by Levi, Mario
I was imparted with this information through the accounts of Uncle Kirkor and partly by Olga’s occasional lapses. I hope I haven’t misjudged and erred in my estimations. This was one of the most important episodes in Olga’s life, as far as I know. In her visit to the old people’s home at Hasköy, one could witness an act of self-sacrifice and a loftiness of spirit.
What especially attracted my attention was her wearing the diamond necklace whenever she went to visit him. Was this an esoteric poem devoid of sentimental attachment, the expression of her latent feelings of vengeance difficult to be disclosed? I doubt it. To my mind, she had wanted to be the princess of a fairy tale, of her own tale. This may have been the reason why she stayed with Henry to the very end. The only person who had avowed her noble bearing had been her former lover whom had been swept from his path by an insignificant fantasy. This tale had been their spontaneous propagation. To my mind, this was the most important reason for their coexistence in each other’s tales.
Uncle Kirkor’s view
Uncle Kirkor had left me with the impression that he knew the answers to a good many questions about Olga. Such questions that are generally used as a starting point for certain people. Questions that we could not bring ourselves to ask . . . The reason for this was simple. He had drawn a distinct line between knowing and making out as if he knew, while at the same time giving the impression that he knew nothing. Nobody had ever understood what exactly he did and didn’t know about us. A man who had been watching his friends, for years on end, from the confined area of security he had allocated for himself . . . The meaning of these looks may have been retaliation for defeats suffered elsewhere, for defeats one could not obviate . . . This was one of the doubtless probabilities; an anticipated and expected probability . . . However, I had taken a fancy to him; I’d been looking forward to seeing and knowing such enigmatic people, particularly at such moments . . . Actually I knew, of course, the man, Uncle Kirkor, was far away, in a place none of us could ever reach . . . I reckon that this was how it should be . . . I had experienced such distances in other relationships . . . That long story was partly the product of such anxieties . . . This attitude of Uncle Kirkor’s had, of course, annoyed a good many people. However, for us, for those of us who could chance upon or knew how to extort a few memories from him, it was quite a different affair. For those who had knowledge of him, he was someone who always remained still in order to see, hear and learn about ongoing events. He used to act as though he had witnessed nothing; what is still more important was that he knew how to keep silent. It was a fact that he was aware of other realities related to Olga’s diamond necklace to which we did not have access. He had overheard certain telephone conversations, and certain looks had been reflected in his own guise in all probability . . . Could I arrive at certain conclusions on the relationship of Olga and Henry based on bits and pieces of evidence from those talks? I don’t know for certain, nor shall I ever. However, with regard to certain relationships, I learned, over time, how to be satisfied with what had already been given in the stories of certain individuals. This also held true for people whose sorrows, expectations and memories I had shared, people to whom I had got nearer and people whom I accompanied in their journeys and with whom I breathed the same air. Having reached a given stage on our journey, we had become each other’s visitors. Visitors . . . simply visitors . . . To remain and to be obliged to remain satisfied with what one has been given . . . This state of affairs now and then gave rise to deceptions. However, this place, the place that Uncle Kirkor had indicated, was once a place of refuge and somewhere where one could indulge in wild fantasies, fantasies whose boundaries could only be drawn according to the individual’s own pleasure.
What Uncle Kirkor had pointed to was not simply the place in question and the individual in it. The reason why I failed to give him his due for his contemplativeness and reticence had its rationale, of course. I think I owed it to him to realize the importance of listening, of knowing how to listen. To be able to listen, to concentrate one’s thoughts on a given individual, to see him effectively . . . and in so doing, to be sparing in one’s words, considering that certain things, the things assumed to be right, are doomed to undergo variations more or less according to circumstances. This was the rule then, the most important rule of being a true witness. Nevertheless, Uncle Kirkor had, to the best of my knowledge, already gone beyond the identity of a witness. He was a confidant, a place of refuge for certain people. “I’m a bottomless well. The stone you throw in me is lost forever, even to yourself, mind you,” he told me once. In this statement was also hidden, I think, the modest pride of being conscious of his responsibility, of having been conversant with the ins and outs of those lives to which he could not help making occasional allusions to in every conversation. I knew this. This was his most glorious success in life, especially if one remembers the inevitable defeats people suffered in battles. He seemed to have made the best of this success, especially in his later years . . . savoring it for quite a long while, reviving innumerable fantasies of his life in certain parts of his being closed to everybody else. Embedded in him was the history of a whole era. We must not forget the fact that he had been the factotum in Monsieur Jacques’ shop, an old-timer, in the latter’s words. At this stage, you could proceed on and play with your fantasies and discover, if you wanted to, his desire to explain the function of an organization which kept abreast with the changing business life of the day that seemed to be innate in his personality and in the impression he made on others. However, these private judgments, which failed to go beyond their individual character, could not and had not been able to explain him to us, despite all the clues it provided us with. Perceptive people had understood this.
