You’ll also remember the time our father came home from work for lunch. This wasn’t something he did very often; it just so happened that he fancied having lunch at home that day. You were in a rush to set the table and sent us down to buy bread at the store. For some reason, whenever you said “store,” only one place came to mind: Grandpa’s. Once again, we took our time getting there, had our wafer biscuits, and then ambled back home. A good three hours had passed by the time we got back.
“Where’ve you boys been?” you cried, obviously worried.
“We went to Grandpa’s,” we replied. When you asked us where the bread was, I turned and looked at my brother. The look was meant to say, “He’s the purchasing manager for bread, what are you asking me for?” But you weren’t falling for it. Our father had his lunch without any bread that day. Now I’ll admit, I still haven’t found a rational explanation for this one. So let’s just move on. After all, 1981 was a tough year. But tough times eventually come to an end, Mother, they always do. I kiss your hands in gratitude, and the hands of mothers everywhere.
AS LONELY AS HISTORY
My father and I never spoke much. They say that fathers are especially fond of their daughters, but I never got that impression from mine. All my life I’d known him to be rather withdrawn. Not just with me, but with everyone. I had never once seen him and my mother argue, but neither did I believe them to be bound by any deep passion for each other. My mother accepted him the way he was, and settled for the uneventful life they led. I can remember only a handful of joyful moments, with the two of them laughing and talking merrily.
We owned a large rose garden in Isparta, and my father sold roses for a living. He and my mother spent all their time harvesting and then selling them. My father had barely finished middle school and my mother never learned to read and write at all. Before I was born they’d had a child, who died at just two months old, and no more children followed me. I used to lend a hand in the rose garden when I was little, but I never much cared for the rose business myself. I wanted to go to university and my father encouraged me.
I passed the entrance exam and went to Istanbul to study architecture. Except for the occasional brief visit during the summer, I hardly ever returned to Isparta. When my mother passed away five years ago, I went back to spend a week with my father. I didn’t want him to be alone. We barely had a real conversation the entire week. My father kept his grief to himself. Still, I could sense the void my mother’s passing had left in him.
My mother and I were closer. We would speak on the phone several times each week, and shared almost everything. Though it took a lot of persuading, she came to visit me twice in Istanbul and the two of us saw all the sights together. I never bothered to invite my father—he wouldn’t have come, anyway. When my mother died suddenly, I felt as if I’d been orphaned. I had lost my mother and didn’t even feel as though I had a father. I certainly didn’t expect him to fill my mother’s shoes. And I don’t think he had any expectations of me. I knew that he loved me, we’d just never been close enough for him to show it, I suppose. I can’t recall a single instance when he ever treated me badly or even raised his voice. He was a calm, silent person: a good man.
After our week together, I told my father that I needed to return to Istanbul.
“Of course, sweetheart, you should get back to your own life,” he replied. “Don’t you worry about me.” It was the first time I’d ever heard him speak with such emotion in his voice.
“Why don’t you come, too?” I suggested. “Come stay with me for a while, it would be a nice change for you.”
I surprised even myself with the sincerity of my invitation, but my father seemed to take it as the most natural thing in the world. “Thanks, sweetheart, but I’m fine right here for now. It’s almost time for the harvest. Once that’s over, I’ll think about what comes next.”
We said our goodbyes and I left.
Work had really piled up while I was away, and when I got back to Istanbul, I threw myself into my daily routine. It felt good to concentrate on my job. I owned an architecture firm together with my partner, Fırat, and our business grew quickly. It wasn’t long before we were working on projects beyond our wildest expectations. All over Istanbul, neighborhoods had been earmarked for urban redevelopment, and we’d managed to get in on the action.
Fırat and I had been friends since university. In our final year we’d starting dating, and after graduation we set up the architecture firm. I’d introduced him to my mother when she came to visit me in Istanbul. After they’d gotten to know each other a little she said to me, “This one’s a keeper, darling; don’t let him get away.” I followed my mother’s advice and married him. But not until about a year after she died. I called my father to tell him the news.
