by Loren Edizel
She was getting heated.
“Let’s talk about it later,” I said and walked out of the room, hurrying down the corridor. I heard her hitting the keys of her typewriter again. Patron was waiting for me in my office.
“Everything okay, Mehtap dear?” he was holding a letter in his hand. Unconvinced by my nod, he kept looking at me, arms akimbo.
“What is in it?” I asked business-like to change the subject. He waved it before throwing it on my desk. “Your bonus!” he laughed, and going “tsk tsk tsk.” I could see his stomach muscles go up and down under his tight shirt. It was a letter from the Dutch company he had been trying to sell zippers to. They had finally placed a huge order. Patron was single-handedly going to fill the Netherlands with zippers made in Turkey: every hip, bottom and belly would be touched by our very own Turkish zippers made in Halkapınar, right in this very factory. The deadline was tight. Therefore, the Belgian had to send us the machinery as soon as possible. I was to send a telex to ask for a rush delivery of equipment along with the technician who would install them. Our production had to triple within a couple of months to meet the Dutch order. Things had to be perfect, he frowned. “Europeans are picky. One broken zipper and they will call the whole thing off. I can’t afford any errors. Come with me. Let’s take a walk in the factory together. I’m too excited to sit in my office now. Come. Help me decide how to organize the space.” He had two engineers, but I had to walk around the factory with him instead. I suggested they come as well, but he was adamant he didn’t want them around yet. He took my arm and rushed me out of the office.
We meandered around the deafening factory floor, his hand still holding my arm, squeezing it a little in fact, passing by workers who nodded respectfully and lowered their heads as we rushed on. I kept shouting “Good morning!” to each of them, while Patron stared, oblivious, above everyone’s head, at a spot high enough to be undisturbed by the human element surrounding him, so he could think his thoughts clearly, I presumed. I pulled my arm away from his grip. “Greet them, for heavens’ sake! You’re acting like they don’t exist.” I could see the focus shift in his eyes, like he was coming out of a trance and he looked around at all the workers standing immobile bent slightly at the waist in reverence. He wished them an absent-minded good morning, then grabbed my arm once more and rushed me to the spot where he planned to install the Belgian machines.
“Five machines here.” He extended his arm, waving it in a sweeping gesture. “Three over here.” He turned us around to show me another corner. I will need more workers, won’t I? Perhaps I can move some from packing to production. We’ll have to train them. Get me Head Engineer Niyazi, tell him I want to see him this afternoon.” His face was tense, from excitement mixed with panic. I wondered if he would manage to organize the work on time to deliver the order. If he was successful at this, his business would double in output and profit.
He had once told me it was a question of pride for him, being the grandson of a Cretan who arrived in Izmir with wife and children and nothing but the clothes on their backs in the late 1800s. It was during the uprising that liberated Crete. His grandfather used to tell him the story of their initial destitution when they arrived in Izmir, the dank basement they lived in which had a floor made of packed earth and a staircase so old that it fell apart taking his grandmother down with it. His grandfather was his hero; despite all the hardships he suffered as a young man, he had created a good life for his family out of nothing. I could see the fear of failure in his narrowing eyes as he looked around the factory. If he did not succeed at this, so much more was at stake for him than the disappointment of contending with yet another mediocre year at the factory. He had wanted to make his grandfather proud since he was a child, and this would be the moment, to at least confirm in his own mind that he was cut from the same cloth. His father had never succeeded in this. Patron, as a child, could sense that tension whenever the two were in a conversation, he once told me. There was no overt accusation of failure, yet it hovered between them, dormant in every inattentive gesture, awakening with every mundane word to infect the moment with unspoken resentment. The grandfather, leonine in stature and ego, could not forgive his son for not living up to his expectations; and Patron’s father, being a self-effaced master of compromises, spent his life in passive resistance, spending all his energy avoiding confrontations instead of exploring the man he might have been. Patron once told me he grew up hating family gatherings for this reason. He felt like a field mouse in a frozen forest at those gatherings, where invisible hunters were shooting arrows and bullets blindly trying to hunt big game, while he scurried about feeling like the innocent casualty in the cross fire.
