The Bastard of Istanbul

by Elif Shafak

  During the brief pauses between questions, Armanoush scrutinized the place and the people, intuiting where the name of the cafe came from. The constant tension between vulgar reality and treacherous fantasy, the notion of the outside people versus us people inside, the dreamlike quality of the place, and finally, the sullen expression on the men's faces, as if they were desperately ruminating on what to choose-either to carry the weight of disheveled love affairs or become half real with lightness-everything evoked a scene out of a Kundera novel. They, however, didn't and couldn't know this, being too enveloped, too much a part of it, like fish that couldn't possibly comprehend the immensity of the ocean in which they swam from the blurry lens of the waters surrounding them.

  Likening the cafe to a Kundera scene only doubled Armanoush's interest. She noticed many other things, including the fact that everyone at the table spoke English, although with an accent and grammatical flaws. Overall they seemed to have no trouble switching from Turkish to English. At first Armanoush attributed such ease to their self-confidence, but by the end of the day she suspected that the facilitating factor might be less their confidence in their English than their lack of confidence in any language whatsoever. They acted and talked as if no matter what they said or how they said it, one could not really fully express the innermost self and, in the end, language was only a reeking carcass of hollow words long rotten inside.

  Armanoush also noticed that the overwhelming majority of the framed road pictures on the walls depicted either Western countries or exotic places; feww had anything to do with what might fall in between. Having made this observation, she didn't quite know how to interpret it. Perhaps the flight of the imagination here was oriented toward either moving to the West or fleeing into an exotic land far away.

  A swarthy, slim street vendor sneaked in, almost hiding himself from the waiters, who might have chased him away. The man carried a huge tray of unpeeled yellow almonds on cubes of ice.

  "Almonds!" he exclaimed, as if it were somebody's name he was desperately looking for.

  "Over here!" the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist exclaimed, as if responding to his name. Almonds would go perfectly with what he was drinking at the moment: beer. By this time he had already openly quit Alcoholics Anonymous, less on grounds of addiction than on grounds of earnestness, seeing no reason why he should call himself an alcoholic when he wasn't one. It didn't sound sincere to him. Instead, he had decided to become his own supervisor. Today, for instance, he'd drink only three beers. Having already guzzled down one beer, there were two more to go. After that, he'd stop. Yes, he assured everyone, he could manage such discipline without someone's pitiful professional guidance. With that kind of decisiveness, he bought four ladlefuls of almonds and piled them in the middle of the table so that everyone could easily reach them.

  Armanoush's thoughts, in the meantime, were busy. She watched the lanky, lost-looking waiter take everyone's orders and was somewhat surprised to see so many people drinking. She remembered her blanket comment the other night on Muslims and alcohol. Should she now mention the Turks' fondness for alcohol to her pals in the Cafe Constantinopolis? How much of what was happening here should she reveal to them?

  A few minutes later, the waiter returned with a large glass of frothy beer for the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist and a carafe of dry red wine for everyone else. As he poured the dark crimson liquid into elegant wine glasses, Armanoush took the opportunity to observe the people around the table. She figured that the edgy woman sitting next to and yet miles away from the bulky man with the bulbous nose must be his wife. One by one she examined the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist's wife and the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist, as well as the Closeted-Gay Columnist, the Exceptionally Untalented Poet, the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies, and… she couldn't help staring a bit longer at the young, sexy brunette across from her, who didn't look like part of the group but seemed, if anything, awkwardly attached to it. Definitely a cell phone person, the brunette kept toying with her pink, glittery phone, flipping it open for no apparent reason, pressing on this button or that, sending an SMS or receiving one, absorbed by the small device. From time to time, she inched toward the bearded man next to her and nuzzled his ear. Evidently, she was the new girlfriend of the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies.

  "I had a tattoo done yesterday."

