You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  “I have never heard of such nonsense! Of course he isn’t! I know your brother often teases you—but he is not cruel.”

  “Well, he says that’s how they do it to everybody. If you don’t do what the Fascists say, then you get a liter of castor oil pumped into you. So? If I don’t do what he says will he do it to me?”

  “He better not try! He won’t be able to sit for a week! No—a month!”

  Satisfied he had gained protection—Billy left for school.

  Overseeing the construction of Ford’s Trieste plant, John was seldom home to aid Jane in regulating these disputes between his sons, defuse the rising animosity developing between them. Not a weak mother or an ineffectual one, though Jane was strict—she lacked the intuitiveness necessary to understand what lay beneath a child’s exterior behavior and so she punished what she perceived as punishable without involving her intellect for understanding its deeper cause.

  While Billy continually challenged and John resented and smoldered, the brothers’ lifelong misunderstanding of each other took root and grew—later, when matured, it would separate them.

  Her allowance more than ample, the boys now relegated to a strict uniform, her personal wardrobe replete, no ready clientele requiring her seamstress skills, Jane sat in her little garden at a loss for what to do. Of course there was housework, the children’s homework, marketing, cooking and other such necessary tasks required and expected of a wife and mother—but these being rote had never been enough to exhaust a woman like Jane. As much as John craved challenge she needed reasons to justify indulging her creativity.

  Hannah’s letters always in German that she maintained was done on purpose so that Jane wouldn’t forget, were always full of news. When in 1928 Herbert Hoover was elected president, she lamented that her first-time vote had done little to save America from a Republican who maybe could make up nice sayings like those he did in wartime about carp and eating apples down to the core—but such a talent was that enough to run a country? They should have made that nice-looking young man who flew that aeroplane all alone across the ocean—him they should have elected. But then with a name like Lindbergh maybe they thought he was Jewish? She wished Jane could hear her favorite new song. Everybody was singing it—even Ebbely when he ring-a-linged had said he was learning to play “I Found A Million Dollar Baby in a Five-and-Ten-Cent Store” on the piano and did Ninnie remember the first time they had traveled into the big city and she, Hannah, had pointed out a five-and-ten-cent store? Did she remember that day? There were always sections of Hannah’s letters that made Jane stop reading to blow her nose.

  She was so lonely for Hannah that sometimes the days seemed endless—filled with nothing but memories best left alone, avoided before they could cause further harm. After a while even the writing of letters back became inhibiting—for her news was repetitive, her longings already too well known.

  It was a sad day when the news arrived that the great assembly lines were stopped—Highland Park shut down for retooling for the future production of a new king of the road—the Ford Model A. Oh, they had known the day would have to come, that this would become necessary. Their Tin Lizzie had reigned so long—she could no longer compete in the mighty automotive market that she had spawned, that had developed because of her unique excellence, her loyalty, her indomitable courage, the enduring symbol of a nation of common men forging their dream of personal freedom.

  Fritz wrote of a lady in New Jersey who was so upset at the Model T’s demise that she had bought seven new Lizzies as reserve for her future existence. Although Ford of England would be producing the T for a little while longer, still John felt his youth so entwined with the T’s fate and mourned a little for the both of them.

  In her pretty garden—writing endless letters to Teresa that were never answered or returned, Jane floundering, began to feel sorry for herself when in the spring of 1929 John came home and announced that as his work was done, they would be moving to Turkey.

  “We are getting the hell out of Italy! Thank God for the British—they know what’s coming …”

  Having recovered sufficiently to speak, Jane asked, “What? What is coming?”

  “Another war Goddamnit! Or another revolution—whichever comes first.”

  “John—you can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, it will come—it may take a few years, but it will come—another bloodbath and for what? Look what’s happening here—I told them as soon as I’m done I want my family out of Italy! Even Turks are better than strutting Fascists!”

