by Elif Shafak
"I'll ask her, but I'm sure she'll want to go to a museum instead." Asya grunted as she put on her leather boots. She glanced around to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything. "Well, I will certainly have to spend some time with her, since my family keeps prodding me about guiding her all over the place so that she can marvel at Istanbul. They want her to sing the praises of this city when she goes back to America."
Despite the open windows the room still smelled heavily of marijuana, rake, and sex. Johnny Cash roared in the background.
Asya grabbed her bag and motioned toward the door. Just when she was about to leave, however, the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist blocked her way. Looking her directly in the eye, he grabbed her shoulders and gently pulled her toward himself His dark brown eyes had the plum rings and puffy bags common to the alcoholic or the grief-stricken or both.
"Dear Asya," he whispered, his face brightening up with a compassion she'd never seen there before. "Despite all that poison that you harbor inside, and perhaps precisely because of it, you are in some odd way so special and such a kindred soul. And I love you. I fell in love with you the day you first appeared in Cafe Kundera, with that troubled look on your face. I don't know if this means anything to you but I am going to confess it all the same. Before you leave this apartment you need to understand that this is no cathouse, and I do not bring chicks here. I come here to drink and draw and get depressed, get depressed and draw and drink, and sometimes to draw and get depressed and drink…. That's it…."
Utterly astounded, Asya clutched the door's handle and stood still for a moment at the threshold. Not knowing where to place her hands, she thrust them into the pockets of her skirt and fingered something there that felt like crumbs. She took her hands out, only to see the tips of her fingers covered with the brownish seeds consecrated by Petite-Ma to protect her against the evil-eye.
"Look at this! Wheat… wheat.." Asya slurred the word every which way. "Petite-Ma is trying to protect me from evil." She opened her hand and gave him a grain of wheat. No sooner had she done this, however, than she blushed as if having revealed an amorous secret.
Her cheeks still rosy, the bitterness inside her no longer tempered by brashness, Asya opened the door. Stepping out as quickly as she could, she hesitated for a second before she turned back. She looked as if she wanted to say something but instead she gave him a huge hug. Then she sprinted down five flights of stairs and ran as fast as she could from every torment chasing her soul.
EIGHT
Pine Nuts
How come she is still asleep?" Asya asked, her chin pointing in the direction of her bedroom. On the way back from the airport, to her dismay, she had found out that her aunts had placed a second bed right across from hers and turned her only private space under this roof into "the girls' room." They had done so either because they were always looking for new ways of tormenting her or because this room had a better view and they wanted to make a good impression on their guest, or else, they had seen the accommodation as yet another opportunity to bring the girls closer within their PIFCUP-Promoting International Friendship and Cultural Understanding Project. Having absolutely no desire whatsoever to share her private space with a complete stranger, yet unable to protest in front of the guest, Asya had grudgingly consented. But now her tolerance was wearing thin. As if it weren't enough that they put the American girl in her bedroom, the Kazanci women seemed determined not to start supper before the guest of honor joined them. Thus, although the dinner had been put on the table more than an hour ago and everyone had long taken her place around the table, including Sultan the Fifth, nobody had fully dined yet, including Sultan the Fifth. Every twenty minutes or so, somebody got up to warm the lentil soup and reheat the meat dish, carrying the pots back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, while Sultan the Fifth followed the smell each time with beseeching meows. They were in such a state, pasted to their chairs, watching TV on the lowest volume, and talking in whispers. Nonetheless, since they kept picking at this dish or that, everyone but Sultan the Fifth had already eaten more then they normally would have at one sitting.
"Perhaps she is already awake and is just lying in bed because she is too shy or something. Why don't I go in and take a look?" Asya asked.
"Stay put, miss. Let the girl sleep." Auntie Zeliha puckered an eyebrow.
Keeping an eye on the screen, another eye on the remote control, Auntie Feride agreed: "She needs to sleep. It is because of the jet lag. She traversed not only oceanic currents but also different time zones."
"Well, at least some people in this house are given the chance to stay in bed as long as they want," Asya grumbled.
