by Nazli Eray
“He came for you,” said Silvia Pinal. “He came to see you more closely, to hear what you had to say, to try to explain himself to you at least a little.”
“Look, that’s right,” I said. “The doctor came downstairs for that reason that day. I wasn’t able to figure out why they made the visit. Because they hardly go out anywhere. Old people . . .”
“As I said,” replied Silvia Pinal, “to be near you . . .”
“You’re interested in this story too,” I said.
“You have no idea how interested I am.”
“Really?” I asked in astonishment. “It just seemed like an ordinary sad story to me.”
“It’s really not any ordinary story,” said the woman. “It interests me, because I might play you in the film.”
“What film?” I asked, confused.
The woman stared into my face for a minute.
“The film that Luis Buñuel will direct,” she said.
“What film?”
“You were just explaining the story a minute ago. Well, that film.”
“Where did it come from that the story I told you is going to be a film?”
“Buñuel’s after the story. It’s perfectly clear that he’s going to have it turned into a scenario and make a film out of the story. And I’m his favorite actress,” she said. “So then I’ll play the lead; in other words, you.”
I was annoyed.
“Miss Pinal,” I said. “Nothing has been said about anything like this. And besides, this is my private life. I don’t want it to be the subject of a film.”
“But you told it to Buñuel,” said the woman.
“He knew it anyway. He asked me questions,” I said. “But he didn’t say anything about a film. Something like that is simply out of the question. I won’t give permission.”
“Excuse me,” said the woman. “I’ve upset you. I’m going. This is your time to relax . . .”
I didn’t make a sound.
Silvia Pinal got herself up from amidst the silk cushions. She fixed her hair a bit with one hand.
“Good day,” she said. She opened the door of the room and left. I ran after her, opened the door, and looked out. She must have gotten on the elevator. The corridor was empty.
IZMIR
My left ankle was placed in a cast. I was lying in a twelve-person ward, in a narrow bed at the end.
“Tell us if it hurts.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll have them give you a needle,” the attendant said. “I know the nurse. Nurse Muazzez.”
Actually, I did have pain.
“Can you do that without asking the doctor?”
“The doctor said they should do it if there’s pain,” he said.
“Then let them go ahead and do it,” I said.
The ward was filled with women.
“They’ve all had hernia operations,” said the attendant. “This is the Women’s Ward. First Surgical Ward. The doctor was lucky to find a bed. These wards are filled to bursting . . .”
A little later Nurse Muazzez came in with a hypodermic needle in her hand. It was an old glass one.
“Turn your back,” she said to me.
She gave me the needle in the thigh. The medicine burned like poison.
“It’ll go away in a minute,” said the nurse.
She was a beautiful young woman. Blonde, with light-colored eyes.
“Let me check your temperature,” she said.
She waved a thermometer and put it under my arm.
“The doctor is coming!”
It was as though a whisper had floated up into the air of the ward and then settled down again. The doctor was at the door.
I turned slightly from where I lay and looked straight at him.
Cold blue eyes, that same height and appearance. Old age often changes people. I tried to see the changes that the last sixty years had made in the physique of the man across from me. The only differences were that in old age his hair was snow white and his movements were slower.
The doctor came over to my bed in two steps.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine, Doctor.”
I was staring into his blue eyes. I couldn’t detect the slightest indication at all that he knew me, that he had seen me before. A stranger, a young doctor, the hospital ward in old Izmir, and the short, dark attendant observing everything from the side . . .
“Is your bed comfortable?”
“Very comfortable.”
“I’ll have them put a pillow under your ankle so it doesn’t swell,” he said.
He lifted the sheet covering my ankle and examined the cast.
“Is the cast too tight?”
“A little.”
“Yes, they made it a little tight. If it bothers you a lot, I’ll have them cut it.”
The nurse had come. She seemed livelier standing next to the doctor. Their expressions were different.
“What medicine are you giving?”
“The ones you prescribed, sir.”
The doctor turned to me.
“Are you able to sleep?” he asked.
“I’ll try,” I said.
“When you have pain, let them give you a painkiller. The nurse will do it. I might prescribe something for you to have during the night.”
“Thank you.”
“Be well.”
The doctor left the ward like an arrow in flight.
The orderly bent down to my ear.
Slowly, he said:
“Everyone’s sick over this guy. All the women.”
“Really?”
“Really. He’s a real lady’s man.”
He suddenly became quiet. The women in the ward were talking from one bed to another.
Their voices were soft and relaxing, like the chirping of finches put out on the balcony on a spring day to enjoy the fresh air.
I slowly closed my eyes. As I slipped off to sleep, I had this question on my mind: “What year were we in? I wonder what year? I must ask the attendant . . .”
Off I went.
THE WINDOW IN ANKARA
The taxi stopped in front of Elfe’s house. I gave the driver his money and slowly got out of the taxi. I raised my eyes a little and looked at the window above the entrance door.