“That’s great, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m so happy for you.” We celebrated with a simple ceremony among close friends. My father didn’t come, but he did call that evening to congratulate us both.
About a month after the wedding, my father called to tell me he’d sold his plot of land.
“I’m moving to a small place in Finike, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ll let you know the address. Don’t you worry about me.”
I wished him the best and told him to call me if he needed anything. A couple of weeks later he sent a message with his new address in a fishing village in Finike, saying that he was settled and that we were welcome to stay with him anytime.
I promised we’d pay him a visit and told him to take care of himself. I made sure to call at least once a month to ask how he was. Most of the time he replied that he was perfectly content and enjoying his retirement.
Fırat and I made good partners, and our marriage was as successful as our business. We worked six days a week and usually spent our Sundays lounging around the house. On Saturday evenings we’d meet up with friends in Beyoğlu and have a few drinks, then go to the movies or the theater and wind down from the busy week. Fırat was a real literature buff. I liked to read, too, but not as much as he did. He kept up with all the new titles, followed all the reviews, and then on the weekends he would hit the bookstores, emerging each time with an armful of books. His passion soon rubbed off on me. When he read a novel he particularly liked, he’d always pass it on. I trusted his taste and was never disappointed. One day, he was lying in bed reading, as usual, and after turning the last page, he placed the book on his chest and stared at the ceiling, deep in thought.
“Incredible! This man really knows how to write,” he said. “It’s only his first novel, but it’s so well crafted.” He held the book out to me. “You have to read this, you’ll love it.”
The very title sounded profound: As Lonely as History. The author’s name was Hasan Vefa Karadağlı. According to the biography on the back jacket, he was a retired mechanical engineer. There was little other information about him, just enough to work out that he was older than he appeared in the photo. I turned the book over, had a quick flip through it, then placed it on the bedside table, telling Fırat I’d read it later.
In many of Istanbul’s neighborhoods, buildings were being demolished at a furious pace, only to be replaced by high-rise luxury condos. For us, the money had started to pour in, especially from our projects in the Fikirtepe neighborhood, so much so that our lifestyle was completely transformed. We invested our savings wisely, buying properties due for redevelopment and then selling them on as soon as they were finished. This made us some extra income on the side, in addition to what we were earning at the firm. Between the unrelenting pace at work and our constant desire to earn more, we had turned into machines. We were so busy making money that we had no time to spend it. Apart from those NGOs campaigning against the redevelopment projects, our lives were for the most part worry-free. As for whether or not I was happy, well, I barely had time to give it any thought. We were working hard, making decent money, and living the good life. As for our relationshi
p, other than not seeing much of each other, Fırat and I didn’t have any problems to speak of.
Work kept me so busy that I was only ever able to squeeze in a few pages of reading at night before bed. It was a week before I got around to reading As Lonely as History, and it had me hooked from the first page. I couldn’t put it down. I was almost halfway through before I finally had to surrender to sleep. The following day I couldn’t get the book out of my head and left work early to get home and pick up where I’d left off. Fırat called from the construction site to say he was heading to the office that evening and would be working late. I took the opportunity to immerse myself in it once more. By the time Fırat walked in, having unlocked the door quietly so as not to wake me, I had reached the last page. Seeing me in the living room, he asked what I was still doing up. I didn’t want to break my concentration, so without lifting my head, I shushed him. For several minutes he stood there watching me, eagerly waiting for me to finish. Once I had, I turned to him.
“What an extraordinary book! You weren’t exaggerating.”
