
“Not at all, why should I be crazy? I’m explaining the plot of a story. There’s no murder in it, but there is the matter of salvation. The removal of a single intervening obstacle. There’s rejuvenation. Indeed, he rediscovers the world. He’s given himself a period of seven days. For seven days he conceals the crime. For seven days, as if resurrected, he lives among others blithely and empathetically in halos of golden radiance. Just like a god, for seven days ... and on the evening of the seventh day, in a state of peaceful reconciliation with nature and life, in a mi’raj of human fate, he hangs himself.” İhsan: “Impossible. How can you account for such a transformation in character? No sense of vengeance, no claim of justice gives an individual the right to kill another. But suppose he assumes this right and murders anyway. How did the transformation come about? The path to self-realization doesn’t pass through murder . . . The blood of mankind is taboo. It diminishes and oppresses humanity. Even in the case of social justice, those who mediate through murder are always anathema. The executioner is always a pariah.”
“Within the context of our own morality, yes, but by transcending it . . .”
“Morality can not be transcended.”
“Why not for somebody living beyond good and evil? You’re talking about accountability, but my protagonist has no intention to be accountable. He wants liberty. When he attains that he becomes a demigod.”
“No one becomes free by spilling blood . . . Blood-stained freedom isn’t freedom, it’s something besmirched and tainted. Not to mention that a person can’t be divine. Man is humane. And this is a station attained through much toil.”
“Do me the favor of defining freedom.”
Suad stared at İhsan for a minute. İhsan was on the verge of responding, but Macide, genuinely anxious, interrupted: “İhsan, you don’t suppose that he plans on killing Afife?” İhsan calmed his wife with a chuckle: “Don’t be childish, good heavens!” He added slowly, “No, don’t be afraid, he wants to vent . . . He got a little frustrated, that’s all.” Then he turned back to Suad, awaiting an answer: “I can. It’s the grace and prosperity we wish for others.”
“But what about yourself, what happens to the wisher?”
“By desiring grace for others, I, too, become free before my urges and appetites – ”
“That’s nothing but another form of slavery ... each of us exists independently.”
“In one respect, yes, if I don’t sincerely desire the well-being of others . . . but think of it as a joint venture, then it’s total freedom. As soon as you say, ‘Each of us exists independently,’ you’ve forsaken everything. Existence is whole and we’re its constituent parts! If the contrary were true, the world would degenerate. Yes, existence is whole, and we’re its transient elements. We might only achieve satisfaction and peace through this mind-set.” Then he smiled. “I’ve made a lot of concessions to you, Suad . . . Understand what I’m trying to say; perhaps we could even agree at some fundamental level. Man, one by one, does not become divine; however, if mankind fashioned an ethics suitable to its circumstance, it might become divine! That is to say, it could assume grand qualities.”
Exhausted, Suad withdrew to a corner. He clung tightly to his rakı. Mümtaz simply stared at him. We’re having a bizarre night . . . He wasn’t angry with Suad as before. Clearly, Suad was afflicted. But he couldn’t fully empathize with him, either. An aspect of Suad’s character rejected all feelings of pity. One could rather admire or despise Suad, but he couldn’t be pitied. His disquiet closed the human heart to him. Even now, in the parlor under electric lights, he was alienated from each person and from the entire group, ostracized, an anomaly.
“No, this isn’t the issue ... You’re conceiving the matter backward. I’m referring to an idiosyncrasy. I’m not referring to a person born into poverty, but to one born into wealth. You’re attempting to apply a general system of order to him. He’s above that. Don’t forget how I started all this. I described him as someone who’s already possessed of all virtue.”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’ll tell you: What others strive to achieve, he already possesses inherently.”
“Among these virtues can we name duty and responsibility?”
Nuran closed her eyes. I wonder what Fatma’s doing now?
“No, not those. He’s completely independent with respect to his surroundings, but he’s generous.”
İhsan asked slowly, “Don’t you now realize where you’ve gone wrong?”
“No, I don’t . . . but what difference does it make? Mümtaz should still pen this story.”
