The Gaze

by Elif Shafak

  When he came out of the toilet he looked terrible. He’d returned to his former height, he’d smeared cherry-coloured lipstick all over himself, all of his make-up had run and mixed together, his fish-net stockings had run from top to bottom, the hair that had been plastered under the wig was sticking out strand by strand, and the eyes that had been so fiery and alive all night seemed wrapped in a sad silence. He stood before me with his oversized hands clasped together and wearing a pouting expression. It was clear he was going to be very ashamed of himself, if he had the strength to be ashamed.

  Elsa’nin gözleri (Elsa’s eyes): Elsa’s eyes are the residue of sadness. Poets sift through the sadness, and children through the residue.

  As he threw himself onto the bed he whispered sadly.

  ‘I wouldn’t have wanted you to see me this way. In this state…’

  But it pleased me a great deal to see him in this state. To tell the truth, it was quite pleasant to see him in this wretched and disgraceful state, because he always seemed to know what he was doing, and took everything seriously, and wore himself out thinking deeply about every problem, and could always guess everyone’s story, and so get a fix on their weaknesses, and succeeded and behaved towards everyone, people he knew as well as people he didn’t know, with an authority that someone with his small frame might not have hoped for.

  fal (fortune-telling): Every method of fortune-telling wishes to see the future. It’s not enough just to see, one has to make others believe one can see. (Example: Apollo gave Cassandra the ability to tell fortunes. But when Cassandra turned down his proposal of marriage, Apollo punished her by ‘making others disbelieve what she saw.’)

  In the morning when I was getting ready for work, I looked and saw that he was up, sullenly making coffee. We came face to face.

  ‘Tell your eyes to forget what you saw last night,’ he said half-jokingly.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘They won’t forget.’

  ‘Anything?’ he asked in an annoyed tone.

  ‘Anything,’ I said, not knowing why I was resisting him this way.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘They’ll forget.’

  Fames: Fames, the god of hunger, lived in a land of boundless appetite covered by inedible plants, razor-like ridges of ice and never-melting snow. He was so thin, so very thin, that from a distance he resembled a heap of bones. From his lips, bitten to shreds and blue with cold, emerged the names of the foods of which he dreamed: The agony of hunger could be read in the sharp glances of his lustreless, blackened eyes. His face was yellow and wizened, and his skin was dried out. His fingers were very thin from being sucked on. From time to time he started to eat himself, and had teeth marks all over him.

  Fames’ breath smelled worse than rotten eggs. Whoever smelled it once would hence remain hungry. Whoever was poisoned by Fames’ breath would remain unsated no matter how much he ate. Hunger ate at them even as they ate their food. Because it wasn’t their stomachs that could not be filled, but their eyes.

  I felt distressed as soon as I left the Hayalifener Apartments. I wanted to go back home and not go out for the rest of the day. The hill seemed steeper than ever, and the route more complicated than ever. The easiest thing to do would be to take a taxi, but I can’t be taking taxis every day. To think about wheezing up the steep steps of the bus at this hour of the morning, to make my way down the crowded aisle and push and shove to make room for myself, to think about the eyes that would be watching me the whole way, made my feet want to turn and go back home. There was a minibus route between the Hayalifener Apartments and the nursery school; but minibuses were the worst of all.

  When I forced myself to walk again, terrible wheezing sounds emerged from my chest. With every step I felt how chapped my legs were, and I had to stop frequently. I was accustomed to this much. Movement has always been difficult for me. But now, moving in order to do something I didn’t want to do, it was not just my body that resisted, but also my soul. As I struggled up the hill, passers-by gave me worried looks.

  fotosraf albümleri (photograph albums): Photograph albums are taken out of the closet at regular intervals to remind the eye only of the good things it has seen. Each time, it will examine the photographs with curiosity, as if it were seeing them for the first time; with curiosity and in strict order: infancy, childhood, youth, marriage, infancy, childhood, youth…

  When I reached the top of the hill drenched in sweat, I stopped to catch my breath. I’d made a very definite decision. I couldn’t go on like this.

  I was going to go on a diet.

  TWO

  ‘Open Your Eyes!’

  Pera — 1885

  After the evening call to prayer, the eastward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent was opened for men.

  At that moment the men, who acted as if they wanted to prove that they were there by coincidence, and had come to the tent not out of curiosity but to see what everyone else was curious about, wearing indifferent expressions as if they were just going to take a quick look and leave, entered the eastward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent with casual steps. The men’s section of the tent had been set aside for them. It didn’t matter what nation they were from, what language they spoke or what religion they believed in; it was sufficient that they were men. And also that they arrive one by one. Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi had laid down this condition: every man had to come here by himself.

  Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi loved to examine the different faces of the moon. And he used to say that the eastward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent was the dark side of the moon.

  He also used to tell a strange story about this. According to the story, what the dark side of the moon feared most was to not be loved; and also for his eyes to be seen weeping. And if anyone happened to see that he had wept, his male pride was inflamed. For years, he had kept two crystal marbles next to his testicles. He had stolen them when he was a child; at the cost of becoming a thief of his own possessions.