It was precisely then that a sparkling soundtrack started to play in the background and the program everybody had been waiting for flashed on the screen: the Turkish version of The Apprentice. In rapt silence they watched the Turkish Donald Trump materialize from behind the bright satin curtains of a spacious office with a wonderful panorama of the Bosphorus Bridge. After a quick, condescending glance at the two teams awaiting his orders, the businessman informed them of their task. Each team was instructed to design a bottle of sparkling water, find a way to manufacture ninety-nine of them, and then sell them all as swiftly and as expensively as possible in one of the most luxurious quarters of the city.
"I don't call that a challenge," Asya said with a whoop. "If they want a real challenge they should send all these contestants to the most religious and conservative neighborhoods in Istanbul and have them sell bottled red wine there."
"Oh, be quiet," Auntie Banu snapped, sighing. She was discontent with the way her niece constantly made fun of religion and religiosity; in that regard she could plainly see who Asya resembled exactly: her mother. If blasphemy, more or less like breast cancer or diabetes, was genetically passed on from mother to daughter, what was the use of trying to correct it? Thus, she sighed again.
Ignoring the anguish she instilled in her aunt, Asya shrugged. "But why not? That would be far more creative than this baseless Turkish imitation of America. You should always amalgamate the technical material borrowed from the West with the particular features of the culture you address. That's what I call a Donald Trump ingeniously alla tuna. So he should, for instance, ask the contestants to sell packaged pork in a Muslim neighborhood. There you go. Now that's a challenge. Let's see those marketing strategies flower."
Before anyone could comment on that, the door of the bedroom opened with a creak and out stepped Armanoush Tchakhmakhchian, a bit diffident, a bit dizzy. She was wearing faded denim jeans and a navy sweatshirt long and loose enough to hide the features of her body. While packing for her flight to Turkey she had thought hard about what kind of clothing to take with her and had ended up choosing her most modest clothes so as not to look strange in a conservative place. It had therefore come as a shock to be welcomed at the Istanbul airport by Auntie Zeliha wearing an outrageously short skirt and even more outrageously high heels. What was even more startling, however, was to meet Auntie Banu afterward in a head scarf and a long dress, and to learn how pious she was, praying five times a day. That the two women, despite the stark contrast in their appearance and obviously in their personalities, were sisters living under the same roof was a puzzle Armanoush figured she would have to work on for a while.
"Welcome, welcome!" Auntie Banu exclaimed cheerily, but instantly ran out of English words.
As they watched her approach, the four aunts at the table fidgeted awkwardly with the discomfort of unfamiliarity, but still wore ear-to-ear smiles on their faces. Curious as to what the stranger smelled like, Sultan the Fifth immediately sprang to his feet and paced a narrowing circle around Armanoush, sniffing her slippers, until he had decided there was nothing of interest there.
"I am very sorry, I don't know how I slept that long," Armanoush stammered in slow-motion English.
"Of course, your body needed that sleep. It's a long flight," Auntie Zeliha said. Though she had a mellow yet blatant accent and tend
ed to stress the wrong syllables, she also sounded pretty comfortable expressing herself in English. "Aren't you hungry? I hope you will enjoy Turkish food."
Capable of recognizing the word food in every language possible, Auntie Banu bolted to the kitchen to bring the lentil soup. Almost robotically Sultan the Fifth leaped over his cushion to follow her, meowing and pleading along the way.
As she sat in the chair reserved for her, Armanoush inspected the living room for the first time. Quickly, warily, she looked around, pausing at certain spots: the carved rosewood, glass-door cupboard with gilded coffee cups, tea-glass sets, and several antiques inside; the old piano against the wall; the exquisite rug on the floor; the multiple pieces of latticework glowing on top of the coffee tables, velvet armchairs, and even the TV set; the canary in an ornamented cage swinging by the balcony door; the pictures on the walls-a bucolic oil painting of a countryside too picturesque to be real, a calendar with the photograph of a different cultural and natural site in Turkey for each month; an evil-eye amulet; and a portrait of Atatiirk in a tuxedo, waving his fedora toward a crowd not included in the frame. The entire room was pulsating with mementos and vivid hues blues, maroons, sea greens, turquoises-and blazing with such luminosity that it seemed there was an additional light somewhere other than what radiated from the lamps.
