The Black Rose of Halfeti

by Nazli Eray

  Luis Buñuel and the two shadowy women with him disappeared.

  I stretched out on the bed. As soon as I did the stone came alive again. It was sending out a little light everywhere, like a nightlight.

  I picked it up in my hand again.

  The old doctor was standing in the center of the stone and he had noticed me. He took a step or two toward me.

  “I left a letter,” he said. “In the middle of the night, I left a letter for you in the mailbox at the apartment downstairs . . . I was curious if you got it?” he asked.

  What could I say? I was overcome with surprise.

  The old doctor was staring at me from inside the seer stone.

  “I didn’t get any such thing,” I said. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, so you didn’t get my letter,” said the doctor. He was confused.

  “I put it carefully in the box. I understand. I didn’t hear anything from you. I should have realized,” he said.

  Hıfzi Bey appeared inside the stone.

  “Doctor,” he called out. “Are you there, Doctor?”

  “I’m here,” said the old man.

  “We’re going to Cebeci. Tonight. Come with us.”

  “So we’re going . . .”

  “Yes, we’re going. We made up our minds,” said Hıfzi Bey.

  “I’m coming,” said the doctor to him.

  He turned to me. “We’ll see each other again,” he said. “I’ll write to you again.”

  “Good night,” I said.

  “Good night. Where can I leave the letter?” he asked. “So that you get it?”

  I thought for a minute.

  “Leave it in the same place,” I said.

  “In that white box at the young lady’s place on the floor below?”

  “Yes. Leave it in the white box,” I said.

  Hıfzi Bey called out from behind him:

  “Doctor! Daylight is coming. Hurry up. We’re setting out for Cebeci.”

  “I’m coming,” the old doctor called back.

  He turned to me. “We finally decided,” he said. “We’re going to Cebeci. We’ll go by way of Kızılay. There are four of us. Each one remembers a part of the way. For better or worse . . . We decided to put our information together and go this morning.”

  I asked interestedly:

  “Are you going to combine your knowledge?”

  “Yes,” he said. “We’re going to put everything we know, everything we remember together and head off.”

  “To go to Cebeci,” I muttered. “Why is it so important?”

  “It’s important,” said the old doctor. “Because none of us can remember exactly how you get there. We can’t figure out the way.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “But we’re four people now,” he said. “We’ll find Cebeci.”

  “I know you’ll find it,” I said. “I believe that. Have a good trip.”

  “Take care,” said the old man.

  He went over to his friends, who were waiting on the left side of the stone.

  THE NUN IN WHITE

  The nun in white had deeply bowed her head and was staring at Buñuel lying in bed with his eyes closed.

  “What is this woman attempting to do?” asked the Black Rose of Halfeti.

  The seer stone was in her hand. She was playing with it nervously.

  I looked closely at the nun in white. She was young. Her face was very lovely. It looked like the face of an innocent child. Her long eyelashes cast shadows on her white cheeks.

  She carefully bent down and brushed Buñuel’s forehead with her lips. Buñuel slowly opened his eyes. Perhaps he was seeing the nun in white for the first time.

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  “I am a nun from the Catholic hospital,” she said. “Thank goodness, you’re conscious. You’re speaking. I must tell the doctor this . . .”

  “Why am I here?” asked Buñuel.

  “You’re wounded. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “How did I get wounded?” Buñuel asked in astonishment. “In a duel? Or trying out a gun?”

  “Neither,” said the nun. “A woman shot you.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes. A woman from the old days . . .”

  I only restrained the Black Rose of Halfeti with difficulty.

  “Buñuel,” she hissed. “This man is a lecher. Look, the nun’s in love with him too. Look how she just worships him. What can I do? How can I get to him? How can I get inside this stone?”

  “I really don’t know how to get inside this stone,” I said. “It’s a strange kind of thing . . .”

  “I have to get inside the stone. I have to get close to him,” shouted the Black Rose of Halfeti.

  She pressed the stone tightly to her chest.

  “Buñuel feels me,” she murmured.

  Love is so cruel. I watched the hopeless struggle of the young woman at my side. At the same time I kept an eye on the interior of the seer stone.

  Buñuel said to the young nun:

  “You’re someone I’ve dreamed about for years.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really . . . a virgin, a young person who decided to spend her life enclosed in a convent . . . a lily condemned to fade in dark halls . . . an untouched virgin,” said Buñuel.

  The Black Rose of Halfeti cried out:

  “Look! Look at what he’s saying to that woman. That woman’s in love with him. I have to go there right away!”

  I was listening to what Buñuel said to the nun.

  He was an ugly man . . . But he managed to entrance women. And then he would let them go.

  I recalled Silvia Pinal. And now the Black Rose of Halfeti was at my side, weeping in despair.

  “Perhaps one day,” said Buñuel, “your virginity, the most valuable thing to you in the world, might you give that to me?”

  The nun seemed mesmerized.

  “I will,” she whispered. “I will give it to you. It is the greatest, most irresistible desire of my life now.”

  The Black Rose of Halfeti let out a scream and threw the seer stone onto the floor.