İhsan continued: “You’re absolving people of responsibilities to impose certain preconceived and innate virtues. But being human involves a sense of responsibility. All the rest contributes to the wealth of one’s character. In fact, in your account, your protagonist, the demigod that you’ve conceived, undergoes a transformation enabling him to commit a crime as a result of marriage, a lapse of the imagination, or maybe unprovoked hatred. Nevertheless, a sense of responsibility – ”
“The sense of responsibility changes as well. It expands into action. First he’ll destroy all vestiges of morality through a transvaluation of values.”
“He might destroy them, but then he’ll lose his bearings! Because humanity begins from a sense of responsibility.”
Suad shook his head. “Where does that lead?”
“I’ll tell you: He won’t be at peace with others and in society as you suppose. Spilled blood will intervene. To maintain the peace, we each have a reflection of the world and its inhabitants, a fixed and defined persona. Murder, or even the slightest injustice, distorts this reflection. We’d either end up denying the world or the world would banish us!”
“Doesn’t suffering distort this persona?”
İhsan answered without hesitation: “On the contrary, it’s through suffering that one makes peace with humanity. It’s when I’m in anguish that I better understand others. Warm empathy mediates between me and society ... That’s when I grasp my sense of responsibility. Our daily bread is suffering. He who avoids pain strikes humanity in its Achilles heel, the greatest betrayal is to shirk suffering. Can the fate of humanity be changed in a single stroke? Even if you do away with misery, if you provide freedom and liberty for all, you still have death, illness, lack of opportunity, and guilt. Fleeing in
the face of suffering amounts to destroying the fortress from within. As for taking refuge in death, that’s horrific. That’s simply taking shelter in bestial irresponsibility.”
İhsan paused. He suffered as much as or more than Suad. Perspiration covered his face. He continued, slowly: “Mankind is the prisoner of fate. When confronted by it, humanity has no recourse but faith and, in particular, suffering.”
“You speak of faith, but you’re on the path of reason.”
“I’m on the path of reason. Naturally I’m going to take the path of reason. Socrates says that the intelligent lover surpasses the impassioned lover. Intellect is the defining attribute of humanity.”
“But doesn’t the murderer himself die with the victim in the act of murder?”
“To a certain degree that’s true ... but, you see, this death doesn’t ensure the rebirth that you seek. At least in every instance. Because such transgression removes us from the category in question. You aren’t properly situating humanity within the social world. That’s the crux of the matter. I’m not one to deny humanity its divine attributes! The soul of mankind is master of the world.”
Suad laughed: “Apparently I’ve come up against İhsan’s effusive side. But, Mümtaz, you go ahead and write this story anyway!”
Mümtaz entered the conversation: “That’s all fine and well, but why should I write it and not you yourself?”
“Quite simply because you’re the writer. You enjoy writing. Our roles are different. I simply live life!”
“Aren’t I living?” Mümtaz asked, in a soft voice, as if to say, “Or have I died?”
“No, you aren’t, that is, not the way I live. You’ve withdrawn to a particular vantage where you reside. You have vast and brilliant visions. You have the sense that you’ll vanquish time. You strive to seize anything that might be of use. You categorize things: ‘This is useful, this is not.’ You see what you want and turn away from what you don’t.” He was all but talking to himself. Often he coughed, and afterward he shook his head as if to say, “Pay no mind, it’ll pass.” “You sense a world that you want to possess at all costs. Even though it might be an illusion, you stick with it. Do you think I’m like you? I’m a wretched, materialist sot, who shirks his responsibilities. My existence is a shameless waste. I wander aimlessly like water. I’m ill, I drink, I’ve fathered children whose faces I don’t want to see. I disregard my own life to perpetually live in the hides of others. Whether a thief, a murderer, or a cripple who drags a lame leg behind him, each living creature I see becomes yet another invitation. They call to me and I run. Either they open their shells to me, or I open my body to them, and they settle within me furtively and seize my hands, arms, and thoughts. Their fears and anxieties become mine. At night I dream their dreams. I awake with their torments. But that’s not all. I feel the anguish of the rejected. I want to feel each and every downfall. Do you know how many times I’ve stolen from our bank, from the safe entrusted to me?”
A Mind at Peace Page 34
