Serenade for Nadia

by Zülfü Livaneli

  If you have the good fortune to come from the right class, to come from a family that believes in equal education and opportunity for women, you can go as far as you want in just about any field except politics, though if you’re ruthless enough you can become prime minister. There’s no glass ceiling, and there are no institutional barriers. Yet if you belong to that small class of educated, professional women, you have to walk a fine line. You have to remember that in spite of your status you’re living in a society that still harbors very backwards, even medieval attitudes toward women. You always have to be careful to behave and dress like a “respectable” woman. If anything at all that you do causes you to be perceived as a “loose” woman, you’re despised, and you deserve any harassment or worse that you suffer. You always have to erect a barrier against the men you encounter in the course of your daily life, particularly men of lower socioeconomic status, who are more likely to have sexist attitudes. At work you have to take an almost feudal tone with drivers and janitors and so forth, because they still have a feudal worldview, and this is all they understand. In their world the only way not to be oppressed is to be an oppressor. They’re oppressed at work, so they go home and oppress their wives and children. They’ll accept your authority because they have to, but they’ll undermine it at every opportunity, even if only passively.

  And if, naturally, you want male companionship and partnership, you have a very small pool to choose from. That is, educated, professional men who are neither fundamentalists nor alcoholics, who have read a few books and who bathe regularly. And most of these men have their own problems. They’ve either been spoiled rotten by their mothers or browbeaten by their fathers. They’re tied up in such a thick web of family expectations, obligations, and prohibitions that they can barely breathe.

  You feel so depressed after thinking about all this that you’re tempted to have another glass of wine. But you don’t, because if the taxi driver smells alcohol on your breath he might feel this gives him license to make a pass at you.

  * * *

  —

  The elderly man in front of me has fully reclined his seat, but his leg still keeps twitching and he can’t get comfortable. A young couple across the aisle from me have also reclined their seats and have covered themselves with a blanket, as if they’re in bed at home.

  * * *

  —

  We arrived at the airport, and again because of our official plates we could pull right up to the door, though in fact our grand official car was an ancient Mercedes that was in the shop more often than it was on the road. I checked the arrivals board and saw that I was just in time, the Frankfurt plane had already landed. I held up a card with his name on it and watched people coming out, Turks from Germany, some of them being greeted excitedly by groups of relatives; bewildered tourists; businessmen who looked as if they spent most of their lives in airports and airplanes. Then I saw someone who stood out from the others, a tall, strikingly handsome man with bright blue eyes, wearing a long black coat and a brimmed hat. He was carrying a small suitcase in one hand and a violin case in the other. He paused, looked around, and as soon as he saw my card he strode up to me, put down his bag, and introduced himself. I realized that for the first time in my life a man was doffing his hat to me, and I almost expected him to kiss my hand, though he didn’t.

  “Welcome, professor,” I said. “My name is Maya Duran. Our car is waiting right outside.”

  Just then Süleyman appeared as if from nowhere, greeted the professor with one of the few phrases of broken English he knew, and took his suitcase. The professor insisted on carrying his violin himself.

  I noticed that as soon as we were outside the professor put his hat on and tied his gray cashmere scarf around his neck. “I don’t get ill very easily,” he said smiling, “but Istanbul is quite cold at this time of the year.”

  “You came prepared,” I said. “For some reason a lot of people think it never gets cold here.”

  He laughed.

  “But I know Istanbul. I know what the winters here are like.”

  Now, as I write this in my comfortable seat on the plane, I recall how sadly he smiled as he said this.

  When Süleyman opened the door of the black Mercedes, the professor said, “Oh, an old car for an old man!”

  We laughed together. I’m not a particularly warm or outgoing person. In fact many people find me cold, but for some reason I felt I’d clicked with this man right away. There was something about his demeanor, about the way he looked around at the vast new concrete city that spread as far as one could see on both sides of the highway—an air that was at the same time dignified and deeply wounded. He was, I realized, quite different from any of the other professors I’d shown around Istanbul.

  “When were you in Istanbul?” I asked.

  “From 1939 to 1942.”

  “Well, the city has gone through tremendous changes since then.”

  “Yes, this was all open countryside then. The airport wasn’t much more than a shed, and they had to chase the sheep off the runway every time a plane came in, which wasn’t much more than twice a week or so. The road was barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other. Not that there were many cars. Or people. The population of the city wasn’t much over half a million then, but it must be more than ten times that now.”

  “Some people say it’s over eighteen million. Have you been back at all since 1942?”

  “No, no I haven’t. It’s been…well, it’s been fifty-nine years. Time begins to slip past so quickly. Where will I be staying, by the way?

  “The Pera Palas.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. That’s where I stayed when I first came to Istanbul, and later on I often met my colleagues at the bar there. I’m glad it’s still there. I heard that a lot of the old buildings were torn down. I heard that the Park Hotel is gone, and the Tokatlıyan, though you probably don’t even remember those.”

  “No, I’ve heard of them, but they’re before my time. The Tokatlıyan building is still there, but it hasn’t been a hotel for a long time.”