  I picked up the stone. It wasn’t broken. But the interior was all muddled and the image had gone. It was as though some cloudy, filthy water were swirling around inside.

  THE PASHA

  The pasha was inside the seer stone now. He was shouting from the window in his cell in the form of a gilt frame into the completely empty Night Salon.

  “They’ve gone! All four of them have gone! They went off to Kızılay to find the road to Cebeci!”

  I slowly leaned down toward the seer stone.

  “What could happen to them, Pasha?” I asked. “There are four of them. Nothing will happen.”

  “Are you so sure?” shouted the pasha. He had seen me. “Are you so sure? Their minds aren’t set up for today. Half an ear, a quarter of a mind! Among the four of them they have maybe three eyes, two ears, and three hands and four legs in proper working order. Count them up yourself . . . They’re exposed to every kind of danger!”

  “The picture you draw is terrifying, Pasha,” I said. “Three eyes, a quarter of a brain, four legs . . . It’s a terrible thing. In other words . . .”

  “In other words, if you put the four of them together, you’d only wind up with one person,” said the general. “The four of them together make up one person. But it’s very dangerous; each one of them had a different dream, different desires, and fragments of different worlds stuck here and there in their minds.”

  “Yes, I see the danger,” I murmured.

  What the pasha had said was terrible. I felt depressed now.

  “They’re old,” said the pasha. “They’ve run away from home. As I said, if you put them all together, you only get something like a complete normal person.”

  “This is very painful, Pasha.”

  “Of course it is,” said the pasha. “That’s old age for you.”

&n
bsp; “But they were talking very nicely here and explaining things,” I said.

  “They felt secure here in the Night Salon,” said the pasha. “Outside is dangerous.”

  “What can we do?”

  “I don’t know. Try to follow them somehow,” said the pasha.

  “Fine, Pasha,” I said.

  The pasha had withdrawn into his frame and become silent.

  KING DARIUS

  “Let’s eat, let’s drink, let’s have fun!” shouted King Darius, full of merriment.

  He turned to Meserret Hanım and said:

  “And you sing a nice song for us. Then we’ll turn on the television and watch something.”

  Alop the slave softly said:

  “Uğur Dündar is on tonight, sire.”

  “Is he on tonight? Wonderful!” said King Darius. “We’ll watch his program.”

  I was unable to join in this happy and fun-filled atmosphere in the palace. My mind was on different things. The pasha’s words seemed to be ringing in my ears.

  “The four of them all together would only make up half a man. They’re old, very old. They’re near to dying . . .”

  “What are you thinking?” King Darius said as he gently bent down to my ear.

  Meserret Hanım had started to sing. Her voice echoed in waves on the stone terrace.

  “Nothing important,” I said to King Darius. “Something just came to mind.”

  “What is it? Say it, let us help,” said King Darius.

  “No, no, it’s completely unimportant,” I responded. “Something truly unimportant just came to mind.”

  “I wish you’d tell us,” said King Darius. “Perhaps I can help you.”

  How could I explain to King Darius as he sat across from me in this indefinite palace in the night, in the ancient city of Dara, that four old men had run out of the Night Salon and were headed off toward Cebeci?

  Everything was so mixed up.

  Suddenly I realized what kind of confused situation I was in.

  The Black Rose of Halfeti came to my room and was weeping there, demanding to go to Luis Buñuel.

  “Well, let’s get into his dream!”

  “He doesn’t want it. They’re not calling me.”

  She started to cry again.

  Buñuel was lying with his shoulder in bandages in a Catholic hospital, and a nun with an immaculate face, dressed all in white, was waiting at his side.

  King Darius had bought a television for his palace, had had them put in an electric line to the ancient ruins, and a “global adaptor.” He could see every place and everything he wanted and was amazed as he became acquainted with the world.

  The seer stone he gave me was something incomprehensible. For me it was far more interesting and important than television. It seemed to show an image that was connected to the human soul. It encapsulated and reflected worlds that were suffused with emotions and illusions. I couldn’t figure it out for the life of me.

  The old doctor who sent me the letter in the middle of the night and his three good friends had run away from the Night Salon where they had sought refuge and were trying to find the road to Cebeci that they no longer remembered.

  Meserret Hanım, a former soloist from the Istanbul Municipal Conservatory Chorus, had been admired on television by King Darius and brought to the palace.

  The pasha in the gilt frame on the wall of the Night Salon was actually imprisoned in a cell. This clearly had some connection with recent events.

  The solitary window he had to the world opened on to the Night Salon where the old men had sought refuge.

  And I had gone in and out of any number of dreams. I knew all about the dream passageway, the cockpit doorway, and the warning lights in the dreams.

  Outside, the Mardin night hovered over the plain like a giant space ship in all its incomprehensible beauty.

  Everything was unbelievable and very beautiful.

  The former king Darius was sitting next to me. His slave Alop was in the corner.

  Everything was developing and moving forward in a bizarre way.

  King Darius had the television remote in his hand.

  Uğur Dündar’s Arena program was due to start soon.

  Donna Elvira, who had come from a Catalan graveyard, told me from inside the seer stone that she knew Buñuel’s childhood.

