Serenade for Nadia

by Zülfü Livaneli

  * * *

  —

  The following day I woke with a surprising amount of energy. I wasn’t at all tired despite having slept very little. After sending Kerem off to school, I sent an email to the Foreign Ministry. I told them that an academic attached to Istanbul University was writing a book about the “regrettable” Struma disaster of 1942, and asked if permission would be granted to look into the ministry’s files on the subject.

  I did not expect a favorable answer but I wanted to try my luck.

  They might not see any harm in the files being opened after all these years.

  After that I quickly got ready and left the house. Once again, it was a day of freezing rain mixed intermittently with snow. I took a bus to Beyazit, and then followed my usual route to the university. This time, however, my purpose and destination were different. I had a photocopy of Maximilian Wagner’s deportation order, which included the address he’d lived at then.

  Several coffee shops in Beyazıt Square had revived the water-pipe fad of the Ottoman period. They were full of students and tourists. I’d never smoked a water pipe and decided to try it one day. I wondered what effect the smoke had when you inhaled through water.

  As I passed the food stalls lining the square, the smell of toasted sausage sandwiches made me stop. I’d left home without eating anything. I sat at one of the small, white Formica tables and ordered a toasted sausage sandwich and a yogurt drink. I also showed the waiter the address and asked where Nasip Street was. The waiter didn’t know the street but perhaps the elderly owner of the shop next door might.

  After I finished my sandwich, I went to the corner shop and asked the elderly man behind the counter. He thought for a while, frowned and then said, “I remember vaguely but…I don’t know. They’ve changed the names of a lot of streets around here. You might try asking at the police station.”

  They’d never heard of Nasip Street at the police station either. The name had definitely been changed. But they had some old maps, and after a while they found it. The name was now Akdoğan Street. On my way there I wondered about this whole business of changing names, not just of streets but of villages, towns, and entire districts as well. It must, I thought, be an attempt to erase one version of history and replace it with another. The result was layers of conflicting versions of history imposed by each elite that came to power.

  I wondered what Erich Auerbach would have said about a country wanting to change its past? Had he mentioned this “excessive desire for change” in the letters he wrote to Walter Benjamin? In other words, without realizing it, we were constantly shedding skins. Get rid of the Byzantines, get rid of the Ottomans, get rid of the Arab culture…. And now the new trend, “Get rid of Kemalism!” Hide the truth about the Tatar Legions, the Struma, what was done to the Armenians.

  But somehow the past broke through the surface here and there. All the towns in Turkey named Ereğli were once called Herakleon. All place names containing “bolu”—Inebolu, Tirebolu, Safranbolu, and Galibolu—actually contained references to polis, the Greek word for city.

  Akdoğan was a short, unevenly paved street lined with a mixture of old wooden houses, all of them in sorry shape with all of their paint long since flaked off, and hastily and cheaply built concrete houses. Number 17 was one of the new buildings, its facade covered with gaudy multicolored tiles. I decided this couldn’t be the right house, so I went to the corner grocery store to ask if anyone knew the Arditis. The owner of the store had a white beard and wore a skullcap, and the walls were covered in Arabic prayers.

  “We only moved here from Kayseri five years ago, so I don’t know anyone who used to live here. But I still have some Jewish customers, they might know.”

  Then he called to his daughter.

  “Kübra, Kübra…Take this young lady to Madame’s house.”

  A slim girl with a fine face and a firmly tied, patterned headscarf emerged from behind the counter. As she put on her coat, the elderly man asked me, “Can I offer you some refreshment, something to drink perhaps?”

  I thanked him but I didn’t want anything. Then the elderly man gave me a small card printed with a prayer in Arabic.

  He said, “Carry this with you at all times. It is the Ayete’ l-Kürsi, a verse from the second Sura of the Quran, in short, the word of God. It will protect you from all kinds of accidents and trouble, and from the evil eye.”

  I was touched by his kindness and genuine goodwill.

  Kübra led me to one of the old houses about halfway down the street and rapped the old-fashioned knocker on the ancient door. An old woman leaned out and peered down from a second-story window.

  “Is that you Kübra? I’m coming, child,” she said.

  She spoke Turkish with a very pronounced accent. When the door opened, a thin, elderly lady greeted us, obviously Sephardic from her accent and everything else about her. She peered at us over the wire spectacles that were attached to a chain around her neck.

  “Yes, what can I do for you?”

  Kübra explained the situation, said that she had things to do, and left. But before she went, she asked, “Is there anything you want, auntie?”

  Madame answered her saying, “No, my child. Thank you, my lovely girl.”

  Then as she invited me inside, she explained, “They’re a very good family. My sciatica gets bad and I can’t go out, so I telephone the shop and Kübra brings me what I want straightaway. Oh, and they never forget to bring sweets and Turkish delight on religious holidays.”

  Madame ushered me into a small sitting room. The house had its own special smell that evoked memories of the old world. Dozens of framed photographs stood on worn carved and inlaid coffee tables.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Please don’t go to the trouble.”