“See? It got to me, too. It really captures what it means to be lonely in a crowd,” Fırat replied, drawing closer to me. “Sometimes I get to thinking, Nermin, we work so hard, but what exactly do we get out of it other than money? It only makes me feel alone and that scares me sometimes. Think about it: Climbing the social ladder is like heading off into outer space. The higher you get, the lonelier it becomes. You grow further and further apart from others, and from society itself, until you find yourself in a vacuum with nothing for company but your solitude. And the saddest part is that you run yourself ragged day and night trying to get there. It’s as if we’re these pathetic creatures who have made a conscious decision to abandon a place so full of life and make our way toward some barren wilderness instead.” Fırat spoke these words almost as if to himself.
“You know what, you’re right,” I replied. “It’s about time we had a change in perspective. It’s almost like this novel was written for us. If we want to get our lives on track, we’ll need to look beyond ourselves and reconsider our priorities.”
Fırat looked me in the eyes. “Nermin, I have an idea: Let’s take a long vacation, just the two of us. We can leave in the morning. It’ll give us a chance to think this all over, to really talk it through. And we can get some rest, too. What do you say?”
I paused for a moment. “We can’t leave tomorrow, not when things are so busy, it would be total chaos,” I explained, trying to let him down gently.
As we placed our suitcases in the trunk early the next morning, neither of us could quite believe what we were doing. As soon as we set off, we planned the route our trip would take: We would travel down the Aegean coast until we reached Finike, where we’d pay a quick visit to my father before heading back. I called to tell him we were on our way and that we’d be with him in about ten days.
“Drive carefully now, sweetheart,” he replied. “Have a safe trip.”
As Fırat and I slowly made our way down the Aegean coast, we talked about our past and about our future, too. We discussed the state of the country, and of the world in general, and all the horrors carried out in the name of progress: cultural decay, environmental disasters, the growing individualism crippling human relationships, how the concept of love had been turned on its head….We discussed it all. By the time we reached Finike, both of us felt refreshed; the trip had been like therapy for us.
My father had given us directions to his village, and we found it with little difficulty. It consisted of half a dozen shops and eateries, set in a grove of trees by the side of the road, and twenty or so houses that dotted the forest a little farther up the hill. When we pulled up in front of the village coffeehouse, my father was sitting outside at a wooden table with three elderly men who appeared to be locals. As soon as he spotted us he stood up and began walking toward the car, a broad smile on his face. He greeted us with an embrace. Then he took a step back and looked Fırat over. Even though we’d already been married for two years, it was the first time they’d met. Fırat had been a little nervous, but this warm welcome put him at ease. My father introduced us to his friends and then suggested the three of us head over to his house. The owner of the coffeehouse insisted on treating us to tea, but my father declined, joking, “I make better tea at home than anything you can brew here!” And with this he set off, telling us to follow him.
We passed by a fish restaurant with a front garden shaded by vines and full of flowers of all colors, and then a small village café, its tables beneath gazebos in yet another extraordinary garden. Beyond that was a stand selling handmade gifts and local produce, and finally we came to a garden resplendent with roses—we had arrived at my father’s house. Standing in one corner of the huge garden was a small structure that looked more like a shed than a house. Under the arbor, two simple benches, topped with kilim-covered cushions, had been set up on either side of a large wooden table. The garden was filled with fruit trees and roses of every color. After so many years of cultivating roses, my father had clearly brought all his talents to bear here in this garden. We sat down on one of the wooden benches, and through the fruit trees we could glimpse the endless sea stretching out beyond the road. My father headed inside, saying he would be right back with some tea. Fırat and I looked at each other and then leaned back, taking in the stunning view and the tranquil setting. Other than the occasional car driving past on the road just down the hill, the only sounds to be heard were the waves crashing against the shore and the whirr of crickets falling softly against the faint whistle of a cool breeze. I thought of how enchanting this place was, this village where my father had chosen to spend his remaining years, and I have to admit, I was a little envious. Weary from the journey, we were tempted to curl up on the benches and take a nap. Before long, my father returned with a teapot in one hand and a tray of glasses in the other. The tea was every bit as delicious as he’d promised. We sat there talking for hours, about our work, what we’d been up to, and my father’s new life in the village. It was clear he had made the right decision moving here after my mother’s death; the gentle pace had done him good. He was a little more talkative than usual though still not an easy man to read, but I didn’t think there was much there to read, anyway. I was happy to see him so at peace. Despite his insistence, we turned down his invitation to spend the night. We had to get to Antalya for an evening flight back home. We’d arranged for the car to be brought to Istanbul by a delivery service. Realizing it was no use trying to convince us to stay, my father conceded, adding, “Well, then, at least let me treat you to dinner before you go.” Truth be told, all the fresh air had made us hungry, and we couldn’t refuse.