  The words were so out of context that Armanoush could not instantly grasp if they were addressed to anyone, let alone to her. Yet, either out of sheer boredom or in an attempt to befriend the only other recent addition to the group, the new girlfriend of the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies was talking to her: "Would you like to see it?"

  It was a wild orchid, as red as hell, snaking around her belly button.

  "That's cool," Armanoush said.

  The woman grinned, pleased. "Thank you," she said as she patted her lips with a napkin even though she hadn't eaten anything.

  In the meantime, Asya too had been observing the woman, albeit with a far more disapproving gaze. Having met a new female, as usual, she could do one of two things: either wait to see when she would start hating her or take the shortcut and hate her right away. She chose the latter.

  Asya leaned backward and picked up her glass between thumb and forefinger, observing the red liquid. Even when she started to talk she didn't remove her gaze from the glass.

  "In point of fact, when we come to recall how long-standing the practice of tattooing is. . " Asya said, but didn't finish her sentence. Instead she started a new one. "At the beginning of the 1990s, explorers found a well-preserved body in the Italian Alps. It was more than five thousand years old. It had fifty-seven tattoos on its body. The world's oldest tattoos!"

  "Really?" Armanoush asked. "I wonder what kinds of tattoos were done back then?"

  "Often they tattooed animals, the ones that were their totems… probably donkeys, deer, owls, mountain rams-and snakes, of course, I'm sure snakes were always on demand."

  "Wow, more than five thousand years old!" the new girlfriend of the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies enthused.

  "But I guess he didn't have a tattoo on his belly button!" he cooed back to her. And they laughed together, followed by a kiss and a cuddle.

  There were a few tables scattered outside on the sidewalk. A grim couple settled themselves at one of them, and then another couple, with stressed-out, serious urban faces. Armanoush watched their gestures with curiosity, likening them to characters from a Fitzgerald novel.

  "We somehow tend to associate tattoos with originality, inventiveness, and even modernism. In point of fact, having tattoos around your belly button is one of the oldest customs in world history. Let me remind you that by the end of the nineteenth century a mummified body was discovered by a group of Western archaeologists. It belonged to an Egyptian princess. Her name was Amunet. And guess what? She had a tattoo. Guess where?" Now Asya turned toward the scenarist and looked him directly in the eye. "On her belly button!"

  The scenarist blinked, puzzled by so much information. His new girlfriend seemed just as impressed when she asked: "How do you know all this?"

  "Her mother operates a tattoo parlor," interjected the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist without tearing his eyes from Asya. He sank into his chair, resisting the urge to kiss her angry lips, resisting the urge to ask for another beer without ado, resisting the urge to stop impersonating the man he was not.

  His mood went unnoticed by all but one. Armanoush detected the warmth in his eyes when he looked at Asya and sensed he might be in love with her.

  Asya meanwhile seemed to be in an entirely different state of mind, getting ready to launch another attack on the new girlfriend of the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies. Leaning forward with a hard look on her face, she said: "Tattoos can be very dangerous though."

  Asya waited a few seconds for the word dangerous to sink in. "The instruments used in the process should be thoroughly disinfected, but the truth is you can
never be a hundred percent sure about the risk of contamination, which, of course, is a serious issue given that the most common technique of tattooing is inserting ink into the skin via needles…."

  She had uttered the word needles in such a menacing way that everyone at the table felt the chill. Only the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist watched her with an impish sparkle in his eyes, fully enjoying the show.

  "The needle is repeatedly driven in and out of the skin with a rhythm that approximates three thousand times a minute," Asya continued. She took out a cigarette from her pack, repeatedly pushing it back and forth as if illustrating the act, until she finally lighted it. The new girlfriend of the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies tried to smile at the overtly sexual gesture, but something in Asya's eyes stopped her halfway through.

  "Blood poisoning and hepatitis are only two of the many fatal diseases you can contract at a tattoo parlor. The artist needs to break open a new sterile package each time and wash his hands with hot water and soap, and on top of that use sanitizing liquids and wear latex gloves…. Theoretically, of course. I mean, come on, who would bother with all that fuss?"