  “I haven’t had my morning coffee yet. We’ll have one together.”

  Soon she came in carrying a tray with little bone china cups of aromatic, frothy Turkish coffee. Beside each cup was a glass of water and a piece of rose-petal Turkish delight. You couldn’t find anything like this in the modern cafés. I wondered yet again why people abandon these delightful traditions and drink instant coffee.

  Billions of different people, living in different parts of the world, had to like the same type of food and drink, buy the same style of clothes, and for this, live the same style of life, so that the large international firms could sell their products all over the world. Perhaps what was even more frightening was that this system wiped out local cultures. And then I laughed to myself. Since last week I had become an expert on nostalgia.

  I soon learned that “Madame’s” name was Raşel Ovadya. She was from one of the families of Sephardic Jews who had been living in Istanbul for five hundred years. They had fled the Inquisition during the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella aboard Ottoman ships sailing from the port of Cádiz in 1492. Christopher Columbus’s three ships had set sail from the same port on the same night.

  Madame Ovadya spoke Turkish with a Ladino accent. She described the people in the photographs and talked about how handsome her late husband had been. It was clear that she was lonely and happy to have someone to talk to.

  “Madame Ovadya, my name is Maya Duran. I work at Istanbul University. I came to ask you something. I wondered if you knew the Arditi family who used to live on this street?”

  She stared into space and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling to try to fish out the name Arditi from among all the jumbled up memories that she had accumulated over the years.

  “Arditi, Arditi…”

  “Matilda and Rober Arditi. They used to live at Number 17.”

  Suddenly her face lit up.

  “Of course,” she said. “How could I forget. Matilda. When I was a young girl she used to give me handkerchiefs with embroidered edges. They were a very good family, excellent!”

  “Do you
know where they are now?”

  “They’re older than me. I’m afraid Rober died. As for Matilda, I think she was in a nursing home. She must be over ninety.”

  “I wonder if she’s still alive?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know which nursing home she was in?”

  “Oh, my dear girl, I don’t know that either. Istanbul has changed so much, so much. If only you knew what it was like here in the old days.”

  I could see that she was going to begin talking about old times again and said, “Please Madame, it’s very important that I find Mrs. Matilda. Could you possibly think a little harder?”

  “Why are you looking for this family?”

  “It would take a long time to explain but I’m doing some research on the university. I have some questions for her.”

  “Let me answer your questions. I’m very knowledgeable. At one time I studied at Dame de Sion.”

  “Thank you, but this is something concerning that family,” I said. “If I could ask…”

  “In that case let me think,” she said. “I have a feeling our Izi mentioned Mrs. Matilda. Let me ask her.”

  She went over to the old-fashioned, black Ericsson telephone that stood on the corner table. She removed the lace doily that covered it and then, lifting the receiver, slowly began to dial the number.

  She spoke with Izi in a language I couldn’t understand, and which was sprinkled with French, Spanish, and Turkish words.

  “All right, dear, au revoir,” she said and hung up.

  Then she addressed me, “We’ve traced Matilda. She’s living in the Artigiana nursing home in Harbiye. Wait, I’ll bring you some of my milk pudding that I made yesterday.”

  “Please, don’t trouble,” I said. “I’m in rather a hurry. You’ve done me a great favor, Madame Raşel. Goodbye.”

  I then left the elderly lady with her memories and her incurable loneliness, and went out. As she said goodbye there was a look of indescribable sadness on her face.

  I walked toward the square, and when I saw the university’s massive ornamental gate, I felt a sense of freedom. Being absent even for a week had made me feel much lighter and happier. I got into a bus that was heading toward Harbiye. I didn’t know where the Artigiana was, but after asking around a little I was able to find it.

  According to what I read later, Artigiana was founded in 1838 by Sultan Abdülmecid with an endowment of 20,000 piastres. It was established as a home for elderly people from different religious backgrounds who were utterly alone. Everyone was given a room. If they wished they could bring their own possessions. They were free to go out during the day and come back in the evening.

  When I told the people on duty at the entrance that I was looking for Matilda Arditi, they directed me to the second floor. The names of the residents were written on the well-worn doors. Kuyumcuyan, Stavropoulos, Mavromatya, Serrero.

  Who knows what memories were sheltered in this old building. What dramas, what pleasures, what passions were remembered. After walking for a while, I saw the name Arditi across a door on the left and, after knocking, I went in. The very old lady in bed sat up when she saw me.

  “Yes, can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for Matilda Arditi,” I said.

  “Why are you looking for her?”

  “To have a little talk.”

  The elderly lady said, “In that case, please come in.”

  She pointed to the green chair by the window and I sat down.

  “Are you Matilda Arditi?”

  “Yes, yes. Though sometimes I don’t even remember who I am anymore.”

  “Madame,” I said. “Please accept these.”

  I held out the bunch of purple flowers that I had bought from the flower peddler on the corner.

  “Oh,” she said. “How kind of you. I can’t remember the last time I got flowers. At least a century.”

