by Elif Shafak
Watching the scene with marveling eyes, Armanoush wondered what Jean Genet would make of it. That Cherry-Vanilla Diet Coke, bead bracelets, the tart odor of semen, and childish joy could all coexist on a seamy street in Istanbul?
The tavern was a stylish but convivial place near the Flower Passage. As soon as they sat, two waiters appeared with a cart of metes.
"Armanoush, why don't you surprise us again with your culinary vocabulary?" Auntie Zeliha requested.
"Well, let's see, there is yalanci sarma, tourshi, pathan, topik, enginar…" Armanoush started naming the dishes the waiters were leaving on the table.
Customers kept arriving in couples or groups, and in no more than twenty minutes the tavern was full. Amid all these equally unfamiliar faces and sounds and smells, Armanoush lost her sense of place. She felt like she could be in Europe or in the Middle East or in Russia. Auntie Zeliha and Aram drank rake, Asya and Armanoush had white wine. Auntie Zeliha smoked cigarettes, Aram puffed on cigars, while Asya, apparently avoiding the use of tobacco in front of her mother, chewed the insides of her mouth instead.
"You're not smoking this evening," Armanoush said to Asya, sitting next to her.
"Yeah, tell me about it." Asya sighed. Then she dropped her voice to a whisper. "Hush! Auntie Zeliha doesn't know that I smoke."
Armanoush was surprised that Asya rebelliously, almost sadistically, took pleasure in infuriating her mother at every opportunity, but when it came to smoking cigarettes in front of her, she was a docile daughter.
During the following hour they chatted idly while waiters brought one dish after another. First they served the metes-the cold dishes-followed by lukewarm dishes, the hot dishes, and desserts and coffee. This must be the style here, Armanoush figured out,
instead of choosing from a menu, the whole menu comes to you.
When both the noise and the smoke inside intensified, Armanoush inched closer toward Aram, having finally summoned the courage to ask him the question that had been tugging at the edges of her mind for some time:
"Aram, I understand you like Istanbul, but didn't you ever consider coming to America? I mean, you could come to California, for instance. There's a large Armenian community there, you know…."
Aram stared at her for a full minute, as if taking in every detail, until he slumped back in his chair and gave a puzzling laugh. Armanoush was rather perturbed by this laughter, which she felt somehow shut her out. Not convinced that she had been understood correctly, she leaned forward and tried to offer a better explanation: "If they are oppressing you here, you can always come to America. There are many Armenian communities there who would be more than happy to help you and your family."
Aram did not laugh this time. Instead he gave her a warm smile, warm but somewhat tired.
"Why would I want to do that, dear Armanoush? This city is my city. I was born and raised in Istanbul. My family's history in this city goes back at least five hundred years. Armenian Istanbulites belong to Istanbul, just like the Turkish, Kurdish, Greek, and Jewish Istanbulites do. We have first managed and then badly failed to live together. We cannot fail again."
Just then the waiter materialized again, this time serving fried calamari and fried mussels and fried pastries.
"I know every single street in this town," Aram continued, taking another sip of rake. "And I love strolling these streets in the mornings, in the evenings, and then at night when I am merry and tipsy. I love to have breakfasts with my friends along the Bosphorus on Sundays, I love to walk alone amid the crowds. I am in love with the chaotic beauty of this city, the ferries, the music, the tales, the sadness, the colors, and the black humor…."
They fell into an awkward silence, taking a rare distant glimpse into each other's positions, realizing there could be more than geographical distance between them-he suspecting she was too Americanized, she construing he was too Turkified. The mordant gap between the children of those who had managed to stay and the children of those who had to leave.
"Look, the Armenians in the diaspora have no Turkish friends. Their only acquaintance with the Turks is through the stories they heard from their grandparents or else from one another. And those stories are so terribly heartbreaking. But believe me, just like in every nation, in Turkey too there are good-hearted people and bad people. It is as simple as that. I have Turkish friends who are closer to me than my flesh-and-blood brother. And then there is, of course"-he lifted his glass and signaled toward Auntie Zeliha" this crazy love of mine."