The old doctor was there. He was sitting in his high-backed chair, looking out. He saw me. I saw a slight movement in his face, his mouth seemed to twitch a little, and he was looking at me with his pale blue eyes. The caretaker sitting next to him saw me too, and straightening up in her seat gave me a hello.
In two steps I had passed through the entrance and was inside.
“You’re lost in thought,” said Elfe.
“I’m thinking,” I said.
“What are you thinking? Was your guy at the window?”
“He was . . . Elfe, do you know what I’m thinking? How does this old man’s brain work, how does he comprehend the world, what is his memory like, I wonder?”
Elfe started to laugh.
“Couldn’t you find anything else to worry about? I can’t believe you,” she said. “I don’t know whether his brain is functioning or not, but it’s clear that there’s a big storm going on in his soul. He’s flipped out! Flipped!”
“You think so?”
“What else could it be?” said Elfe.
“You think he’s lost his mind?”
“He’s sick. Very old. His mind is gone,” said Elfe.
“Did you hear something from the caretaker?”
“No, I haven’t heard anything. They don’t take him outside anymore. He never leaves the house.”
“Did he used to go out?”
“Of course he went out. He was even driving the car until recently.”
I was astonished.
“Do you mean to tell me he was using a car at his age?”
“He was. He had a special parking place in front of the door.”
“So that means something happened all of a su
dden . . .”
“Well actually, these things don’t happen all of a sudden, but I don’t know,” said Elfe. “Why are you thinking about this thing so much?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “People’s minds interest me.”
“The man’s mind . . .”
“Maybe. The man’s mind. That brain is like a broken machine now. It’s giving out the wrong signals; maybe it’s getting different images . . .”
“Who knows . . . ?”
“The brain and the soul are confused with one another. The control button that each of them uses every day isn’t functioning. The button’s out of service,” I said.
“You think so?”
“Of course. He has desires and wishes. He expressed them with the letter that he came down and left in the middle of the night.”
“With no censor.”
“No censor,” I said.
“Like an erotic film.”
“Exactly the same,” I said. “But the actor is very old.”
“That’s what makes the whole thing erotic,” said Elfe. “Maybe if this doctor had been young and made such a proposal to you everything would have been very different . . .”
“Maybe he does think he’s young.”
“No, he knows what his situation is.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he wanted you to get Viagra.”
“Right,” I said. “He knows about Viagra.”
“Of course he knows. After all, he’s a pharmacist too.”
“I wonder, do you think he ever used Viagra?”
“He did,” said Elfe. “He used it years ago.”
“Who knows?” I said. “Do you think he’s senile?”
“If you ask me, he’s senile . . . God, drop this, will you? I’m bored,” said Elfe.
“Let’s watch a movie.”
“What do you have?”
“There’s a Buñuel film, Viridiana.”
“God, forget about that Spanish director now. That’s a difficult film.”
“Come on; let’s go out for a walk.”
“That’s the best idea. Let’s go out.”
THE SEYR-I MARDIN
The view of the city from the Seyr-i Mardin was enchanting at night. Mardin Castle behind us was illuminated like a fireball, on the hill.
A soft light fell on all the courtyards and entrances, the minaret of the Şehidiye Mosque was like a tower of light streaming out of the earth, there were hundreds of lights burning around me. Mardin was like a shimmering jewel; all of a sudden it seemed to me like a giant spaceship, descending with all its lights blazing.
The city was like a spaceship sparkling with thousands of lights that had come down and landed on the hill across from us. It sat motionlessly there, very close to me, as though bringing me news that originated in the infinity of unknown worlds and altered time.
I observed this city, metamorphosed into a space ship, in admiration for a while from where I sat.
On the other side, Mesopotamia was dark, motionless, and silent. A night bird softly sang somewhere.
I heard the chair next to me being gently pulled back.
I turned and looked.
IZMIR
“The cannon’s going to go off,” said the stout hospital orderly at my bedside. His name was Mehdi, I had learned.
At that moment, “bang,” the cannon went off. The tall windows of the ward, which went all the way up to the ceiling, shook.
“What cannon is that?”
“It’s the sahur, the Ramazan morning meal,” said Mehdi. “And you didn’t sleep at all last night.”
“I have a little pain. I drift off every once in a while.”
I thought of something. “What day of Ramazan is today?”
“The seventeenth day,” said Mehdi. “Thank God,” he sighed a little.
“What month is this, Mehdi?”
“August,” he said.
“What year are we in?”
“1949. Oh, you’re just having some fun with me, I think.”
“Take it easy, everybody’s asleep in the ward,” I said. “I’m not having fun or anything. These needles affect me. My mind keeps coming and going. That’s why I asked. 1949.”
“What medicine?” said Mehdi. “They’re giving you a simple painkiller. It’s like water.”
“I don’t know, maybe the fall affected me.”
Mehdi was staring closely at my face.