  "He did all that. The needles were new and his hands were clean," the new girlfriend remarked in Turkish with a tinge of panic.

  Asya did not yield, continuing in English. "Yeah, good. Unfortunately that's not enough. How about the ink? Did you know that not only the needles but the ink has to be renewed each time? You have to use fresh ink for each session, for each customer."

  "The ink.." Now the new girlfriend looked really concerned.

  "Right, the ink!" Asya decreed with certitude. "There are many infections that can surface after a tattoo operation just because of the ink. One of the most common ones is Staphylococcus aureus, which sadly"-she frowned-"is known to cause serious cardiac damage. "

  Though she tried not to lose her cool, upon hearing this piece of information the color drained from the face of the new girlfriend of the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies. Her cell phone beeped just then but she didn't even look at it.

  "Had you consulted a physician before getting it done?" Asya asked with a concerned expression that she hoped would prove persuasive.

  "No, I didn't," the new girlfriend of the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies said. Her face now turned grave, etching new lines around her lips and eyes.

  "Oh, really? Well, never mind, don't worry." Asya flung up her hands. "Almost certainly nothing bad will happen."

  And with that she leaned back. The Dipsomaniac Cartoonist and Armanoush smiled, but none of the others reacted in any way.

  Deciding to join the game, the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist turned to Asya with sly amusement and asked, "But she can have it removed if she wanted to, right? It is possible to have it removed, isn't it?"

  "It's possible," Asya instantly replied. "However, the entire process is painful and daunting at best. You can choose one of three methods: surgery, laser treatment, or skin peeling."

  With that Asya took an almond from the pile and peeled off the skin. Everyone at the table, even Armanoush, couldn't help but stare at the almond with horror. Pleased with her audience's reaction, Asya tossed the peeled almond into her mouth and chewed heartily. The eyes of the new girlfriend of the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies grew wide as she watched Asya chew the almond.

  "I personally would never recommend the third. Not that the others are any better. You need to find a good-a very gooddermatologist or cosmetic surgeon. It costs a lot, but what can you do? Each visit is a ton of money and you need to pay for several visits. Even when the tattoo is removed, there will be a visible scar left behind, not to mention skin discoloration. If you want to get rid of that, you'll need another cosmetic surgery. Even then there is no hundred-percent guarantee."

  Armanoush pinched herself not to laugh.

  "Well, why don't we drink?" the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist's wife broke in with a tired smile. "And what better reason do we have to drink than Mr. Tiptoe? What was his name?… Cecche?"

  "Cecchetti," Asya corrected her, still lamenting the day she had been intoxicated enough to give the group a speech on ballet history.

  "Yes, yes, Cecchetti." The Exceptionally Untalented Poet chuckled and explained to Armanoush, "If it weren't for him, ballet dancers wouldn't have to tire themselves out walking on their toes, you know?"

  "What was he thinking?" someone added, and then everybody laughed.

  "So tell us, Amy, where do you come from?" the Exceptionally Untalented Poet now asked Armanoush over the customary muttering in the cafe.

  "Actually, Amy is short for Armanoush," Asya interjected, still in a provocative mood. "She is Armenian American!"

  Now the word Armenian wouldn't surprise anyone at Cafe Kundera, but Armenian American was a different story. Armenian Armenian was no problem similar culture, similar problems-but Armenian American meant someone who despised the Turks. All heads turned toward Armanoush now. Their stares revealed interest tainted with alarm, as if she were a flamboyant gift box with unknown content. Inside the box there could be a present as exquisite as the outside, or there could be a bomb. Armanoush squared her shoulders as if steeling herself against a blow, but, being regulars at Cafe Kundera for so many years, the group had too deeply absorbed the sluggish characteristic of the place to get excited for long.

  Asya, however, did not let the excitement wane. "Did you know that Armanoush's family was Istanbulite?" she said in between chomping on two almonds.