Each of the places along the road, including the fish restaurant where we went, were owned by locals, all of whom my father had befriended. Sitting at one of the wooden tables in the restaurant’s garden, we feasted on the delicious mezes, fresh fish, and homegrown salad. As we drank our tea, my father recounted anecdotes from his time in the village, his eyes gleaming with joy, until finally the time came to say our goodbyes and head home. The whole way back, Fırat spoke of nothing but how impressed he was with my father, what a delight he was to talk with, and how we should try to see him more often.
Returning to work the next day, we felt rejuvenated, as though we ourselves had embarked upon a brand-new life. Our lives would no longer consist only of work and money; we would rearrange our priorities and take a greater interest in the world around us. At least, that was what we resolved to do during our trip. Yet barely two weeks had passed before Fırat and I were back to our old routines, working harder than ever. And though we would never admit it to each other, we looked back on all that we’d discussed while away as a kind of confession, an attempt to purge ourselves of the sins of our success. The occasional daydream never hurt anybody, after all.
Very little changed over the next two years. With business booming, we eventually had to
move to larger offices. Our team of twelve architects and engineers took care of the company’s day-to-day business while Fırat and I pursued ever-bigger projects. We worked feverishly, fueled by a constant worry that should we stop working, even for a single day, we’d lose everything. Sometimes we wouldn’t see each other for days on end. And at night we’d pass out from exhaustion, only to rise at the crack of dawn and dash off to the office or one of the construction sites. Yet the fortune we’d amassed was more than we could spend in ten lifetimes, let alone one. And neither I nor Fırat had any close relatives to share it with. Or, rather, we weren’t close enough to any of them to think of ourselves as relatives. And we were so busy that the thought of children never even crossed our minds. We weren’t unhappy, and we mistook this for happiness itself.
One typical Saturday evening, we were wandering around Beyoğlu when we saw a poster for Hasan Vefa Karadağlı’s new novel, It’s Love That Stays with You, in one of the bookstore windows. We rushed in and bought two copies, one for each of us. “I hope it’s as good as the first,” Fırat said. Not only had As Lonely as History been a bestseller in Turkey, but critics had loved it and it had won numerous awards and been translated into many languages.
We spent the following day at home reading. Both of us were so engrossed that it was evening before we even thought about food. When Fırat reminded me that we needed to eat, we hurriedly prepared a meal, which we ate as quickly as possible in order to get back to our books. The writing was so remarkable that we couldn’t put them down; we read straight through and reached the end around midnight. When Fırat, book in hand, emerged from his office, he found me lying on the sofa in the living room, my tired eyes fixed on the ceiling. Karadağlı’s first novel had prompted us to do some genuine soul searching. And although we had drifted from our resolutions for the most part, the book had reinvigorated us, opening our eyes to how unfulfilled we felt despite our great wealth. This second book, though, could as well have been about us. It spoke of how we always played by the rules of others, our lives carefully designed to meet the system’s every whim, extinguishing our passion and plunging us into darkness. We sat up all night, talking about this and more: about our lives, our relationship, and the ghost of what was once our love, about the impasse in which we were trapped, about whether there was any going back, and if the fortune we had amassed in the bank would be enough to make up for the love we had lost….It was hard for us both to admit that for a long time now, we had seen each other as nothing but business partners.
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