“You seem like somebody from years in the future,” he said. “The way you talk, the way you’re so easygoing, the clothes you’re wearing, the wristwatch . . . that single piece of rubber on the bottom of your shoe. These aren’t things I’ve seen before. Your handbag . . . the way you have your hair . . .”
I giggled.
“I’m someone whose consciousness keeps coming and going,” I said. “A patient with a fracture.”
“The fracture will heal,” said Mehdi.
I was silent.
Inside the ward, one could hear the sounds that people passing through a deep sleep produced, sounds that harmonized with the darkness and showed through the night that they were alive. A little sigh, a slight snore.
The windows were open. The hot air and the sounds of Izmir flowed in. So I’m in the year 1949. I have to understand this well, digest it. I mustn’t allow the attendant to see my confusion.
In the year 1949 in Izmir, I broke my left ankle by falling head over heels in Varyant. A cast was put on in the Konak Maternity Hospital. I hope to God I don’t wind up lame. That old x-ray machine downstairs where they took a picture of my ankle, that breakable glass syringe in the nurse’s hand, the strange attendant’s uniform Mehdi was wearing . . . Outside a lonely Izmir . . .
So I’m in the year 1949. Doctor Ayhan is treating me. He must be about twenty-six years old. I just figured it out in my head. In Izmir, a twenty-six-year-old doctor.
I opened my eyes a little. Mehdi had gone off, thinking I was asleep. He’d have a cigarette in the hall now. He did the same thing last night.
A little later, I saw the tip of the cigarette glowing like a firefly at the base of the wall.
I wondered when I would be able to walk.
I wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible and lose myself in old Izmir.
The doctor is twenty-six years old . . . I wonder how old I am.
A varicose vein in my leg caught my eye. I’m not all that young.
I thought of my purse. There might be a little money in my purse. I wanted to squeeze a little money into Mehdi’s hand. My car keys might be there. My ID was always in a corner of the pink wallet.
“Where is my purse?”
I started to move around in my bed.
Mehdi was next to me.
“What’s going on; did something happen?”
“My purse . . . When they brought me into the hospital I had my purse with me, didn’t I?”
“Of course; it’s here,” said Mehdi. He picked up my old leopard print purse from down by my feet and held it out to me.
“Can we turn on a light?”
“The lights in the ward are out now. We can’t turn them on, everyone’s asleep,” said the attendant. “It’ll get light in a little while.”
“Is it that late?”
I was surprised.
“It is,” said Mehdi. “It’s been a long time since the cannon went off.”
“You’re right.”
I went through my purse in the darkness. I found a bunch of my keys. They were attached to a ring with an elephant on it. I got my change purse out. I had about 400 liras. They were right where I had put them.
I pulled out a twenty. I stuck it in Mehdi’s pocket.
“That’s completely unnecessary,” said Mehdi. “What do I need that for, in the middle of the night . . .”
My car keys were in the right place. I couldn’t find my ID card. I kept on rooting through my bag. My card case with the picture of Marilyn Monroe on it came into my hand.
I slowly opened the cover. The folded piece of paper was still in there.
I gently unfolded the paper. I read the first sentences in the light falling into the ward from outside.
. . . I am madly in love with you . . . I want to sleep with you . . .
THE SEYR-I MARDIN
The chair next to me was gently pulled back. I turned to look. Buñuel must have come.
Someone completely different was sitting in the chair. It was an elderly man. His dark skin was tanned by the sun. He had piercing, dark-colored eyes, and a nose like an eagle’s beak. A thick beard. On his back was a shiny silver-colored cape that hung down. There was a young man standing perfectly erect behind his chair. His hair was long too, and he had strange clothes. He stood there completely motionless, staring at Mesopotamia stretching out before him.
Who was this man sitting in the chair? He had turned slightly toward me now.
He moved his thin lips. The golden rings set with stones on his fingers caught my attention. He was obviously strong, and didn’t resemble anyone I had ever met before.
He lifted his head and looked into my eyes.
“I’m King Darius,” he said. “Darius the First. I am the king here. I own all of this land.”
I straightened up a little in my seat and greeted King Darius.
“I went through the ruins of Dara yesterday morning,” I said. “I have some knowledge of you.”
“Yes, the ruins of Dara,” the king muttered. “Basically, nothing has remained on the face of the earth. A few tomb chambers, a small treasury they discovered, and the endless plains . . .”
“Yes,” I said. “The excavations are still going on. A large portion of the ruins are closed to visitors. But still a very magnificent world, Your Majesty.”
King Darius shook his head.
“I don’t go there. I get bored with the excavations. Sometimes I come here and sit in the early evening. I have a sherbet and observe the world,” he said. “My slave Alop is always at my side.”
He turned around.
“Alop, order a rose sherbet for the lady; I’ll have one too,” he said.
Alop the slave bent down to the ground.
“At your service, sire.”
Within two seconds he had vanished somewhere into the back of the Seyr-i Mardin.
A little later a waiter brought the rose sherbets on a shiny tray.