  “Ah, the Tokatlıyan was one of my favorite places to have coffee. Though we all decided to stop going there after…well, that’s a long story I’d rather not get into now.”

  He fell silent, and to keep the conversation going I asked, “Where did you live?”

  “In Beyazıt. I rented a house there to be near the university.”

  “Do you know Turkish?”

  He smiled and replied in Turkish: “A little.” Then he added, “Very little.”

  After a brief silence, he continued in English: “By the time I left I could speak fairly well, but I haven’t spoken or even heard it since, so I hardly remember anything.”

  “I’m sure it will start coming back. Though you’ll find that even the language itself has changed quite a bit since then. To my son, the Turkish my grandparents spoke would sound almost like Shakespearean English would to a young English person. Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but it has changed considerably.”

  He nodded, and fell silent, and this time I decided not to try to keep the conversation going. A car had broken down in the emergency lane, and it took some time to maneuver around it. I gazed out the window at the sea of cars around me; the highway and the surrounding streets; the vast, ugly slums of hastily constructed buildings shrouded by a haze of coal smoke; the lashing, windswept rain. How was I going to get home after I dropped the professor off? It was impossible to get a taxi in weather like this, and the bus would take hours.

  Kerem would already be home from school. Was there anything in the house for him to eat? Not that he would care; he wouldn’t eat at all if I didn’t make him. All he wanted to do was sit in front of his computer, and he might not even realize I wasn’t home. I worried that he didn’t seem to have any friends, that he lived such an isolated life. When I was his age I had lots of friends i
n my neighborhood, and we used to play on the street for hours, but I don’t think Kerem knows the name of even one child in our building. How and when did our society change so profoundly? It used to be that community was an essential part of our life. A city neighborhood was like a village, almost like a large family. Everyone knew everyone, people looked out for each other, and they helped each other out. But now we’ve become isolated from each other, and even the man at the corner grocery store treats you like a stranger.

  How would Süleyman react if I asked him to drive me home? He was the kind of person who would never do anyone a favor out of kindness, he’d always think about what he could get in return. He was also the kind of cunning, calculating person I wouldn’t want to feel indebted to.

  As I was thinking, I became aware that there was a car behind us in the emergency lane. A white Renault with ordinary plates, and for whatever reason the police were not stopping it.

  “Is the traffic this bad in Boston, professor?”

  He came out of his reverie and said, “Well, it can be quite bad there, too, perhaps not on the same scale. It’s a smaller city, but some of my colleagues complain about being stuck in traffic for hours. Fortunately I live in Cambridge, quite close to the university, so I can walk to work.”

  “I suppose unmanageable traffic is a reality of our age. If you live in a city it’s something you just can’t escape.”

  “Yes, sometimes I wonder how we let this happen, and where it’s going to go. People keep buying cars, and one day there just won’t be room for all of them.”

  “Where are you from, by the way?”

  He seemed uncomfortable with this question, and I was sorry I’d asked.

  “It’s just that you don’t strike me as American.”

  “Well, I am an American citizen, but I’m originally from Germany, from Bavaria, but I haven’t been back since I left in 1939. Nor have I ever felt any desire to go back.”

  The way he said this made it clear that he didn’t want to talk about it, so I let it go. We’d left the highway and were making our way toward the district of Beyoğlu, and I noticed that the white Renault was still behind us.

  Soon, we were making our way down a narrow street lined with nineteenth-century buildings, and I could see that the professor had cheered up a bit. This, at last, was an Istanbul he could recognize. As we pulled up in front of the Pera Palas Hotel, he turned and gave me a warm smile.

  While we dashed through the rain to the lobby, Süleyman gave the professor’s luggage to the bellboy. Again, the professor insisted on carrying his violin himself.

  When I glanced back at Süleyman, I saw that the white Renault that had been following us had pulled over just down the street. Meanwhile Wagner stood looking around the lobby, taking it in, his eyes misty. This was the oldest continually operating luxury hotel in Istanbul, completed in 1895 for passengers arriving on the Orient Express.

  “Have a seat while I get you checked in,” I said, and sat him down in an elegant antique armchair.

  “May I have your passport please? In the meantime would you like a coffee or a glass of something to drink?”

  “When you’re done would you join me in a whisky?”

  “Certainly,” I said, even though I was worried about getting home to Kerem.

  Mustafa at the reception desk called out, “So you’ve got another guest have you?”

  “Yes,” I said, “What can I do, it’s my job. He’s a tired, elderly man. Please give him a quiet room…”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  As I went over to Wagner I asked the waiter for a double whisky and some white port.

  “Please bring some ice and water with the whisky as well. And some nuts.”

  However, when I reached Wagner I saw that he’d fallen asleep in the chair. He was breathing deeply and regularly with his head leaning against the corner of the armchair. There was an innocent expression on his face.

  It was just as well, because I wanted to get home as soon as I could. I canceled the order and asked the waiters to leave the guest in peace.

  “When he wakes up you can escort him to his room.”

  Then I wrote a short note on the stylish Pera Palas stationary.

  Professor Wagner, you were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to disturb you. I’ll pick you up at eleven tomorrow morning.