  “Oh, please, don’t say that, Madame Arditi. You’re not that old.”

  “I feel as if I’ve been alive since the beginning of time. What did you say your name was?”

  “Maya.”

  “Ah, Maya! I love the name Maya. We had a neighbor in Izmir who had a daughter named Maya. We were the same age and we were best friends. I don’t know if she’s still alive.”

  “Madame Arditi, I want to ask you something?”

  “Please go ahead!”

  “Do you remember Maximilian?” She hesitated, tried to think, to remember. Then her face lit up.

  “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Maximilian. Certainly. Of course I remember him.”

  “You were neighbors on Nasip Street.”

  “Yes, Nasip Street, of course.”

  Then she hesitated, and seemed confused.

  “That’s the Nasip Street in Geneva, isn’t it?”

  “No, Madam Arditi. The one in Istanbul.”

  She hesitated a little. Still confident she said, “Yes. Of course, the one in Istanbul.”

  “Do you remember Max?”

  “Max? Oh, Maximilian…Of course I remember him.”

  “Could you tell me a little about him?”

  “Ah!” She winked flirtatiously. She beckoned me over. I drew my chair toward her. Chuckling she said, “He was so courteous, such a gentleman, such a rich man. He was rather a womanizer of course; but, my lamb, one can expect that! Women didn’t leave him alone. The Istanbul of my youth was wonderful. Max and I would go hand in hand to Le Bon to eat cakes. I used to love their éclairs. We went everywhere! There was the Petrograd, such a lovely café.”

  She paused as though she’d remembered something else. Then with a gesture meaning, “Never mind,” as though she had decided not to say anything after all, she continued.

  “We went everywhere. I used to shop in the Karlman Arcade; I used to buy my shoes from Paçikakis. Then there was the Lion store and the Mayer store. We used to go to the theatre in the Petits-Champs to listen to music.”

  She stopped and mused as though she had forgotten something.

  “Dear Max never bought anything for himself. I would go and buy him his socks, pants, and vests from Mayer’s. There was a man named Fritz there, a German Jew. And there was Lazaro Franco. It’s not long since he closed; twenty years, I suppose. They sold curtains there. Furniture I mean…And there was my special hat shop…I used to go to the Russian milliners who knew how to make hats like no one else. The name was Madame Bella. Above the Lale Cinema. And then there was Marieta; she was a milliner too. But mine was expensive, and also very good. There were tailors and milliners everywhere. People paid more attention to their clothes then, and nothing was mass-produced.”

  When she stopped talking she looked as though she was thinking about something. She gestured for me to wait. She didn’t want to be interrupted.

  “I adored classical music. Bach for example. I always listened to it in Taksim. There was no opera house before that. There was a restaurant called Novotni, in Tepebaşı. Five or six Russian brothers and sisters ran the place. Sometimes they had piano music that I used to listen to. We loved their food, if we were going to eat out we always went there. Unfortunately, there was nowhere else that had classical music. We also went to concerts. Rubinstein came for example, and so did Yehudi Menuhin. When I entered that hall on Max’s arm I felt like a queen. Every Tuesday I used to play cards with my friends. Just little games, you know. But we used to dress up as though we were going to an important party. There were eight of us. We wore different dresses each time. We laid elegant dinner tables. We always tried our best.”

  I began to wonder if she was talking about the same Max, or if she had confused Max with someone else

  “Madame Arditi,” I queried. “Are you sure you are talking about Professor Maximilian Wagner?”

  “Of course. I could never forget either him o
r his music.”

  Yes, it seemed that we were talking about the right person.

  “Do you remember the Serenade?”

  “How could a person forget that piece! It was so beautiful, it moved me deeply every time I heard it.”

  Then she started humming a melody and swaying as if she were dancing a waltz. As she waved her right arm in time to the rhythm, the sleeve of her tattered flannel frock fell away, revealing a thin, bony arm covered with what looked like brown, spotted leather.

  Then she beckoned to me. I got up and went over to her. She held my hand and struggled to her feet. Without letting go of my hand she tried to sway her shrunken, emaciated body to the incoherent tune she was humming. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and sat her down.

  “Madame Arditi, you have Max’s possessions.”

  She winked flirtatiously. “Who else would have them?”

  She kept implying that she’d had a love affair with Max, but this wasn’t consistent with what Max had told me about the state he’d been in as he waited for Nadia. Her memory had unraveled and she was confusing either Max with someone else or her fantasies with what had actually happened. I was ready to give up and leave.

  Just at that moment a nurse entered and said, “I see you have a visitor, Rita. It’s time for your medicine.”

  “Rita?” I asked.

  “Yes!” said the nurse “Rita. She’s been here four years.”

  “But I thought she was Madame Matilda Arditi.”

  “You’ve mixed them up,” she said. “Madame Matilda is in that room.”

  She pointed to a door on the left. So there were two rooms, one within the other. Madame Arditi was in the other room.

  Rita, deeply embarrassed at being exposed, hung her head and wouldn’t look at me. My heart melted and I went over and took her hand.