The Lamppost Diary

by Agop J. Hacikyan

Tomas told him who he was and reminded him of their telephone conversation the previous day.

  ‘Oh, yes, oh yes, come on in.’ While he ushered Tomas to his desk at the far end of the shop, he asked, ‘How big is your magazine?’

  Tomas had been warned about the man’s obsession regarding books of over a hundred pages. ‘About thirty or thirty-five pages.’

  ‘Any illustrations?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Good, good. Please take a seat.’

  Tomas had the impression that he had met this bespectacled man before. He was in his mid-sixties; he had a fair complexion with keen dark brown eyes, silver hair, a silver moustache, gold-rimmed glasses and one gold tooth. Several people had told Tomas that Shato was honest, orderly and reliable. He had also been told that not very long ago he had asked an Armenian daily to dedicate a special issue entirely to him – descriptions of his philanthropic endeavours and financial contributions to the arts and the community – with three copies only to be published: one for him, a second for the Armenian Patriarch, and a third, according to rumours, for Fofi, his Levantine mistress, who was allowed to sleep with him once a week at his garçonnière. The woman was a loud-mouthed second violinist in the Istanbul Symphony Orchestra who had been kicked out for sending indecent letters to the gay maestro. What Shato liked best in Fofi, as he often told her, was her red hair and freckled face, which reminded him of the Bukhara carpet designs he loved so much.

  Tomas decided to get straight to the point. ‘Mr Shato,’ he said, ‘I’d like to explain ...’

  The man waved his hand dismissively. ‘No, stop. First tell me about yourself.’

  Tomas’s fast-forward was too quick for this man who was used to haggling for hours.

  A dimpled boy of about ten darted in, bringing them tea on a copper tray. Shato lit his pipe, sipped the tea and licked his lips. Tomas began his life story, not failing to mention that his parents were genocide survivors.

  ‘Stop it. I don’t want to hear it; it’s too tragic for any decent soul to have to listen to again and again.’

  The future editor immediately changed the subject to his studies and creative activities. Then he talked about his involvement in track and field, his disappointment as a future Olympian, and how he had been disqualified.

  Shato’s eyes sparkled. He suddenly came alive and wanted to hear more, especially about Tomas’s disqualifying race. He raised his fingers in the air and clicked them like castanets. Avedis the assistant was standing not far from them.

  ‘Come here, Avedis, come, come, we’ve got a famous athlete here. Listen to his story.’ Then, turning to Tomas, ‘How did you lose the race?’

  ‘To a talented Turkish runner.’

  ‘A talented Turkish runner, ha! ... There’s no such thing as a talented runner ... there are only better runners! Keep this in mind, my boy. If you’re well trained you become a better runner, not a talented runner, and if not you’re disqualified.’

  Tomas didn’t feel like arguing. ‘I didn’t train as much as I should have.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My work as a translator, on top of my studies, didn’t leave me much time.’

  ‘What an excuse! Nonsense!’ Tomas was taken aback. ‘You should’ve come to see me before the trials ... It’s too late now.’

  Tomas didn’t know what to make of such a remark.

  ‘If you’d told me about the Turk before the race I’d have taken care of him.’

  Tomas was doubly confused. ‘You’re not serious,’ he said, rising.

  ‘Sit down, young man.’ Shato half shut his eyes and savoured Tomas’s astonishment. ‘It’s good sometimes not to be serious.’

  Tomas sat down and tried to shift the conversation to the magazine. But Shato wasn’t listening.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

  Before he replied, Avedis left them to welcome some American customers.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ Shato repeated.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Tomas said, annoyed.

  ‘An Armenian?’

  ‘No, a Russian.’

  ‘Oh!’ The antique dealer sounded disappointed.

  ‘Beautiful?’

  Tomas was ready to tell him it was none of his goddamn business, but he held his peace for the sake of the future of the magazine.

  ‘Is she beautiful?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, exasperated, ‘uglier than a witch.’

  Shato laughed.

  ‘Are you in love?’

  Tomas made an effort not to pick up his briefcase and leave. ‘Yes, I am,’ he replied.