Armanoush then looked at the dishes on the table with growing interest. "What a gorgeous table." She beamed. "These are all my favorite foods. I see you have made hummus, baba ghanoush, yalanci sarma… and look at this, you have baked churek!"
"Aaaah, do you speak Turkish?!" Auntie Banu exclaimed, flabbergasted as she walked back in with a steaming pot in her hands and Sultan the Fifth still tailing her.
Armanoush shook her head, half-amused, half-solemn, as if feeling sorry to let down so much anticipation. "No, no. I do not speak the Turkish language, unfortunately, but I guess I speak the Turkish cuisine.
Unable to get this last bit, Auntie Banu turned to Asya in despair, but the latter seemed to have no interest in fulfilling her role as translator, so fully absorbed was she in the task designated by the Turkish Donald Trump. The competitors were now instructed to dive deep into the textile industry to redesign the yellow and azure uniforms of one of the biggest soccer teams competing in the national league. The design rated highest by the soccer players themselves was going to win the competition. Meanwhile, Asya had been contemplating an alternative plan for this specific task as well, but this time she decided to keep it to herself She didn't feel like talking anymore. To tell the truth, the American girl had turned out to be far more beautiful than she had expected; not that she was expecting anything, but deep inside Asya had thought, and perhaps hoped, that it would be some stupid blonde who they would welcome at the airport.
For some reason unknown to her, Asya wanted to confront the guest, but lacked not so much the reason as the energy. At this point, she'd rather remain aloof and reserved to make clear that she shunned this Turkish hospitality.
"So, tell us," Auntie Feride asked after completing the inspection of the American girl's hairstyle and finding it too plain. "How is America?"
The absurdity of the question was enough to make Asya lose her composure, no matter how resolute she might have been in her decision to remain detached. She gave her aunt a pained look. But if Armanoush too had found the question ludicrous, she didn't show it. She was good with aunts. Aunts were her specialty. Her right cheek slightly gorged with the lump of hummus inside, she replied: "Good, good. It's a big country, you know. Depending on where you live, there are different Americas."
"Ask her how is Mustafa." Grandma Gulsum demanded, completely dismissing the last pieces of information, which she hadn't understood.
"He is good, working hard," Armanoush said while she simultaneously listened to Auntie Zeliha's melodious voice translate her words. "They have a lovely house and two dogs. It is gorgeous out there in the desert. And the weather in Arizona is always nice, you know, nice and sunny…."
When the soup was eaten and the starters nibbled, Grandma Gulsum and Auntie Feride made a visit to the kitchen and returned carrying a huge tray each, perfectly synchronized in an Egyptian walk. They put the plates they had shouldered onto the table.
"You have pilaf," Armanoush smiled and leaned forward inspecting the dishes. "There is tursu and…"
"Wow!" the aunts exclaimed in unison, impressed by their guest's command of Turkish cuisine.
Armanoush suddenly spotted the last pot brought to the table. "Oh, I wish my grandma could see this, now this is a treat,
kaburga…."
"Wow!" echoed the chorus. Even Asya perked up with a dash of interest.
"Turkish restaurant many in America?" Auntie Cevriye asked. "Actually, I happen to know this food because it is also part of the Armenian cuisine," Armanoush replied slowly. Being presented to the family as Mustafa's stepdaughter Amy, an American girl from San Francisco, she had initially planned to gradually reveal the secret about the remaining part of her identity, after having built up some degree of mutual trust. But here she was, galloping full speed directly into the nub of the matter.
Now lapsing into a taut yet equally self-confident mood, Armanoush straightened her back and looked from one end of the table to the other to see how everyone was reacting. The blank expressions she encountered on their faces urged her to explain herself better.
"I am Armenian… well, Armenian American."
The words were not translated this time. There was no need to. The four aunts smiled simultaneously, each in her own way: one of them politely, the second worriedly, the third curiously, and the last amiably. But the most visible reaction came from Asya. Having now stopped watching The Apprentice, she eyed their guest with genuine interest for the first time, realizing that, after all, she might not be here to conduct research on "Islam and women."
