by Levi, Mario
Could it be that Berti had lied ‘to his people,’ along with himself, the man he had been asked to be? Answering this question has never been easy for me. This was a zone in which truth and lies could not be identified properly unless you rose to the challenge of following a certain path; you could not distinguish between what was true and false; you could not have an inkling of what fortitude was. I had been ignorant myself of these things at the time, even thereafter. There was no end to the questions; they came back upon you whether you liked it or not. Questions were never lacking . . . We had in our possession the things that we had been carrying along with those men, our nightmares, and our erroneous touches. Frankly, I had reached a stage where I gave credence to what was both true and false. What should have been of importance was not of consequence in contrast to abiding by the laws of a tradition—there being innumerable people who have succeeded in living this attachment in due coherence—the essential thing was the enactment of a play, the desire to put it on the stage, Berti’s incapacity to truly believe in that sentiment he said he lent credence to. He had not even discussed it with himself; he could not bring himself to discuss it. To duly observe traditions, to make a show of this observance, was one of the easiest ways to hide oneself in this lifestyle. He was, like those who had taken part in such a play, but a spectator of his experiences, of his own self . . . Could it be that Berti had this experience on the path he had taken that he expected to lead to Juliet? To be frank, I never wanted to witness this aspect of the relationship of two individuals I loved so much and with whom I had formed a link laden with a multitude of hope. Because, through this relationship they had chosen, for the sake of my, of our story, to appear like individuals who had failed to cross over the boundaries of my dilemmas, of things I would one day try to make heard through my tales. I owed them the possibility of belonging to a different time. Nevertheless, whether I wanted to or not, my experiences with them induced me to ask this question. In addition, to what I saw and what I could see, there were also supplemented memories. The factor that had initiated their relationship was a usual meeting that may have occurred between any two people. The meeting had been arranged by a mutual friend. This friend was someone who had made deep impressions on numerous people, according to Juliet. The venue had been Regence, the renowned Russian restaurant in Istanbul, where stories from Belarus were recounted, where Russian literature was discussed to the extent it was within the ken of the participants, and, last but not least, communism. Berti had told of his life in Cambridge while Juliet reminisced about her stage experience. The dinner at Regence was followed by a visit to the nightclub Kervansaray. Among the topics of discussion were fashion, one-time revelries, their inclinations and thoughts based on instinct and desire, as well as the places they would like to visit. They agreed that Crete was their common modest utopia; one had to consider the distance involved. This moment had apparently been the very first instant of which they had truly been intimate with each other. He had accompanied Juliet to her home at Şişli. It was raining and they had preferred to walk in the rain. As they strolled along in the darkness of the night, Juliet’s body accidentally touched Berti’s a couple of times. This incident, the memory of which was kept secret by both parties, was mutually revealed years later. During the days that followed they visited the nooks and crannies of Istanbul. During a bicycle tour of Büyükada, Berti had proposed to Juliet. This engagement happened only a few months after their dinner at the Regence. Juliet had been anticipating this as the natural course of events. The timing was perfect, especially when one considers the pressure put on by their parents. As the fatal time drew near, the greatest pressure related to the final decision of Madame Roza—who fully backed the arrangement. As a matter of fact, she used to anxiously await her son’s return from his sallies, and was fond of learning of his expeditions straight from the horse’s mouth. They had a cup of coffee and talked about the old days, of the vicissitudes of life and had a cozy tête-à-tête, turning a blind eye to their estrangement. Madame Roza reiterated the same call with different words. What remained with Berti from that dialogue were the following words: “She is a Jewess of a good family. Don’t play the false lover with her. Marry her and bring comfort to your life.” Had her sentence concealed a latent resentment, was she thus venting the malevolence she had never been able to articulate? I can provide an answer to this question only by taking both alternatives in consideration. Berti chose to take his mother’s words with a warm feeling and affection, despite his underlying rebellious tendencies. His opinion commands respect. This attitude of mine may clash with certain inconsistencies I should like to avoid. Nonetheless, the emotions of an individual I would like to represent may gain the upper hand over the adverse sentiments likely to occur during the course of my narration. The essential responsibility lies, I think, in being able to express these emotions. It was a fact that Madame Roza had approached all her children’s problems with maternal tenderness and self-sacrifice, as a person who had an unshakable belief in her own judgment, a person resolved to fight her way through anything, never deviating from the path of truth, a woman who proved her worth through such actions. I think Berti had been able to define this better, hiding it away for many years, until the days when his beloved daughter Rosy was making preparations for