  ‘Good, that makes you a better writer and an excellent lover, but still leaves you a battered runner.’

  And before he could open his mouth to reply, the man added, ‘I’m joking. Athletes always impress me. I admire them. There was a time I thought I could become a champion weightlifter, but all I could lift was my girlfriend. I was tremendously in love. Her weight gave me giant satisfaction. So, instead of a weightlifter I became a wife lifter, and now I can’t even do that.’

  Tomas looked at him warily. There was something wild about this man. With a sort of automatic movement Shato took off his jacket to show off his biceps, but when he heard the conversation between Avedis and the clients he put it on again. ‘Well, my friend, tell me: how can I help you?’

  His deep, grave voice suddenly sounded so mellifluous that Tomas felt like chanting.

  ‘I’d like to publish this bilingual literary review, in Armenian and Turkish.’ The editor-to-be was ready to create an impression that without Shato’s benevolence the world of arts and literature would suffer miserably. ‘I have a couple of poet friends working with me. They’re good, published writers. Hard-working.’

  Shato was listening.

  ‘We’ll also publish translations of Eliot, Aragon, Neruda ...’

  ‘Stop, stop! Neruda, Meruda, doesn’t interest me. Tell me if people will read your magazine, if you’ll have enough readers and subscribers to cover the expenses; tell me if people will learn anything from it.’ He put his pipe away and took a cigarette from a silver box on his desk, without offering his guest one. ‘People don’t read nowadays, you know that.’

  ‘You’re right, Mr Shato, people don’t read much nowadays.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a fact; they don’t even read my advertisements in the papers.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Tomas explained. ‘Mr Shato, literature’s not like selling rugs or chandeliers. You have to offer something fresh, something unprecedented. The public should be introduced to ...’

  Shato cut him short again. ‘Do you think you can write something fresh to promote my rugs?’

  Avedis came over to ask if there was any way of explaining to the American couple that the rug they liked was one of a kind, an old rug that had belonged to an ancient Ottoman family.

  Tomas leapt to his feet, went over to the clients and introduced himself.

  ‘I’m Rahman Pirzad, the connoisseur of ancient rugs.’

  They were pleased to hear him speak fluent English.

  ‘Doris and Mike.’

  Mr Shato watched Tomas from his desk, puffing on his cigarette.

  ‘This rug,’ Tomas explained, ‘is an ancient Tabriz. It dates back to Abdul-Mejid I, who built the Dolmabahçe Palace in 1853. Some believe that it’s a relic of the Crimean War, when Turkey, England, France and Sardinia defeated Russia, and Florence Nightingale tended the wounded in Crimea and later in Istanbul. They say that the Sultan presented this magnificent rug to Miss Nightingale as a token of appreciation for her indispensable services. I personally don’t believe the Nightingale bit but I can assure you, as an expert, that it is a very ancient and very precious rug.’

  The husband and wife had a short, quiet parley and decided to buy the rug, without even haggling over the exorbitant price. It was to be delivered that same afternoon to the Istanbul Hilton where they were staying.

  As soon as the couple left the shop Sha
to stood up and approached Tomas with an extraordinary grin.

  Avedis was over the moon. ‘I wish I could lie as beautifully and articulately as you do.’ He roared with laughter.

  ‘I’ve been well trained,’ Tomas smiled.

  Shato said, ‘Instead of publishing a magazine, you should come and work for me. I’m serious.’

  ‘I will, Mr Shato,’ Tomas replied, ‘I will, if you really want me to.’

  Shato didn’t believe him. ‘Your girlfriend is lucky to have a man like you. With this one sale I’ve made enough money to finance your magazine until it shuts down ... for lack of readers, that is to say. I don’t care whether you publish foreign propaganda, art or literary fart. I’ll subsidize the next three issues. We’ll see after that.’

  The editor of New Signatures was dizzy with delight. He was ready to scream loud enough for Anya to hear him in Baltimore or wherever she happened to be. Instead, he sighed loudly.