Uncle Kirkor had unexpectedly succumbed to a heart attack; he had been one of the trustworthy friends and sole confidant of Monsieur Jacques. Was this privileged position of his a consequence of his taking the shop for his own house, his breathing space; or of his display of it as such to others; or, was it a consequence of his comprehensive knowledge of the family; of the fact that he was conversant in Spanish although he did not speak it; or of his unerring intuition that told him the exact moment when the boss wanted to be left alone; or again of his familiarity with the business, of the management of which he was prepared to immediately take over in preference to Berti? All these things may have had their parts to play in the development and perpetuation of that friendship. There were in that shop other details and bits and pieces that built up Uncle Kirkor. For instance, every morning he was the first to come to the shop and the last to depart in the evening; however, not before having emptied the ashtrays, switched off the lights, checked the faucets and the fuses; he had in his possession one of the two keys for the shop, the other being in the custody of Monsieur Jacques. He tried to satisfy the feeling of paternal authority he tasted through occasional rapprochements of Berti. He had never had the chance of going on holiday because of matrimonial troubles with Ani, his wife; he had not thought it decent to engage in such a venture, as he thought it hardly fitting of his character. Tactful and forbearing, for years he had had to tolerate the reproaches of Madame Ani, who accused him of failing to achieve success in life, he tried to tolerate her affront with the wisdom of a sage. Could one establish a link between this state of affairs and his moderate addiction to drink; with his being careless about his attire; with his occasional absences; with his excessive indulgence in candies; with his habitual absences from Sunday services; with his striking up friendships with strange people and with the slovenly attitude of a sage he occasionally displayed? The answers to these questions must be concealed in the labyrinths of that life not readily shared. These accounts I’ve been able to lump together, based on different witnesses at different times, seem to be sufficient to lend meaning to a certain extent to particular acts and words. For instance, being at school had always been a nuisance. He had often entertained the notion to tell his companions ho
w foolishly they behaved in subjects to which they attached overdue importance. But he had failed to express it because of his introversion and diffidence; this had been the source of his being qualified as a layabout, an idler, among those whose blinders allowed them to see only his terseness. His failure in finding a longstanding shelter for himself in the milieu in which the bullies thought that nonconformists should be ostracized (this they considered to be their reason for existence) had resulted in his being ousted from the French college Saint-Michel where his father desired him to acquire the French language. At the time he had not even turned fourteen. Having been awarded low grades as a junior, his father had to ask the school to cancel his enrollment . . . at a time when they were short of money . . . He had certainly been annoyed at having been a failure at school. Years later, he had to recollect his school years and tell of his experiences in a compensatory humorous style, saying: “My report card was riddled with potholes!” He actually deplored the fact that he had been dismissed from school. He hadn’t even learned how to play volleyball; he might have learned a lot from that friar who was well disposed toward him and when the time came his acquisitions would have enabled him to engage in a successful business life. But the fact was that life began for some people from quite a different starting point. He never forgot this, he simply couldn’t. This was the most important reality that that shop offered despite all that had gone on in between. The day he had become conscious of this fact had been the day he had experienced one of the greatest deceptions in his life. He had to account for it by such words as: “Well, I had to interrupt my education. I was young. I was in a hurry to practice an art or craft as soon as possible and launch into business life with a view to avoiding being a burden on my father’s shoulders,” he said one morning. I had learned thus that he had frequented the college Saint-Michel for some time. He had made tea and no one had showed up yet at the shop. Nevertheless, in order to evade the past we are in need of such expressions: you had to have recourse to such words in order to facilitate your life with old memories and fantasies which you didn’t want to see consigned to oblivion. To make public true defeats one had suffered in one’s lifetime was never easy. It was never easy to confess defeats, real defeats, I mean. Uncle Kirkor no longer mentioned his school days anymore. (Whenever the subject of school days was mentioned, it occurred to me to think how his life or lives might have traced a different course had he imposed his alien condition on his peers. But I saw no way out. I’m aware of this fact. I’m aware that there are many people who happen to be in the wrong places, living with the wrong crowd, resigned to their ill fates when looked at from a distance, or at least when we think we are gazing at them from a distance.)