  …so his intentions couldn’t be read in his eyes…head on the ground…heart in his mouth…with timid steps…he approached… the most troublesome in the neighbourhood…the biggest…the child who swore most…the truth…so cowardly…to hide…should have come out fighting…by one’s own efforts…should have taken it back…the crystal marbles…isn’t that so…this gift…a God never seen…or perhaps…at the head of the street…saints in their tombs… given to him…isn’t that so…the one under the pillow…two copper coins…however that happened…one multi-coloured morning… two crystal marbles…given…in any event…what to say…not to hold one’s tongue…the one who comes to the front…displaying the marbles…snatched from his hands…and for whom?…the most troublesome in the neighbourhood…the biggest…the child who swore most…who shouted at the top of his voice…without any shame…in front of everyone… ‘these are mine now’… ‘come take them if you can’…it wasn’t easy…the dark side of the moon was?…he waited…for how long…the troublesome child…went to urinate…and then…stole…what had been stolen from him…with his heart in his mouth…head on the ground…so his intentions couldn’t be read in his eyes…

  The dark side of the moon ran for hours with the crystal marbles in his hand; he ran in the direction in which his fear chased him. He hid them in a place where that oaf would never get his hands on them. After thinking it over for a long time he decided that his own flesh was the safest place. He understood that he’d spent his manhood to get the miraculous marbles. Since, having held tight the mane of the horse of passion just like a woman, without thinking about or weighing what he was spurring, without even wanting to think, he’d galloped off at full speed to get back what had been taken from him; since there was no one with even an atom of courage to stand up to the neighbourhood bully, to win back what had been lost; in any event, after this he was never going to go out in the street, he wouldn’t run with his friends but would sit in the window just like a young girl. To give due
credit, the one who had taken his manhood had to be part of his manhood. The crystal dreams of his first and last act of heroism, his first and last stand against injustice.

  Since that day, he would piss his fear as far away as possible. And he was particularly afraid of not being loved; and also of his eyes being seen to have wept. Both of them led to the same result; loneliness. The reason he stayed completely alone was not being loved and his tears having been seen.

  The story Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi told about the dark side of the moon was something like this. And he wouldn’t tell this story for nothing. He knew that men were most prone to loneliness. Simply in order not to be alone, men would rush outside as soon as the sky grew dark, first to find the consolation of the company of others, and then of one another’s conversation; but as time passed, the broth of friendship was spoiled. Whenever they came together, especially if they were a little tipsy, gaining strength learning of their strength from one another, they would run after cheap acts of heroism.

  So what if men could find the opportunity to prune the knotted branches of the tree of their childhood nightmares once in a lifetime. After the spell has turned copper into crystal, it’s gone and won’t return. Alchemy was a door that decided on its own who was going to look for it when. For this reason, missed opportunities were never to present themselves again. So when he didn’t get what he wanted, the dark side of the moon grew even darker. And if what he wanted belonged to someone else, he would seize the first opportunity to take it. Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi knew that men mostly stole from one another; when they saw the opportunity, they wouldn’t hesitate to steal one another’s happiness. This was the reason they had to come separately. In order to enter the eastward-facing door they had to climb the hill by themselves, and to remain alone until they reached a certain cherry tree.

  Some of the men accepted these conditions from the start. Most of them were of noble birth, or wished to appear so. They’d climb the hill like princes. Starting out at the bottom of the hill alone, they arrived at the mouth of the tent by themselves. And some, knowing full well that they would have to separate, climbed together until the last possible moment. Most of these were of the masses, or wished to appear so. They preferred to bend their necks together rather than start out alone. No matter how much they delayed, what they were postponing was waiting for them at the fountain on the hill. When they arrived at the fountain, they would distance themselves from their travelling companions as if they had a contagious disease. The fountain was very pleased with itself; it sprayed water about enthusiastically. The men would lower their lips to the ice-cold water, and drink deeply. When their sweat dried and they started off again, each one remained alone. As their legs shook with the effort like the legs of new-born animals, those who had accepted solitude at the bottom of the hill strode past them haughtily. Those now-alone imitated those who had already been alone; though without letting on that they were doing so.

  From here on everyone was by themselves. Thus the lips of conversation between old friends and strangers were sealed. An indistinct fear would seize the shore of their hearts. Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi’s orders were categorical; since each man had to arrive alone, not even fear could keep him company. For this reason, those who were climbing the hill would loosen the fingers of fear one by one. When they’d dissolved the last finger, fear would roll over a bottomless cliff; taking part of their courage with it. The men, with the cries of their courage as it crashed down the cliff ringing in their ears, thrust themselves with difficulty through the eastward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent. Even at that moment the men, who acted as if they wanted to prove that they were there by coincidence, and had come to the tent not out of curiosity but to see what everyone else was curious about, wearing indifferent expressions as if they were just going to take a quick look and leave, entered the eastward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent with casual steps.