  ‘On one condition,’ Shato said. ‘My name will appear on the masthead as owner, backer and co-editor. I want everybody to know that I don’t just sell art; I help people to create art.’

  The shrewd antiquarian seemed extremely pleased with his declaration. His pitch-black eyes seemed to look inwards, into the mystery of his mind. Avedis had left to fetch a bottle of cognac to drink to the sale.

  As Tomas left Avedis spread several ancient Persian rugs on the floor, one on top of the other. Another couple were eagerly admiring them. He heard Mr Shato repeating in his broken English, ‘It’s two hundred years old. You don’t believe? Rahman Pirzad, the carpet expert is here. I’ll call him ...’

  An image of Shato the antiquarian beamed blithely beneath the archways at the entrance of the Grand Bazaar. A woman mendicant approached Tomas.

  ‘Go see Mr Shato,’ Tomas suggested.

  She withdrew her open palm.

  24

  They were ready to move the editorial office from Tomas’s bedroom to a fashionable office building even before they published the first issue of New Signatures. Financial restrictions, though, brought them back to their senses. They were an odd team of editors, designers, proofreaders, publicists, typists, translators and administrators; in fact, all of these roles were filled by Arek, Kamer, Tomas and Mügé.

  Arek was a young Armenian poet who had fascinated Tomas ever since he had discovered his poems in the Armenian dailies. He was the youngest son of Der Partev, who had once been their parish priest. Despite his father’s eternal sermons about faith and religion, Arek was a staunch agnostic. He would have preferred to roast in hell than abandon his freedom to mistrust and doubt. Arek was endowed with a physique appropriate to a hungry Armenian poet: he was of medium height, pale and thin, and had a swarthy, bespectacled face, a humped back and a perpetually scattered mind. And his happy moments were like gruff daydreams. He loped alongside Tomas all winter, trying to convince him of the importance of the magazine, even though Tomas was already sold on the idea. This gifted young poet was eventually charged with spying for the Russians and sent to jail. The charges were based on his frequent visits to the Russian Consulate in Istanbul in repeated attempts to obtain a visa that would permit him to emigrate to Soviet Armenia.

  Kamer was an idealist like his father, who had also been imprisoned for leftist tendencies for a short while in the late forties, along with hundreds of others. The old man was accused of sensitizing the poor against hunger. He was released immediately after signing an official declaration that there was no one suffering from hunger in the country, that everybody’s stomach was bloated with joy and happiness. Kamer’s main interests were collecting silver Ottoman coins and early twentieth-century French paperbacks (although he knew not a word of French). The weight of the coins gave him a vicarious sensation of wealth. The incomprehensible French paperbacks inspired him to write equally incomprehensible stories. He was a huge asset to the journal, with his fast typing, meticulous proofreading and willingness to undertake anything else that Arek and Tomas didn’t feel like doing.

  Mügé was a beautiful, chubby Turkish student in her fourth year of a degree in comparative literature at the University of Istanbul. She steeped herself so much in French fiction and poetry that she preferred to spell her name Muguet. In her mind she lived in Paris, although she had never actually been there. Feverishly she followed the Dadaist movement and any other movement that originated in the streets and alleys of the Left Bank. In no time, Muguet was in love with Kamer’s collection of French paperback novels (at least that’s what she claimed) and, despite Kamer’s strenuous efforts to hide their relationship, everyone was aware of what was going on between the two. She acted as a consultant, proofread the Turkish content of the review and helped the group on a part-time basis. Muguet, who was twenty-four at the time, eventually managed to occupy the prestigious Ziya Gőkalp chair in the Faculty of Philology at the University of Istanbul and became one of Turkey’s leading playwrights.

  Spring had a damp beginning. It rained nonstop. Many nights as Tomas walked home from the university he damned the rain while struggling with images of Anya making love to someone else. As the months fled, the number of letters shuttling between Baltimore and Istanbul decreased. He had destroyed her last letter and then regretted it. There were times when he realized that he was being unreasonable and unfair to her. He loved her, and this love was preventing him from going out with other women. He thought of talking to Aram about it, but he shelved the idea. The cruel expanse of time and distance might eventually erode his affections. He repeated to himself what Anya had said before leaving: ‘I’ll wait for you, but not forever!’ There wasn’t much else he could do but try to forget her.