Auntie Zeliha must have sensed her name being mentioned for she gave them a wink, lifted her glass of rake, and toasted: "~erefe!" They all followed suit and clinked their glasses as they echoed: "~erefe!" This word, as it would soon turn out, was some sort of a refrain that was repeated every ten or fifteen minutes. Another hour and seven ~erefes later, Armanoush's eyes were glowing with alcohol. With amusement she watched an albino waiter bring in the hot dishes-broiled striped bass on a bed of green peppers, basil-marinated catfish with creamy spinach, charbroiled salmon with field greens, and stir-fried shrimp — in spicy garlic sauce.
Armanoush giggled tipsily before she turned toward Aram and asked, "Tell us, you must have some tattoos too. Auntie Zeliha must have tattooed you."
"No way," Aram said behind the veil of wispy smoke curling up from his cigar. "She doesn't let me have one."
"Yeah," Asya added. "She won't permit him to have a tattoo."
"Really?" Armanoush said in surprise as she turned to Auntie Zeliha. "I thought you were fond of tattoos."
"I am, indeed," Auntie Zeliha replied. "It is not the tattooing part that I am opposing but the design he asks for."
Aram smiled. "The tattoo that I would like to have is a gorgeous fig tree. But, unlike other trees, this one is upside down. My fig tree has all its roots up in the air. Instead of the earth, it is rooted in the sky. It is displaced but not placeless."
They were all silent for a few seconds, watching the flickering light of the candle at the table.
"It's just that the fig tree. ." Auntie Zeliha lit the last cigarette in her pack and unintentionally blew smoke in the direction of Asya. "The fig tree is an ominous sign. It does not bring good luck. I am fine with Aram's wish to have his roots up in the air, but it is the fig tree that I object to. Should he choose it to be a cherry tree, for instance, or an oak tree, still with its roots up in the air, I'd tattoo him right away!"
It was then that four Gypsy musicians, all dressed in silky white shirts and black trousers, entered the tavern with their instrumentsan ud, a clarinet, a kanun, and a darbuka. There was a general excitement among the customers who, having eaten and drunk their fill, were more than ready to sing.
When the musicians materialized by their side, Armanoush felt a pang of shyness. But to her relief they didn't force her to sing. It turned out that Asya wasn't much of a singer either. They listened to Auntie Zeliha accompany the musicians with a mellow contralto-a voice that sounded nothing like her usual cigarettetainted, husky tone. Armanoush noticed that Asya glanced in her mother's direction with a look of inquisitiveness.
When the leader of the band asked if there was a particular song they would now like to request, Auntie Zeliha elbowed Aram flirtatiously, and exclaimed, "Come on, ask for a song. Sing, my nightingale!"
Blushing, Aram leaned forward, coughed, and then whispered something in the leading musician's ear. Once the band had embarked on the requested melody, much to Armanoush's surprise, Aram started to sing along-not in Turkish, not in English, but in Armenian.
Every morning at dawn Ah… I say to my love, Where are you going?
It flowed slowly, forlornly, while the tempo picked up with a distinctive rise of the clarinet and the hard-to-contain darbuka in the background. Aram's voice soared and then fell in mellow waves. Initially his voice was diffident, yet it became increasingly assertive in its tone.
She's the golden chain Of my memories, She's the pathway to The story of my life.
Armanous
h held her breath, failing to understand all the words but feeling mourning deep in her heart. When she raised her head, she was intrigued by Auntie Zeliha's expression. It was a look that embodied the fear of happiness that only those who had unexpectedly, unguardedly fallen in love could wear.
When the song was over and the musicians had moved to the next table, Armanoush thought Auntie Zeliha would give Aram a kiss. But instead she tenderly squeezed Asya's hand, as if acknowledging that her love for a man had allowed her to better comprehend her love for her daughter. "Sweetheart," she murmured, a hint of anguish creeping into her tone. But if Auntie Zeliha was planning to say something to her daughter, she was quick to beat the urge. Instead, she took out a new pack of cigarettes and offered her one.