  “The boys—their school …”

  “That’s the best part—now they will be able to go to an English school—get a real British education—the best in the world!”

  “But I’m not so sure of John—he sort of hero worships his Il Duce.”

  “So I’ve noticed and that’s one of the reasons …” John let the rest of that thought evaporate. “No more black shirts. From now on my sons wear blazers.”

  Jane laughed.

  “Oh—if for no other reason Billy will love Turkey! Where are we going to live?”

  “Constantinople.”

  Jane nodded and started for the kitchen.

  “Ninnie …”

  “Yes?”

  He came up to her, holding her shoulders turned her towards him. “You are one in a million.”

  “I am?”

  “Any other woman would have thrown a fit.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Another house, another move, another country, another language, another life. But you—you take it all in your stride, without a single complaint.”

  “Oh, that.” The warmth of his touch through her summer blouse made her breathless. “Where you go—I go. That was our bargain.”

  23

  Constantinople once the suspected repository of the Holy Grail, this glorious city of ancient mosques, synagogues and Christian churches—seemed to have acquired that assured worldliness that only centuries of assimilation of many rulers and many religions can foster. Whereas the Ottoman Empire had given it power, the Byzantine its culture, its unique geography outdid them all. Lying on both shores of the Bosporus Strait that divides Europe from Asia Minor, allowing the waters of the Black Sea to join those of the Sea of Marmara that eventually find their way to the Mediterranean, this Scheherazade city of soaring domes and spindle minarets adds another breathtaking jewel of its own to its already laden crown—that of light.

  Leaning out of the window of the company automobile that had met them at the railway station, at the sight of the Blue Mosque Jane caught her breath and didn’t exhale again until they arrived at their destination. The British, those most practiced colonizers know how to take care of their own, Ford of England now being John’s immediate employer, their new home was a rooftop apartment complete with cook, maid and cooling terrace from which one could view the quicksilver sheen of the Bosporus by moonlight.

  Within hours of their arrival, John with his new mentor Mr. Thornhill Cooper, whom Jane took an immediate liking to because in his so gentlemanly way he reminded her of Jimmy Weatherby, left to inspect the chosen site for the new assembly plant.

  Those first weeks in this glorious city were magical. Everything about it was exciting, unusual, intriguing—its overwhelming opulence at moments hypnotic. With John preoccupied by the demands of his work—a sort of camaraderie emerged between Jane and her sons. Her enthusiasm, her avid interest in all things new, her love of learning matching theirs—together they explored this new and exciting city. All being natural linguists soon they knew enough conversational Turkish to venture even further—take short trips afield, board the passenger boats that meandered up and down the Bosporus like crowded trolleys along Detroit’s Woodward Avenue, saw the famous tulip parks on the Asian side, the Golden Horn, considered the most beautiful natural harbor in the world, on the European side,
the magnificent palaces of the many sultans, the vast rose fields—Turkey’s main export. By the time school was to begin, these three intrepid adventurers were well versed, knew how to buy a precious drink of water from the water vendors that moved within the milling crowds their silvered tanks strapped to their backs, could recognize an intricate mosaic of the twelfth century from one of the fourteenth—could even tell time from the echoing calls to prayer from filigreed minarets.

  When it was time for the boys to be registered at their school they were fitted for that time-honored British schoolboy uniform of gray flannel knee pants and crest-adorned navy blue blazer. The only concession for being in Turkey was that the usual obligatory tie and thick knee socks were omitted because of the heat.

  Young John now had a bedroom of his own, created within it his own universe and was marginally content, while Billy having discovered halva was ecstatic. After she discovered how much he enjoyed Turkish delicacies, Selma, their cook, became a sort of surrogate Hannah. Whenever Billy told her in his halting Turkish that a particular dish was even better than the one she had made for him before, she preened. In no time at all it seemed she cooked for him exclusively—the other members of the family she fed—but her Billy, him she catered. When he came home from school, böreks—little paper-thin pastry pockets filled with spinach or meat, waited for him, baklava dripping in rose syrup, dimpled pastry balls with clotted cream, powdered Turkish sweetmeats covered in pistachio nuts, thick golden humus, blackest figs fresh from the street vendor.