  Launching a magazine was much harder than he had anticipated. In order to obtain a publication permit one needed approval from the national press bureau, another approval from the municipal authorities or ‘morality squad’, and a third from the police, just to make sure that the magazine refrained from publishing dangerous articles that might corrupt the morals of the nation, endanger national security and destabilize the Republic. After procuring these the owner and the editor of the publication had to show up at a municipal court and swear an oath of allegiance before a judge, assuring him that they would respect all the rules, canons, decrees and edicts of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, then wait a month or two for official approval to launch the review. Needless to say, it helped having good connections and a knack for bribery.

  *

  Thanks to Mr Shato’s extraordinary connections they managed to obtain all the permits and showed up to appear before the Honourable Pulat Evgin, a small and scrawny elderly judge at the Galata municipal court. It was a hot summer day. Mr Shato and Tomas waited about four hours while the judge pronounced his verdict on a prolonged rape case.

  ‘The rapist,’ the judge announced, ‘will have to marry the plaintiff before the birth of the child, and he will not be able to divorce her until the child’s seventh birthday.’

  The plaintiff was a young girl of seventeen; she beamed at the judge with gratitude. It was as if she had at last achieved her lifelong dream. And the defendant looked as though he deplored the premature ejaculation he had enjoyed so much under the pine trees on the island of Heybeli.

  Mr Shato and Tomas followed the rape case with a great deal of suspense. In the end they joined the crowd in booing the rapist and applauding the judge for his artful verdict.

  At last it was their turn.

  ‘You’ve come to obtain my sanction for your magazine,’ the judge announced.

  ‘Yes, Your Honour,’ Shato replied.

  ‘Any pornographic or leftist content?’

  ‘Philosophical, yes, but never pornographic, Your Honour.’

  The judge drew a light pencil line on the paper in front of him.

  ‘Realistic, but never leftist, Your Honour,’ Tomas added.

  ‘I didn’t ask you,’ the judge roared. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘He’s the co-editor, a well-known
national long-distance runner.’

  The old judge seemed confused. His red cheeks sported a fine network of purple veins. ‘Is it a sports magazine?’

  ‘No, Your Honour, purely literary.’

  ‘Then why do you need a runner?’

  ‘He’s a writer-runner.’

  The judge drew another fine line on the paper in front of him. ‘Hmm ... a writer and a runner,’ he repeated, and wrote it down next to the line.

  ‘This magazine will revolutionize contemporary literature,’ Shato added.

  ‘No revolutions!’ the judge shrieked. ‘No revolutions! No uprisings! No mutinies! Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course, Your Honour.’

  ‘What Mr Shato means is that we’ll try to introduce new voices and ...’

  ‘What’s wrong with old voices?’ The judge was offended.

  ‘Nothing, but ...’ Tomas couldn’t finish his sentence.

  ‘This is a very complicated case.’ The judge was upset. ‘A very complex case. A runner who wants to publish a literary magazine; an antique dealer who plans to revolutionize the old order; a young man who intends to introduce new voices. Obviously you don’t mean baritones, sopranos or altos; you mean rebellious, mutinous, communist voices.’

  Shato’s face turned crimson. ‘Those are your words, Your Honour. You’ve misinterpreted our modest, nationalistic, patriotic, artistic, innocuous intentions. It’s better that we leave.’ Then, turning to Tomas, he whispered, but loud enough for the judge to hear, ‘Did you give the secretary the envelope I gave you for the Honourable Pulat Bey’s services?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Judge Pulat shook his head but said nothing. He was an experienced magistrate of the old school, with an old voice, who believed in the dignity of his calling. He carried on the tradition of some of his predecessors to the letter, and his verdicts provided him with a very comfortable living and notoriety.

  ‘Hmm! I wouldn’t like to complicate things.’ The judge looked at Mr Shato. ‘But of course I have to be careful not to jeopardize national security at a time when leftist views continue to poison our democracy.’