Seeing her mother have sentiments so near the surface was far more surprising for Asya than being offered a cigarette by her. She lit hers and then her mom's. As the smoke slowly coiled between them, daughter and mother smiled at each other awkwardly. They looked startlingly similar from this angle and light, two faces molded by a past that one knew nothing about and the other chose not to remember.
It was precisely then that Armanoush felt the pulse of the city for the first time since she had arrived in Istanbul. It had just hit her why and how people could fall in love with Istanbul, in spite of all the sorrow it might cause them. It would not be easy to fall out of love with a city this heartbreakingly beautiful.
With this recognition she raised her glass in a toast: "~erefe!"
FOURTEEN
Water
Shall I go inside and tell them to quiet down?" Auntie Feride asked. She was standing in front of the girls' room, her gaze fixated on the knob.
"Oh, leave them alone!" Auntie Zeliha exclaimed from the couch where she had collapsed. "They're a bit tipsy and when you're a bit tipsy you listen to music loud." To make a point she
then exclaimed: "LOUD!"
"Tipsy!" bellowed Grandma Gulsum. "Mind you, why are they tipsy? Is it not enough that you always bring disgrace to this family? Look at that skirt you are wearing. The dish towels in the kitchen are longer than your skirts! You are a single mother, a divorcee. Hear me well! I have never seen a divorcee with a ring in her nose. You should be ashamed of yourself, Zeliha!"
Auntie Zeliha raised her head from the cushion she had been hugging. "Ma, for me to be a divorcee, I would have had to have gotten married first. Don't distort the facts. I cannot be called a divorcee or a grass widow or any of those sticky terms you have in reserve in your glossary for unfortunate women. This daughter of yours is a sinner who wears miniskirts and she loves her nostril ring and she loves the child she gave birth to out of wedlock. Like it or not!"
"Is it not enough that you spoiled your daughter and forced her to drink? Why did you also have to make the poor guest drink? She's Mustafa's responsibility; she is your brother's guest in this house. How dare you spoil the girl!"
"My brother's responsibility! Yeah, right!" Auntie Zeliha laughed morosely, and she closed her eyes.
Inside the girls' room, meanwhile, Johnny Cash was playing full blast. The two girls were sitting side by side at the desk staring at the computer screen, with Sultan the Fifth curled between them, his eyes half-closed. The girls were so absorbed in the Internet that neither of them heard the argument outside their door. Armanoush had just logged on to the Cafe Constantinopolis, determined to take Asya with her this time.
Hello everyone! Haven't you missed Madame My-Exiled-Soul? she typed.
Our reporter from Istanbul is back. Where were you? Did the Turks
gobble you up? wrote Anti-Khavurma.
Well, one of the gobblers is with me right now. I want to introduce you
all to a Turkish friend of mine.
There followed a pause.
She has a nickname, of course: A Girl Named Turk. What was that? Alex the Stoic couldn't help asking.
It's a reinterpretation of the title of this Johnny Cash song. Anyway, you
can ask her yourself. Here she is. Dear Cafe Constantinopolis meet A Girl
Named Turk. A Girl Named Turk meet Cafe Constantinopolis.
Hello! Greetings from Istanbul, Asya wrote. There was no response.
I hope the next time you too will come to Istanbul with Arman…
Asya realized her mistake only when Armanoush slapped her hand… with Madame My-Exiled-Soul.
Oh, thanks. But frankly, I am in no mood for a touristy tour to a country that has caused so much suffering for all my family. It wasAnti-Khavurma again.
Now it was Asya's turn to pause.
Look, don't get us wrong, we don't have anything against you, OK? joined in Miserable-Coexistence. I am sure the city is nice and scenic, but the truth is we don't trust the Turks. Mesrop would turn in his grave if, Aramazt forbid, l would forget my past just like that.
"Who is Mesrop?" Asya asked Armanoush in a voice barely above a whisper, as if they could hear her.
All right. Let's start with the basics. The facts. If we can make it thru the facts we can then talk about other things, decreed Lady Peacock/ Siramark. Let's start with this touristy Istanbul trip. These magnificent mosques you show to tourists today, who was the architect behind them? Sinan! He designed palaces, hospitals, inns, aqueducts…. You exploit Sinan's intelligence and then deny he was Armenian.