"Oh yeah?" Asya finally opened her mouth, and leaned forward putting her elbows on the table. "Tell me, is it true that System of a Down hates us?"
Armanoush blinked, having no idea what she was talking about. A cursory glance was enough to make her understand that she was not alone in her bewilderment; the aunts too looked puzzled.
"It's this rock band that I like very much. The guys are Armenian and there are all these urban legends about how they hate the Turks and they wouldn't want any Turk to enjoy their music, so I was just curious." Asya shrugged, visibly discontent with giving this explanation to such an unknowledgeable bunch of people.
"I don't know anything about them." Armanoush pursed her lips. All of a sudden she felt so tiny here, weedy and vulnerable in the lonesomeness of being a stranger in a strange land. "My family was from Istanbul-I mean, my grandmother." She pointed a finger at Petite-Ma as though she needed an elderly person to better illustrate the story.
"Ask her what their family name is." Grandma Gulsum elbowed Asya, sounding like she possessed the key to a secret archive in the basement wherein the records of all the Istanbulite families, past and present, were neatly kept.
"Tchakhmakhchian," Armanoush replied when the question was translated to her. "You can call me Amy if you want but my full name is Armanoush Tchakhmakhchian."
Auntie Zeliha's face brightened as she exclaimed in recognition, "I've always found that interesting. The Turks add this suffix — ci to every possible word to generate professions. Look at our family name. It is Kazan-a. We are the "Cauldron Makers." Now I see Armenians do the same thing. "tchakmak… tchakmakhchi, tchakmakhchi-yan."
"So that's one more thing in common." Armanoush smiled. There was something in Auntie Zeliha she had liked right away. Was it the way she carried herself, with that eye-catching nose ring, the radically mini miniskirts, and the extra makeup she applied? Or was it her stare? Somehow she had a look that made one trust her to understand without being judgmental.
"Look, I have the address of the house." Armanoush fished out a piece of paper from her pocket. "My grandma Shushan was born in this house. If you could
help me with the directions, I'd like to go and visit it sometime."
While Auntie Zeliha peered at the writing on the piece of paper, Asya noticed that something was bothering Auntie Feride. Casting panicky glances at the partly open balcony door, she looked agitated, like someone who had found herself facing a dangerous situation and not knowing which way to run.
Asya leaned sideways and, hunching over the steaming pilaf, muttered to her crazy aunt, "Yo, what's up?"
Auntie Feride too leaned sideways, hunched over the steaming pilaf, and then, with eccentric sparkles in her gray green eyes, she whispered, "I heard stories about Armenians coming back to their old houses to dig out the chests their grandfathers had hidden there before they ran away." She squinted her eyes and raised her voice a notch. "Gold and jewels," she gasped, and paused to give that some thought until she had affably come to an agreement with herself: "Gold and jewels!"
It took Asya a few extra seconds to grasp what her aunt might be talking about.
"You understand what I'm saying, this girl is here to track down a treasure chest," Auntie Feride added excitedly, now poring over the contents of an imaginary chest, her face brightening with the taste of adventure and the glow of rubies.
"You're damn right!" Asya exclaimed. "Didn't I tell you this? When she walked off the airplane, she was carrying a shovel and pushing a wheelbarrow instead of luggage…."
"Oh, shut up!" Auntie Feride snapped, offended. She folded her arms and leaned back.
In the meantime, having detected a far deeper reason behind Armanoush's visit, Auntie Zeliha asked, "So you came here to see your grandmother's house. But why had she left?"
Armanoush was both eager to be asked this question and reluctant to answer. Was it too early to let them know? How much of her story should she reveal? If not now, when? Why should she have to wait, anyway? She sipped her tea. In a listless, almost sapped voice she said, "They were forced to leave." But as soon as she said this, her weariness disappeared. She lifted her chin as she added, "My grandmother's father, Hovhannes Stamboulian, was a poet and a writer. He was an eminent man, who was profoundly respected in the community."