I touched his arm lightly and told him his grandfather was proud of him already from wherever he was. “Look at everything around you.” He didn’t say anything; just looked away after gazing at me for a moment and nodded. He walked back to the office without saying another word. Maybe he had forgotten the things he’d told me; or maybe he was not expecting to be reminded of them. Some days, I’m simply his employee; others, his friend and confidante. Hard to tell which one he wants me to be. For me, he is always my one true love, the one for whom I could sacrifice everything. Even when I make fun of his ego, even when he talks to me of other women he finds beautiful and enchanting. When he gazed at me, my heart momentarily stopped, I think, even though it continued pounding inside my head. I wished he’d embraced me for what I said so I could feel his heart beat into my chest and that would be a moment to cherish for the rest of my life.
ISTANBUL HAS COME AND GONE. Months have passed. Istanbul, the hazy postcard beauty of it, with the sleek minarets and domes facing the choppy waters of the Bosphorus, dots of gulls caught in mid arch, and fishermen’s boats anchored in the foreground. Istanbul from eighteenth century engravings, opulent and so ancient even back then, the grand palaces and water fountains and arched alleyways, their stones imbibed with moisture, and lovely women in transparent veils and men in fezzes carrying things, and the minarets and cupolas and large chestnut trees, old walls covered with convolvulus vines, ornate mansions lining the Bosphorus amidst greenery, narrow streets snaking up and down the seven hills. I have dozens of postcards and reproductions to remind me of what Istanbul ought to represent for anyone passing through, what it is to awestruck eyes. The heart of Byzantium. The head of a once formidable Ottoman Empire.
And there is another Istanbul. The one that will never be represented in any pictures of any kind. The one that is mine to keep.
How to talk about it without betraying some sense of—what is it? I don’t even know…
Nuray and Mehtap were not meant to be sisters. The two women named after moonlight, took a long journey by train, travelling north through fields and olive groves and more fields and small houses and more groves and some forests to reach Bandırma, where they got off, and took a ferry across the deep Sea of Marmara to Istanbul. Then they took another ferry crossing the narrow Bosphorus, to the Asian side, to the district of Moda where the small hotel by the sea was a few minutes away by taxi. Night had already descended, covering the trees and houses and the sea with its diamond-studded cloak except in some areas where streetlamps created large holes and tears of bright visibility. Couples and families out on strolls by the quay, licking ice-cream from cones, the laughter and gaiety and pretty floral dresses countered by the immense, dark mass of the sea beside them, its silent presence almost malevolent, like something from a horror movie, had it not been for the gentle, soothing laps of water on the rocks beneath them. Nuray and Mehtap rushed out of their hotel room to join in the strolling crowds, taking in the excitement of being in an unfamiliar place.
Then there were two young men, who spoke to us as we strolled. They introduced themselves as Ali and Bora. They were both wearing white shirts that were unbuttoned just enough to show a tiny bit of chest hair and their gold chains. One had hair that was brushed back in an Elvis cut, the
other with the aquiline nose had curlier light brown hair that fell all around his face. Their skin looked golden from being in the sun all day. Ali was talkative and smiled a lot. Bora was the quieter of the two, but followed the conversations with interest. They told us they lived in Moda, a few streets inland from the quay and invited us to have tea at the teahouse by the water. We sat on wooden chairs with straw seats right by the sea, waves lapping gently below, and our small tea glasses steaming. They were rich boys, we gathered, by their watches and gold bracelets and social ease. Well-travelled, too. They had both graduated from Lycée St Joseph, and spoke French fluently. They were probably in their early twenties, going to university in winter and off enjoying their summer now, strolling up and down the boardwalk and the quay in anticipation of some excitement, something involving beautiful girls. We felt flattered and flirtatious, spending time with the two handsome young men. Our trip to Istanbul had started very well indeed. “Well, boys,” said Nuray, “we might return to Istanbul in the fall. You must give us your contact information, so we can meet again.” She winked. Ali leaned back smiling. His legs were relaxed and open, his arm dangling behind the back of his chair. At first, I thought he was smiling at me and got nervous, but soon realized it was a smile of beatitude, indiscriminately offered to passers-by, Nuray’s jokes, and the midnight darkness of the sea. When we rose from the table, we thanked them for their company and Nuray told them we might see each other on the boardwalk again the next evening. I was pleased she did this; normally her flirtatiousness would get the better of her, and she would say something impulsive, make a commitment, or invite them to go to museums with us. Then we would be stuck with two twenty-year-olds for the rest of our stay.