  Most of them were on foot. Yes, those who insisted on climbing the hill in a carriage could become the victims of unexpected accidents. One never knew. Sometimes everything went smoothly, and the horses succeeded in reaching the top of the hill covered in sweat. Sometimes the carriage would slip on the ice and overturn. It would tumble and slip back down to the starting point of the voyage. Having seen many incidents of injury from this kind of occurrence, most of the men would get out of their carriages at the bottom of the hill and struggle up by their own efforts. Sometimes, pretty gentlemen would be seen in litters. They would climb the hill with dignified expressions on the shoulders of their strong powerful servants. But as is the way of the world, these too overturned from time to time.

  Those who turned and looked back when they reached the top of the hill could see the sea. The sea was blue, bluer than blue; it was hostage to its own clear stillness. Once in a while some men got a crazy idea. To their eyes, the sea looked like a still and silent womb. Now…neither complaining about poverty nor earning their living; as if…only but only existing within was enough for all they’d desired, to set out on journeys not taken, to go back and forth between different lands. In any event, the ball of wool that was their common-sense waited in alarm. The loosening thread was soon re-wound. Those who held unrealistic dreams remembered that holding unrealistic dreams was not appropriate. As Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi often said: if the ship of men were to sink, it would sink by breaking up in shallow water thinking that the brightest light was a lighthouse.

  Even though in time this area came to be called a swamp, no one who had once smelled the heady fragrance of the fig and lemon trees, or seen their delicate purple buds would want to believe this. It is said that the reason the cherry-coloured tent was erected here rather than somewhere else was Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi’s mulish stubbornness. He would do things out of stubbornness; and hide the reason within himself. And no one interfered too much in the matter. More important than the outside of the tent was the inside. If anyone knew the truth of this, it was Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi.

  It was possible to meet endless types of men here; speakers of every language and pliers of every profession. There were notorious womanisers, famous toughs, swaggering losers, gentlemen with inheritances, gentlemen who’d spent their inheritances, antique dealers who hid shops within their shops, spies from rival firms, official interpreters from Genoa or Venice, Galata money-lenders, elegant dance-instructors from Pera, tailors who could make whatever was being worn in Paris, purveyors of glazed fruit, impoverished noblemen, decorators, Circassians with fur-hooded black kaftans, Greek taverna-owners with large bellies, English dentists, hard-faced Bedouins, pale-faced Persians, bakers who were now giving their customers Viennese cakes, importers of wine, those who were regularly invited to magnificent balls, those who behaved as if they were regularly invited to magnificent balls, Russian musicians, French photographers, Armenian printers, Italian architects, Albanians wearing pistols, Jewish merchants, Abkhaz, Serbs, well-known pillars of society, experts in Eastern languages, consular attachés, procurers, treasure hunters running after the legends of Istanbul and the dream brokers who ran after them, professional letter-writers, second-hand booksellers who could read the language of the book, gold merchants who could speak the language of gold, calligraphers who adorned the language of letters, ship’s officers, opponents of the regime, supporters of the regime, and, finally, everyone else.

  There was one only reason these various men, who did not greet each other in the street and who did not pity each other in a fight, gathered at the eastward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent: to see La Belle Annabelle!

  Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi was responsible for all of these things. After all, he was a very clever and agile man. Since his birth, this world had considered him strange. He was like this as a child and he’s still like this today. He was always in motion, and couldn’t sit still. He was quick to develop a thesis in his mind, but once he had developed it he grew bored with it. He liked
to surprise people, but grew cold towards them when they were surprised by unsurprising things. He would involve himself in things that harmed the mind, wake from every sleep with new curiosities, talking constantly, always running around. In spite of this, those who looked at him usually thought they saw him motionless. Because his glances were expressionless. His thinly drawn eyes were without feeling, and seemed far removed from any emotion.

  When the time came, his six elder sisters saw to it that a suitable wife was found for Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi. The bride was more beautiful and proficient a girl than all of the matchmakers in the city could have found. She had only one fault: she was as silent as a stone that had rolled to the bottom of a lake. She was deaf and mute from birth.

  On the wedding night, they saw each other for the first time. The bride, her eyes as big as saucers from amazement, looked for a long time into the eyes of the man opposite her. These eyes had neither happiness nor mercy; neither rage nor beneficence. The eyes to which she would wake up every God-given morning were as empty as this orphan girl’s trousseau.

  The young woman suddenly started crying. She allowed three teardrops to fall from her two eyes. Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi lined up the teardrops and read in them what his wife’s still mute tongue related:

  ‘My dear sir. Allow me to leave. I have neither a tongue nor ears. I live through my eyes. I hear with my eyes and I converse with my eyes. I read with my eyes, and I write with my eyes. Your eyes, however… I’ve never seen eyes like yours before. It’s as if your eyes are closed. And if they’re closed, they can’t say anything. My tongue doesn’t speak, and neither do your eyes. How could it work, tell me? How are we going to spend a whole life together, husband? I’m still young. My dear sir, release me and let me go! Otherwise your eyes will be my grave.’