  As I left the hotel and walked over to Süleyman I made an effort to be cheerful. And before I spoke, I even fleetingly touched his arm.

  “We’re running late today,” I said.

  I leaned in closer to him. “Kerem’s waiting for his dinner. Would it be too much trouble for you to take me home?”

  I suddenly felt embarrassed by my choice of words, and how they could be interpreted. Now, as I write this, I wonder if I was being deliberately coy to get what I wanted from him.

  Süleyman thought for a moment, as if he were considering what might be in it for him, and then said, “Sure, hop in.”

  As I got in, I noticed that the white Renault was still there. There were three men in the car, and the man at the wheel was smoking. I got the distinct impression that all three of them were watching me.

  Süleyman tried to start the car, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. It wheezed a bit, shuddered, then stopped. He kept trying, turning the key and pumping the gas pedal. For a moment it seemed as if it was just about to start, but then it shuddered again, and after that it didn’t respond at all. Süleyman threw his hands in the air and turned to face me.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, the engine’s flooded.”

  I got out of the car and was suddenly at a loss for what to do. All the taxis passing by were full, there were none at the taxi rank outside the hotel, and I was getting wet, so I dashed back into the hotel.

  The professor was still sound asleep. I touched his arm gently and called softly: “Professor…professor!”

  He opened his eyes slowly and looked around with a bewildered expression, as if he didn’t know quite where he was.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I fell asleep.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for. You just got off a fourteen-hour flight, and it takes a while to adjust to the time change.”

  I waited a few moments for him to pull himself together, and then said, “Your room is ready. Come, let me take you up.”

  I helped him up from the armchair, led him to the wonderful old elevator, and brought him up to the third floor. When the bellboy opened the door with a large metal key, a musty smell wafted out, the musty smell of years of history. A smell that evoked visions of all the people who had stayed here: kings, princes, presidents and ambassadors, spies and entertainers. Kim Philby and Mata Hari, Josephine Baker and Louis Armstrong. Agatha Christie, who once mysteriously vanished for eleven days, was said to have hidden a clue to the secret behind her disappearance in room 411. She used the hotel as a setting in her detective novel Murder on the Orient Express, which was later made into a film. Eric Ambler also used the Pera Palas as a setting for his thriller The Mask of Demetrios, as did Graham Greene in Stamboul Train, Ian Fleming in From Russia with Love, and Alfred Hitchcock in his film The Lady Vanishes. Atatürk stayed at the Royal Suite, Room 101, when he came to Istanbul, and the suite was now preserved as a museum. King Zog of Albania also stayed in 101 after his country was invaded by Italy in 1941. Other heads of state who stayed here include Shah Riza Pahlevi of Iran, King Edward VIII of Great Britain, King Ferdinand of Bulgaria, King Karol of Romania, King Peter of Serbia, President Giscard d’Estaing of France, President Tito of Yugoslavia, President Fahri Korutürk of Turkey, and President Adnan Menderes of Turkey.

  The bellboy put down the suitcase, and the professor laid his violin carefully on top of the antique mahogany chest of drawers. I helped him off with his coat and said, “I have to leave now, professor. You’re scheduled to
have lunch with the rector tomorrow, I’ll pick you up at eleven.”

  “I thought we were going to have a drink together. Perhaps I could also invite you to dinner…”

  “I would love to, but I have to get home to my son.”

  The Mercedes was still outside the door.

  Süleyman grinned broadly and said, “I finally got it running. Come, let me drive you home.”

  As we moved off through the rain, I couldn’t help but look back to see if the white Renault was still there. It was gone, and I felt a sense of relief. But as we drove up Tarlabaşı Boulevard, I kept glancing back to check, even though I had no reason to think that the men in that white car posed any threat to me.

  By the time we got to my street I was almost dozing off, so I pulled myself together and got out my keys. When we pulled up in front of my building I thanked Süleyman and dragged myself to the door, not even caring about the rain. Then I glanced up, and saw that the windows of my apartment were dark. For a moment I felt a stab of alarm. It was after nine, but Kerem wouldn’t have gone to bed yet. Had he not come home, had something happened? But of course he was probably, as usual, hunched over his computer in the dark.

  I went into the building and started up the stairs. As I climbed I could hear televisions blaring from behind several of the doors. I could smell that someone was cooking fish, and that someone else was making some kind of stew. I unlocked my door, turned on the living room lights, threw my coat and my bag on the sofa, and went straight to Kerem’s room. And of course there he was, just visible in the pale glow of the computer screen.

  I greeted him as warmly and cheerfully as I could, and went and kissed him on the forehead, but he just shrugged me off and mumbled something and wouldn’t even look at me. So I went to the kitchen, heated up the pizza left over from last night and brought it to him. He didn’t look at me, didn’t say thank you, but just reached for the pizza without taking his eyes off the screen. So I went and took a long, hot shower; made myself a cheese sandwich; sat on the couch in my bathrobe; and turned on the television, surfing through the channels but not finding anything that caught my interest. There was nothing on but dreary talk shows, inane game shows, and ponderously slow-moving soap operas.