  Early mornings in Constantinople were especially exciting. The din of street vendors hawking their wares filled the air already pungent with the powerful aromas of just ground coffee. When the bread vendor, his tall pole stacked high with breads in the shape of small Christmas wreaths, shouted, “Simit,” Jane ran out, always the first of her apartment block to buy those delicious sun-warmed circles covered in freshly roasted sesame seeds. The daily purchase of yogurt—that took skill and strict concentration. Jane and the boys would wait for that special singsong call, then quickly lower a basket containing a bowl, their order, and correct change down to the street, where the yogurt man would slice their required amount off a block of shimmering, quivering solidified milk, place it into the basket, tug on the rope, call up to his customer to haul it back up. Rarely did this unique yogurt so pure, so delectable make it to the kitchen icebox.

  With John completely occupied, the boys being educated by the most elitist form of education in the civilized world, a staff running her home far better than she ever could—Jane was free to do whatever took her fancy—and at any given moment. A heady position to be in—if one knows one’s fancy. With money now no object, Jane went exploring the Grand Bazaar and shopped. In this true Aladdin’s cave she wandered enchanted and splurged. Like a drunk after the first forbidden drink—she reveled in the euphoria of irrational self-indulgence—then, sated, looked about her impulsive purchases with concern knowing she would now have to actually do something with them.

  Jane who never enjoyed cooking—often astounded by Hannah’s undying love of it—now under the influence of a visit to the endless spice bazaars embraced the exotic culinary history of Turkey that melded the flavors of Syria, Greece, Arabia, Jewish Palestine, Persia, Armenia and most of its neighboring Bulgaria into its daily repertoire. She acquired a large selection of traditional receptacles to serve them, do honor to their ancient histories. As her collection of decorative plates, bowls and platters for simit, pilâr, taramasalata, yufka, halva, baklava and that truly superlative Turkish yogurt grew, so did her historical knowledge.

  Now accepted within the exclusive circle of the reigning British colony, Jane was expected and complied in attending their numerous gatherings for tea and bridge. Especially appreciated for the obvious dedication to the success of their many bazaars, her beautifully stitched handkerchiefs, tea napkins and lace doilies were prized. Courting social status Jane enjoyed being so magnanimously accepted by these ladies of the British upper class. Though at times she found their circle rather insular, even antiquated—the nonarrival of a shipment of a Fortnum & Mason chest of tea could cause vapors of alarming proportion—still by and large, these were valiant women far from country gardens, doting nannies and secured pomposity, tending to husbands in a heathen country with noteworthy fortitude. To fit, to become acceptable, Jane took note of their rigid code of expected attire by copying it—the small fashionable changes she incorporated, when noticed, were praised and quickly envied. Some ladies even had the temerity to inquire if the Italian woman in their midst, having so skillfully managed to produce her wardrobe, would consider improving the less than perfect examples of their local seamstresses’ efforts. By the end of her second year in Constantinople, Jane’s dressmaking business was flourishing. Not wishing to exchange her position of club lady for that of employee, Jane let it be known that any recompense for her sewing skills should be given to the ladies’ charitable causes.

  When finally assembled, Jane’s Turkish Salon as it became known by one and all, could have done a sultan proud. A bit theatrical, though being Ottoman it couldn’t help but be—whenever Jane entertained within its draped silks and harem splendor, the ladies of the British colony sipping thick sweetened coffee from tiny gold-encrusted cups, their fingers sticky from honey-drenched baklava, being offered rose water in alabaster to rinse them in—came away from such cordial visits with nothing but praise for this most interesting American lady who not only had become proficient in that most difficult language of the new Republic of Turkey but had diligently acquired a most profound knowledge of its ancient history and tradition.