  "They were made to suffer all sorts of pain in 1915. Many died during the deportations-died of hunger, fatigue, brutality…."

  Pure silence. No comment. Asya pulled the strings a bit tighter under the concerned gaze of the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist.

  "But her great-grandfather was killed before all that, mainly because"-Asya turned to face Alnianoush, though her next statement was directed less at her than at the members of the group "he was an intellectual!" She sipped her wine slowly. "The thing is, the Armenian intelligentsia were the first to be executed so that the community would be left without its leading brains."

  It didn't take long for the silence to be broken.

  "That didn't happen." The Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies shook his head vigorously. "We never heard of anything like that." He took a puff on his pipe and amid the swirling smoke looked Armanoush in the eye, his voice now dwindling into a compassionate whisper. "Look, I am very sorry for your family, I offer you my condolences. But you have to understand it was a time of war. People died on both sides. Do you have any idea how many Turks have died in the hands of Armenian rebels? Did you ever think about the other side of the story? I'll bet you didn't! How about the suffering of the Turkish families? It is all tragic but we need to understand that 1915 was not 2005. Times were different back then. It was not even a Turkish state back then, it was the Ottoman Empire, for God's sake. The premodern era and its premodern tragedies."

  Armanoush pressed her lips together so hard that they paled. She had so many counterarguments, she didn't quite know where to begin. How she wished Baron Baghdassarian were here and could hear all this.

  Armanoush's pause was instantly filled by Asya's interruption: "Oh yeah? I thought you weren't nationalist!"

  "I'm not!" the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies exclaimed, raising his voice a couple of octaves. To keep his temper, he began to stroke his beard. "But I do respect historical truths."

  "People have been brainwashed," his new girlfriend rallied in an attempt to both support her lover and take revenge for the tattoo discussion.

  Asya and Armanoush now exchanged looks. Within that fleeting moment the waiter appeared again and replaced the empty carafe of wine with a new one.

  "Well, how do you know? Maybe you too have been brainwashed," Armanoush said slowly.

  "Yeah, what do you know?" Asya echoed. "What do we know about 1915? How many books have you read on this topic? How many controver
sial standpoints did you compare and contrast? What research, which literature?. . I bet you've read nothing! But you are so convinced. Aren't we just swallowing what's given to us? Capsules of information, capsules of misinformation. Every day we swallow a handful."

  "I agree, the capitalist system nullifies our feelings and curtails our imagination," the Exceptionally Untalented Poet broke in. "This system is responsible for the disenchantment of the world. Only poetry can save us."

  "Look," the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies replied. "Unlike many other people in Turkey, I have done a lot of research on this issue due to my job. I write scenarios for historical movies. I read history all the time. So I talk like this not because I have heard it elsewhere or because I have been misinformed. Quite the opposite! I talk as someone who has done meticulous research on the topic." He paused to take a sip of his wine. "The claims of the Armenians are based on exaggeration and distortion. Come on, some go as far as claiming that we killed two million Armenians. No historian in his right mind would take that seriously."

  "Even one is too many," Asya snapped back.

  The waiter rematerialized with a new carafe in his hand and a concerned expression on his face. He made a gesture to the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist: "Do you want to keep ordering?" In return he was given the thumbs-up. Having long finished his three beers and loyal to his decision to have only that amount, the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist had by this time switched to wine.

  "Let me tell you something, Asya," the Nonnationalist Scenarist of Ultranationalist Movies said while refilling his glass. "You know about the infamous Salem witch trials, don't you? The interesting thing is that almost all the women accused of witchcraft had made similar confessions, shown common symptoms, including fainting at the same time….. Were they lying? No! Were they pretending? No! They were suffering from collective hysteria."

  "What does that mean?" Armanoush asked, barely able to control her anger.

  "Yeah, what the hell does that mean?" Asya chimed in, without controlling her anger.