her wedding. Life would play a little trick on her. She would meet the person whom she had always wanted to avoid, namely Berti. I can visualize that person better now as she tried to endure in that place. I can also understand the rationale of my retracing steps. Options and attitudes to life generate experiences that one should enjoy with all spontaneity. This may have been the reason for our avoidance of one another. Options sometimes meant enslavement, even though this bondage may have been contrary to the spirit of those choices. The same must have held true during the days when Juliet and Berti had wanted to start a new life. Options contained the voice of certain necessities and indispensable truths. In Berti’s own words this was the time when those who should be in the lead preferred to remain as silent spectators. It was apparent that certain people had relieved certain people of their roles. The fault lay with the people who had let their role be snatched away. Berti had no need at the time for sharing his experiences on the stage in question. I was well acquainted with the story; and I knew both the spectators and those who had had their roles stolen. The faces of the spectators in the mirror bore secret traits that were difficult to describe. The dowry discussions had taken place at Juliet and Berti’s house on a Saturday night, during which Juliet’s father had communicated, while sipping at his coffee, his opinion on the subject. According to Madame Roza’s account, Monsieur Jacques had declared his approval by declaring “Besimantov!” blessing the future union. “Well,” he continued, “the essential thing was the families’ getting to know each other, anyhow; considering that the parties have already made up their minds.” For him, it was most probably a time to forget all past victories and defeats . . . especially when the places occupied by Olga and Jerry were taken into consideration . . . as he had been able to prove to certain people that he had a family and was a free-handed father not lacking in generosity or kindness, allotting, and distributing. This ‘Besimantov,’ which was of Hebrew origin, was used the world over where a plurality of languages were spoken by people furtively fed by that common artery, it concealed the pride of those who had trodden the path and who anticipated their children’s future favorably, although not without some resignation. A wish for a boy was made at the same time. All that had been suffered previously had been for that sanctuary, to be able to look back with a feeling of wry mirth. Following this solemn event, Juliet had served the guests liqueur chocolates from the silver candy bowl she had brought in for the occasion; it was the family’s antique object. The liqueur chocolates had been bought at Baylan, the renowned pastry shop. The engagement had not lasted long. Madame Roza had narrated that eventful day of engagement as faithfully as possible. It had been a September evening straight out of a fai
ry tale. It was pouring rain. We were in the drawing-room. I was asked to turn on the radio. The music-hour was about to commence. Madame Roza had a special liking for Turkish music. Nora was at the piano in the next room doing her exercises. I believe I have tried to describe this scene, the story of that tune heard from afar, somewhere else. Different were the men, different were the words, different were the hours and the meanings attached. Different were the recollections, especially of the preparations for that evening. Yet, the story was the same despite all the differences. The sentiment was the same, so was the solitude. Yearnings were no different. I wanted to attain an abstraction from empirical reality and the embodiment into a unified conceptual scheme of assumed validity, but failed to do so. The truth was concrete enough, and unimpressive. I think the piano served me in compensating for this lack of execution; the balance was to remain stored, pent up in a little room; it was as though this lack of attainment was tantamount to effecting a melody, a catchy tune to accompany that woman and I to eternity. I have a bare recollection of the piece played on the piano in the next hall; was it one of Chopin’s Polonaises? It must’ve been, in fact it was. All that one went through was essentially a prelude to what one was going to be experiencing one day, what one would most likely be faced with. Madame Roza, who happened to be in the drawing-room, didn’t hear that tune; within her was a tune that obsessed her during those days, which none of us could capture. It was raining outside, a rain that could transport us to other evenings, other mornings, and other days we had experienced before. It was a September evening. That evening belonged to a woman who had mothered many children, to be precise to a woman who strove to become her own child. It was one of those evenings she was among us. The music-hour was about to start. Her melody, the melody in her head was certainly different. “This will be the last September I’ll ever be able to witness,” she said. After a momentary silence she had begun to recount another rainy September day as though from a tale. It had been a Sunday. A September morning . . . a bright, happy morning at the synagogue Zulfaris, where Berti and Juliet’s wedding was being celebrated. The bride had in due conformity and custom ascended the stairs on the right and made her entrance to the synagogue, she then descended following the conclusion of the ritual using the stairs on the left, thus setting a foot in her new life. Everybody should follow the path deemed right for them and tread that path without deviating from it. I am still preserving that picture, a picture that we keep on reconstructing according to our respective idiosyncrasies in our own walks of life . . . It was a rainy September morning . . . rain fell gloomily over gloomy stories.