  Yet aware they might be ridiculed the ladies omitted to relate their fascination with Jane’s aptitude for fortune telling. How skillful she was, when their tiny coffee cups emptied—only the thick residue remaining—she, having learned the time-honored Turkish procedure, took them, inverted them onto the saucer, turned them three times in a slow clockwise motion … then lifting them carefully could read the black shapes that had formed inside—interpret their meaning.

  Without real friends or observant husband, Jane, forever seeking self-betterment, now entered that period of her life when choosing the wrong direction seemed to her the right one.

  Unconditional belonging became more important than choice, to be thought of as a grand lady more important than being one. She acquired the trappings of beauty parlor hair, a perfect silver fox, shoes made to order of the finest black and white calf, an expensive milliner’s creation its small veil giving it a tantalizing slant and a lover’s interest, for having made herself a most becoming riding habit for fashionable morning canters under the watchful and appreciative gaze of a handsome riding instructor—their few encounters in the taproom were brief and wholly unemotional as to love. Not shocked at herself—more surprised—this interlude gave Jane an added dimension, an awareness of her gender, for the first time completely separate from her status as acquired wife-mother. Being a party to illicit passion was so foreign to her that at first she did not recognize it as such. Being wanted by one who yet attracts is the elixir of women. Whether consummated or merely anticipated—it is the wanting that attracts and when cloaked in romance—irresistible. For some reason she could not explain to herself she suddenly felt attractive. A most startling realization for one who knew she was plain.

  Jane’s excursion into forbidden territory lasted until John’s return and then was done.

  There was an aliveness about her that John had never noticed before. An awareness of herself as a female that intrigued, enticed. He wanted to touch her as though she were an unknown landscape to explore. She was his accustomed wife yet all at once had recaptured a mystery that she had never even possessed.

  Jane, sensing his interest was confused by it—it disturbed her guilt—making it into a means to an end she had never expected, was uncertain if she had ever wished it at all. He made love to her that first night and she respon
ded with abandon that captivated him beyond questioning its origin. For her it was as though she had yearned for him without her sensing its need. Now the hands that caressed her were familiar—their touch a homecoming, passion became love and with it, safety. Jane had never thought of copulation as a beginning process, the act itself as being more than just a purely physical progression to a physical climax—then when reached—an automatic retreat back into oneself, emotion untouched. That she could have been so completely wrong astounded her—that so long ago Hannah had been right did not.

  As with many marriages based on logic instead of love—passion once ignited by an outsider now served to erase the years of accepted companionship, replacing it with a willingness to love, to become vulnerable to another. For Jane sex became beautiful and the man who had married her knew how to harness its beauty.

  If Jane had been more cathartic she might have ruined it with guilt-ridden shame. As it was, she flung herself into the rapture of being shameless without regret. He never questioned, she never confessed. They loved each other and were in love. The age of noncommunicative exposure of self had its advantages. After all, there is nothing more stimulating to a mired relationship than a satisfactory sojourn outside of it. Like an electrical charge it jump-starts sagging sensibilities to once again be willing to appreciate what one already has. If there is love and if one doesn’t kill the effect by confession first or discussing it to death in order to clear one’s conscience or be magnanimously forgiven—everything’s fine. The children enjoyed it too. For them their mother was less strict—her criticism less frequent—a new leniency in her approach to mothering, and now most evenings their father came home in time for supper.

  As this marriage meandered through the time mazes that filter emotions, theirs became a quiet love, one of those rare unions that had within its passions a peace; as though once born and believed, love so assured needed no further proofing. Rarely understood except perhaps by those in love with God, in whatever guise their surrender requires Him to be—such love once recognized, its utter truth accepted, exists—no further reconfirmation is necessary; it simply is. Possibly, the only force that can and does do battle with the planned forgetfulness of death and most often wins despite it.