Nuray and Mehtap returned to the hotel, feet aching from being trapped in narrow shoes all day. Mehtap had never stayed in a hotel before; she marvelled at the small wrapped soaps and shampoos, the white towels and immaculate sheets, with exclamations: “Oh my, look at this!” and “Ahh, how pretty!” Nuray had done this before, it seemed. “It’s cheap shampoo in small bottles, don’t faint over it,” she half-scolded.
She emptied the contents of her suitcase into a drawer without much attention and threw herself on the gigantic bed for two. “I hope you don’t kick in your sleep,” she frowned, “I’m a light sleeper.”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Mehtap grinned and went to the bathroom to take her shower. Everything smelled new and clean. From the open window, the warm lit night with its strollers and laughter and distant strains of music filled the room like a promise. Under the shower, murmuring bits of the song that had been playing at the teahouse, from the movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s, “Moon River, wider than a mile, lalalalala, two drifters off to see the world….” Mehtap felt joy as she had never felt before. It was as though she had broken free from her life, her past, her appearance, that carapace of being carefully guarded and fortuitously cultivated to represent her in her own mind. It all seemed random to her, why she was who she was; a compilation of events and decisions some of which were not even her own, that had congealed into this image of her that everyone saw. Her budding revolt rose with every lalalala and bit of song she remembered, her voice getting stronger and louder as the water ran abundantly over her skin. It was perhaps possible to change the course of one’s life, to abandon the stifling old rules that had harnessed her being all these years, to live from that impulse which rose through her chest as she sang now, opening up like petals and swirling, making her feel faint and hungry, not for food but something more essential, something connected to breathing and feeling alive and being free.
“I have never felt so happy!” She exclaimed as she left the steaming bathroom in a white cotton burnoose, still drying herself.
Nuray looked amused. “You haven’t even seen anything yet.”
“It’s not the seeing; maybe it’s that no one knows me; that I’m elsewhere. And this place, it smells like freedom.”
Nuray giggled. “Freedom smells like bleach?”
Mehtap leaned over to smell the sheets. “I love it!” she concluded.
“Tomorrow, Aya Sofia, Topkapı, Beyoğlu.”
“I want to spend time here too, swimming.…” She took her lilac cotton baby-doll with matching puffy shorts from her suitcase and returned to the bathroom to change. When she came back to bed, Nuray was already under the covers, arms and legs spread out. Mehtap remembered that Nuray always slept naked as she saw the outlines of her body from the sheet covering it. She slipped in gingerly from the side of the bed, making sure she put a lot of distance between them. Nuray rolled toward her, “I don’t bite, you know. Get comfortable!”
“Not with you naked. Why don’t you wear something?”
“What are you worried about?” Nuray smiled.
Mehtap held her breath.
“Try something you’ve never tried before. Take off that silly puffy thing, sleep naked for once. If you get cold there is another cover to pull on. It smells like freedom, too.” She brought it to her nose to inhale the smell of bleach.
“It feels improper … I don’t know.…”
“Honey, freedom is improper. Some would have us commit suicide for not having a thick enough hymen, in the name of propriety. Remember? They would have us slit our wrists, not enjoy a single sexual act. What is freedom to you? Bleached sheets in a foreign city? Please….” She got out of bed, her nakedness filling the room around Mehtap. She went to the small fridge and got out some peach juice and after some hesitation put it back in and slammed the door. She called room service, ordering bubbly wine.