I didn't know he was, Asya wrote puzzled. But Sinan is a Turkish name.
Well, U R good at Turkifying the names of the minorities, replied Anti-Khavurma.
OK, I see what you are saying. True, Turkish national history is based on censorship, but so is every national history. Nation-states create their own myths and then believe in them. Asya lifted her head and squared her shoulders and continued to type. In Turkey there are Turks, Kurds, Circassians, Georgians, Pontians, Jews, Abazas, Greeks…. I find it too oversimplistic and far too dangerous to make generalizations of this sort. We are not brutal barbarians. Besides, many scholars who have studied the Ottoman culture will tell you it was a great culture in many ways. The 1910s were a particularly difficult time. But things are not the same as they were 100 years ago.
Lady Peacock/Siramark countered instantly. I don't believe the Turks have changed at all. If they had, they would have recognized the genocide.
Genocide is a heavily loaded term, wrote back A Girl NamedTurk. It implies a systematic, well-organized, and philosophized extermination. Honestly, I am not sure the Ottoman state at the time was of such a nature. But I do recognize the injustice that was done to the Armenians. I am not a historian. My knowledge is limited and tainted, but so is yours.
You see, here's the difference. The oppressor has no use for the past. The oppressed has nothing but the past, commented Daughter of Sappho.
Without knowing your father's story, how can you expect to create your own story? Lady Peacock/Siramark joined in.
Armanoush smiled to herself. So far everything had gone just like she had imagined. Except Baron Baghdassarian. He had not responded to anything yet.
In the meantime, Asya, still fixated on the screen, typed, I do recognize your loss and grief. I do not deny the atrocities committed. It's just my past that I am recoiling from. I don't know who my father is or what his story was like. If I had a chance to know more about my past, even if it were sad, would f choose to know it or not? The dilemma of my life.
You are full of contradictions, replied Anti-Khavurma.
Johnny Cash wouldn't mind that! interjected Madame My-ExiledSoul.
Tell me, what can I as an ordinary Turk in this day and age do to ease your pain?
Now this wass a question hitherto no Turk had asked the Armenians in the Cafe Constantinopolis. In the past, they had had Turkish visitors twice, both heatedly nationalist young men who had popped up out of nowhere, apparently with the intention to prove that the Turks had done nothing wrong to the Armenians, and if anything, it was the Armenians who had rebelled against the Ottoman regime and killed the Turks. One of them had gone so far as to argue that if t
he Ottoman regime had really been as genocidal as claimed, today there would be no Armenians left to talk about this. The fact that there were so many Armenians lashing against the Turks was a clear indication that the Ottomans had not persecuted them.
Until today the Cafe Constantinopolis's encounter with the Turks had basically been a fuming exchange of slander and soliloquy. This time the tone was radically different.
Your state can apologize, answered Miserable-Coexistence.
My state? I've got nothing to do with the state, Asya wrote as she thought about the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist prosecuted for drawing the prime minister as a wolf. Look, I am a nihilist! She stopped short of mentioning her Personal Manifesto of Nihilism.
Then you yourself can apologize, barged in Anti-Khavurma.
You want me to apologize for something I personally had nothing to do with?
So you say, Lady Peacock/ Siramark wrote. We R all born into continuity in time and the past continues to live within the present. We come from a family line, a culture, a nation. Are you gonna say let bygones be bygones?
As Asya's eyes raked the screen she looked baffled, as if in the midst of a presentation she had forgotten her lines. She stroked Sultan the Fifth's head absently a few times before her fingers went back to the keyboard again.
Am f responsible for my father's crime? A Girl Named Turk asked.
You are responsible for recognizing your father's crime, AntiKhavurma replied.
Asya seemed confused by the bluntness of the statement, briefly irritated but also intrigued.Within the glow radiating from the computer, her face was pale and still. She had always tried to distance her past as far as possible from the future she hoped to attain. In the hope that, whatever the memories of times past entailed, no matter how dark or depressing, the past would not consume her. The truth is, as much as she hated to admit it, she knew the past did live within the present.