  One of Buñuel’s old flames had suffered an attack of jealousy and shot him in his shoulder on the set. All of these incredible events had completely overwhelmed me.

  If I go to my hotel room and try to think, the Black Rose of Halfeti will be there, clutching at me in tears, not giving me a moment of peace.

  She was there at my side again.

  “No matter what, I’m going into Buñuel’s dream,” she said. “Don’t leave me alone.”

  She had her mind made up. She was fixing her hair in front of the mirror. After she gave a little adjustment to the folds of her black gown with her hand, she said, “Come on. Let’s go. We’re going into the dream.”

  “Is he asleep?”

  “Yes, at the moment. I got the news.”

  “Well, did he want you? How will you get into his dream?”

  “He didn’t,” said the Black Rose of Halfeti. “There was no request or anything . . .”

  “Fine, how will you get in, then?”

  “We’ll go the same way,” she said. “I got special permission. Come on, let’s go.”

  I got ready. We left the room together.

  A little later we found ourselves inside that walkway I knew so well by now.

  “There’s nobody here,” I said.

  The passageway was completely empty.

  “It’s very close in here today,” I said.

  Yes, stultifying,” said the Black Rose of Halfeti.

  We were walking side by side in the passageway. A little later we arrived at the damp, shiny snakeskin curtain that covered the entrance to the dream. It was swaying gently, and an unusual odor emanated from it. It was a feral, attractive smell. I realized it was a male odor. The Black Rose of Halfeti was about to faint from excitement next to me. We carefully pushed the damp skin aside and entered.

  The dark road lined with cypresses stretched out before us.

  I felt stressed again. I felt like there was a cat sitting on my chest the moment I saw the old cemetery.

  The Catalan graveyard was silent, as always. It was the silence of eternity. What were we seeking here? The branches of the cypress trees began to rustle in the wind. Suddenly I saw Donna Elvira’s grave before me.

  It was derelict, covered with weeds.

  “Donna Elvira,” I whispered. “Are you there, Donna Elvira?”

  It was a silent grave, like all graves.

  The roads in front of us became confused, and I felt a little sick to my stomach.

  We heard church bells ringing somewhere in the distance.

  Hearing a rustling noise behind me, I turned. Donna Elvira was walking a few paces behind me.

  “Are you here? Donna Elvira?”

  “Yes. I came to make sure you didn’t lose your way,” she said.

  We had entered into Buñuel’s dream. The cemetery abruptly ended and we found ourselves inside the Catholic hospital.

  “There he is!” the Black Rose of Halfeti cried out.

  I looked where she pointed. Buñuel was sitting up in the iron bed. The nun in white was fixing the pillows behind him.

  They saw us.

  Buñuel didn’t seem very pleased to see us. The Black Rose of Halfeti sensed it.

  We stopped where we were.

  “It’s always the same story,” Donna Elvira muttered from behind me. “Luis is very lusty. Always the same story.”

  It was as though the nun had turned into a white panther. She had no intention of letting us near Buñuel.

  The Black Rose of Halfeti said, “I wish we hadn’t come. Let’s go back.”

  “Okay, let’s return.”

  We started to run.

&nbs
p; We were in the graveyard again. The young woman was weeping at my side.

  “To be in love is death,” she said.

  “Stop. Don’t say such things. Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  Donna Elvira disappeared between the twilight and the trees.

  A CONVERSATION

  “Then what happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”

  “Nothing happened,” I said.

  I put the seer stone in my handbag. It wasn’t functioning.

  “What happened to Buñuel? Luis Buñuel?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw him again.”

  “Well, what happened to the girl? The Black Rose of Halfeti?”

  “She disappeared. Probably she left. She must have had a really broken heart when she went.”

  “Well, King Darius, Alop the slave, Meserret Hanım? Where are they?”

  “They’re gone too,” I said in a weary voice. “I went back there; there’s no palace, and I walked around the ruins of Dara for a while in the blazing sun. I couldn’t find the slightest trace of anything connected to them.”

  “But you experienced all of this . . .”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, where are they now? Where are all these people?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Really, I don’t know. I’m very sad. Sad because I lost them. What is this? What did I experience?”

  “Mardin. The spell of Mardin.”

  “Why did it end?”

  “Everything ends.”

  I was silent.

  I thought of the old doctor.

  “There was an old doctor,” I said. “His friends . . . The Night Salon . . .”

  “They were caught in Cebeci.”

  “So that means . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “They’re in the old-age home.”

  “But they were full of life!” I exclaimed.

  “Their brains weren’t working quite right for this life.”

  “I get it. The pasha . . . ?”

  “He’s in the same place; he’s not going to get out of there very easily.”

  The voice was drifting off.

  I shouted out into the darkness in a last effort:

  “Well, what was this? What was all of this? I lived it!”

  “Life,” said the voice. “Just life.”

  “So did I lose everything?” I shouted. “When will they come back? An old king, those sweet senile men who ran away from home, a beautiful girl, the famous Spanish director Luis Buñuel, the pasha in the gilt frame on the wall? A plump lady from the chorus?”