Having failed to give school life its due, he had been apprenticed to Master Barkev, a distant relative, to work at the lathe. Those were the days when poverty was raging across the country. Early in the morning we used to get up and set off for the workshop. One could observe among the crowd on the bridge fellows with patched-up trousers; even our stockings had patches on them. “I don’t think you’ll remember those wooden eggs we used to thrust into our socks when darning,” he said once. I had said nothing in return, but merely smiled. Whatever I would have said would divert him from his cherished recollections and daydreaming. Otherwise, I remembered perfectly well the wooden egg dating from that time in my life in those ancient houses in which I had had many experiences I did not want to share with anyone. I distinctly remember the time when I had insisted on living in them and was reluctant to vacate . . .How distinct in my memory it seems to me now, that wooden egg I used as a toy. It is a nonentity now; yet, at the time, it imposed its presence on us and stood for something essential in our lives. You cannot just break your rapport with certain objects, if a certain house you inhabited outlived other houses you lived in . . . I remember well the drawer in which the wooden egg in question was kept. The interesting thing is that despite its impression on me, which I can hardly describe and am unable to define, the said egg was a constant reminder in my life nevertheless; I had a special place reserved for it. That egg had never been for me a simple and ordinary plaything. Nevertheless, that charm, that magic that attached me to that image, was, I think, concealed in this enigma. To remind Uncle Kirkor of this would be irrelevant. It was a fact that everybody revolved around his own role, or roles, and lived as his own individual character through his recollections and servitudes. There were many images that hid themselves behind scarred wounds, that seemed to have been forgotten by a multitude of worlds, each reproduced, one unlike the other . . . That may have been the reason why he had opened this window to the old days to people alien to him.
The fact was that Uncle Kirkor was apprenticed to Master Barkev, though he was reluctant to talk about his days there despite his nostalgic feelings about them, wrapping himself in the garb of an ancient man that if encountered anywhere must be regarded with sympathy. He had embarked on that venture that was to radically change the course of his life and lead him to a place completely different from the place where he could otherwise have stayed for the foreseeable future, at a time when he was somewhat more hopeful of new prospects . . . This episode I learned from Monsieur Jacques quite by chance as it had never been on our agenda. Despite our common emotional grounds, we also had islets which we mutually preferred to keep as forbidden zones. Given the wide difference of age between us, barring our respective emotional worlds that opened towards different vistas, there was, it seemed, another life. We both had eventually realized that this was a no man’s land.
As far as I could gather from what Monsieur Jacques told me, during the days of his apprenticeship in that life wherein the rules were quite different from those in the classrooms, fed by small expectations and readymade dreams, everything had gone fine at the beginning. Thanks to his skill and behavior he had endeared himself not only to his master, but also to the artisans in the market, despite his accent and shyness. Master Barkev began to entrust to him the work of his favored customers, and his confidence grew with the effect that he could eventually pass his bench after so many years of labor to someone he could train himself. To have gained the confidence of his master was certainly important for someone who was but a novice. That was more than a simple trust or empathy; these epithets might be à propos in describing those days. It sometimes occurs to me that Master Barkev proudly exhibited to his friends in the market certain pieces made by his apprentice. “This is Kirkor’s work; perhaps not so perfect, though. But he’s got talent, I must allow him some time yet,” he used to say with some pride and excitement which he tried to cover up. Just a sign of emotion from the master which should be taken for granted. They sometimes continued to work long after they had closed up the shop. These were invaluable times spent on the road that led from apprentice to master. Nevertheless, certain events were to take other turns, beyond one’s control, making life unpredictable at unexpected moments, leading to unwarranted days for which no preparations could have been made. One day, Master Barkev had to leave the workshop to purchase materials. It was a day one wished to obliterate from memory, a day one might recall only if one so specifically wished, a day that obsessed one more and more as one tried to forget it, a day that could be explained away on the grounds that, when taken unawares, it might provoke in one the sense of the absurd. Kid Arthur was there; he was undergoing training in silver inlaying under Mr. Hrant, his master, who was notorious for his irascibility and alertness, and whom people addressed not without some diffidence. Professionals had already formed their judgment about him. It had not been two years since his engagement and he had achieved no progress; nor did he give the impression that he would do so in the near future. Had he been somebody else, that somebody else could not have remained long with Master Hrant, a devoted professional, whose work demanded admiration. Yet, because of an old, very old code that Master Hrant was keeping as a secret from everybody else, for the sake of togetherness, he abided there. “Business is slack, bu