They had quite a lot of it too. Mehtap felt a sensation of warmth rising within her that she attributed to inebriation. Laughter was easy. The edginess inside her was giving in to hilarity, making her roll around the bed in uncontrollable fits of laughter. Nuray lit two cigarettes and gave one to Mehtap. There was some coughing, and more giggling. The smoke was snaking its way toward the open window where the night had emptied itself of all the bustle and noise, leaving the sidewalks to stray cats wailing and hissing in dark corners. The freshness of the sea entered the room moving the listless curtain back and forth a few times before it stopped. Small invisible waves were lapping unseen rocks down below. The “pot-pot-pot” sound of a fisherman’s boat crossed the invisible horizon. Then, as Mehtap was wiping tears of laughter from her cheeks with the back of her hand, Nuray reached over and softly kissed her lips.
Mehtap recoiled; “Nuray … I cannot….”
Nuray did not reply. She took Mehtap in her arms and hugged her for a moment. “We should go to sleep.” She cleared her throat and turned off the light, pulling the sheet to her chin.
They remained side by side, one naked, the other in a lilac baby-doll in the dark room, where the window was still letting in unfamiliar sounds and a feeble breeze was trembling through the lace curtains. Farther inland, a guard dog barked at reassuring intervals. Mehtap felt a throbbing inside her that was not letting her sleep and wondered if this was a shared sensation between them. She turned to look at Nuray’s profile, the outline of her shoulders and neck, the cheeks glistening with what must have been tears.
We took the ferry early in the morning and visited Aya Sofya and Sultanahmet Mosque. We passed by the church of Aya Irini and walked in the large park with its beige earth and centennial trees providing shade, looking up and down and sideways and walked some more in the splendid Aya Sofya with its domed ceilings and shiny old stones and mosaics, and in the Blue Mosque and saw the obelisk, and walked and walked; bought postcards and engravings and made our way to Topkapı, and visited the various halls, and saw the sultans’ clothes, the rubies and emeralds and swords, and the disappointingly spartan harem, then the Museum of Archaeology and made our way to a teahouse nearby with a view of the Bosphorus, and finally sat with our aching feet and reddened heels at a table under a linden tree to have a glass of soda pop. I reached over and held Nuray’s hand
in mine and thanked her for this lovely trip. We sat there holding hands and gazing at the freighters and ferries crossing the Bosphorus down below.
I thought it would be easier to write about the events that still disturb me, in the third person, as if it involved two other women in a page from someone else’s story. And it was, somewhat. But in the end, who am I fooling? This notebook?
By our second night in Istanbul, the tension had continued to grow in silence during all those hours spent together sightseeing, buying postcards and knick-knacks, until we could no longer contain it when we returned to the hotel room. I was moody and annoyed having worn myself out battling sensations of shame and desire. I was curious and angry for it. Mind you, everything a woman could desire is forbidden. Desire is forbidden, isn’t it? To be desirable is encouraged, but to desire and seek one’s own personal satisfaction, and with a woman at that…. I had broken all the rules. Yet, I also felt that I deserved all my desires. I deserved to live as one who made the decisions, rather than one who moved like a shadow in this man’s world, because we do; don’t we? They make all the rules, and what does that mean for us? To cater to their desires, to try and eke out some elbow room in a universe they have worked out for themselves using us as mothers or wives or whores. Damn the rules! We sat side by side at the foot of the bed and I started sobbing uncontrollably, fury tumbling out of my chest. She kissed my eyelids and held me close and wiped my tears and whispered she loved me and would always be by my side. I kissed her back. This time there was nothing tentative to it. We made love until we were spent and fell asleep with the lull of afternoon noises; the shrieks of kids swimming, peals of laughter from girls, young men’s voices strong and mocking coming from the sea—I thought I heard Ali and Bora among them. Then it all faded all away. The last thing I remembered was the gentle rising of the tulle curtains as Moda’s seaside life streamed into our room, and thinking of the distance to the moon for some reason, and how airless it was there despite its faraway beauty. Two women named after moonlight, a place where breezes never blow from the Sea of Tranquility into a room where lovers have wrestled.