Who did you invite to the wedding banquet?
A voice was concealed that evening and the morning that followed, a voice which would give the meaning of rain a stronger resonance in my memory. My recollections of Berti and Juliet’s wedding day had left within me the traces of an unfinished story. Those traces can still lead me to a few distant people . . . the individuals of that Sunday morning had been conducted to me at different times—different people to figure in that play. What are left to me now are my words, simply my words. Voices get mingled. Certain visions remain fixed in the visions conjured up. I suddenly realize that I could be, and I in fact had been, an actor among the figures on the stage of which I was called to be a spectator. We had words that concealed our lies, faults, deceptions, and delusions. We had words whose origins we ignored and tried to avoid . . . words foreign to us, mute strangers to our own words . . . words were our solitudes . . . then . . . then there were those scenes . . . similar to that Sunday morning.
Following the wedding, the guests had proceeded to the house of Monsieur Jacques at Şişli and a banquet was held attended by two experienced hovering waiters who served the dishes fastidiously prepared by Niko and Tanaş from Facio, one of the most renowned fish restaurants in Istanbul, overlooking the Bosporus. Mr. Panayotides, the owner, had done his best to make everything impeccable. Not only was Monsieur Jacques a habitué of the place, but also a friend in need. There was a confidential matter between them that accounts for this homage being paid. A secret we could not find out, a secret he knew we could never have access to. This was one of the traits that made Monsieur Jacques who he was. The same was true of his relationships with Monsieur Yorgo, Muhittin Bey, and Niko. Secrets were his secrets; they should be kept secret. It was sufficient for us to know that Panayotidis was grateful to him for some reason or other. Little secrets had to remain as such. I am inclined to believe now that a distance was also felt by other relatives who were custodians of this secret. This belief makes the relationships in question more meaningful and deserving to be reconsidered, retold, and re-shared. That secret inspired certain deficiencies in us that gradually returned; deficiencies were part of our history.
Juliet’s mother, who was aware that her feuding brothers would be among the guests, was flustered at first during the days that preceded, and especially so during the exit from the synagogue. However, Madame Roza had been prescient and taken this delicate situation into consideration and arranged the seats accordingly. The situation was accepted with good grace and the problem was solved. Trying to forget was another sort of protraction, of self-evasion; for, had the situation been otherwise, problems with oneself and with others would create insurmountable difficulties. Those that had been witness to the incidents of that morning must have experienced like situations in other stories involving both themselves and others. She had invited the guests to the table with such words as “Today is the day on which the members of our families will have to take up with each other; having this point in mind, I have arranged the seating arrangement accordingly; the seats will thus be occupied alternately, a given member of one family sitting next to a member of the other family.” The success she achieved in arraying the guests had earned her the admiration of the invitees as a perfect hostess. The atmosphere had cooled down. Everybody who had been eyeing everybody else with suspicion had suddenly assumed a lenient countenance. This was the general picture, at least. A single vision had covered up the worries of that morning that others had established.