t, I cannot dismiss him now. You know, it’s a question of responsibility. I’ve got to suffer the consequences of my wrongful act of the time,” he told Master Barkev one day, bending his head to his breast. “To my mind he still loves you,” he said. “Too late!” had been Master Hrant’s answer. Uncle Kirkor was there cleaning the bench. His presence was hardly felt, although they were sure that their secret was safe with him. At his age, he had failed to properly understand what had been going on. Only much later would he be able to establish connections between the facts, long after the people involved had gone to different places and abided in remote lives. They were indeed sure that no secret would leak out. He had lived in a world wherein apprentices were not only trained on the job, but at the same time received an education to meet the future challenges of life. Master Barkev had been conscious of the merit of his apprentice. Kirkor was tight-lipped; he never spoke unless he had to. Therefore he had to remain a listener; he had to acquire as much as he could from those who supported him. Uncle Kirkor had not said anything to Kid Arthur about what he had overheard, despite the fact that he had been his closest friend in the Market. He did not consider this as a betrayal. For, he knew that Kid Arthur was an extremely sensitive boy who could not put up with certain bare facts; he was sensitive to the point of morbidity according to the judgment of those around him . . . He himself was the only person who truly loved and understood him. Kid Arthur endeavored to put up with the pranks, in their monotony—from people who tried to cover up their own failures and lack of self-confidence hidden behind a plurality of masks—by laughing at his own shortcomings, clumsiness, and, what is still more important, at his stutter, in an easygoing, yet necessary way . . . The kid that had come to visit him at the workshop was the self-same kid . . . Uncle Kirkor was at that moment in the process of fixing a piece which Master Mıgır, a Luna Park habitué, had fabricated by taking great pains in a chunk of a press that only he could operate, and whose repair and maintenance he himself undertook. Upon Kid Arthur’s inadvertently pressing the button of the press, the cutter had sliced off Uncle Kirkor’s arm, radically changing his life in the blink of an eye . . . Uncle Kirkor, who had lost consciousness following the trauma, pleaded with Kid Arthur to immediately call for help. Neighbors had rushed in to take Kirkor to the nearest hospital. It was said that so much blood had oozed from him before he was taken to hospital that if timely help had not been sent for it would have been fatal. Master Barkev was said to have acted like a father to his apprentice during his stay at the Balıklı hospital, and spared nothing at the risk of Master Vahan’s likely reaction. Among his visitors at the hospital was also Master Mıgır. He had brought him a railway carriage he had fabricated in iron, whose doors could be opened and shut, promising him that other carriages and a railway engine would soon follow. Other visitors included artisans from the Market; some bringing bouquets of flowers, some candies, and some eau de cologne. With a view not to leave him alone during this difficult time and to try to pinch a moment of bliss from his tragedy, even for a brief period, by simply being a presence, an onlooker to this disaster . . . Everybody had endeavored to hearten him, telling him that promising days lay ahead in the Market; his reaction to this was a beatific smile. For, he already knew what awaited him, and intuited that those who tried to hearten him were also aware of this. He realized that what he foresaw became a reality on the day he was discharged from the hospital. Master Barkev seemed to hold himself somewhat aloof from him. His voice had a different inflection which could be perceived only by those who knew him well. The master did not mince his words; he told him bluntly not to come to the workshop anymore. “With a single arm you can no longer do your job, you’ve got to find another occupation for yourself,” he said. Perhaps, financial considerations had prevailed over the affection felt for the individual. Uncle Kirkor had not reacted; he had merely said “Goodbye, Master” and avoided his gaze. A word to the wise was enough . . .