by Levi, Mario
How had he come all the way down to where he found himself? Lately such had been the lapse of days, days of which he proved to be a mere spectator at times. A word, a hazy appearance took him automatically to other lives and instances. There were chance encounters which displeased him on this long and silent path; encounters with people whom he would have preferred to turn a blind eye to, or to address with one or two words. All the same, it was pleasant to return to the old days even though for a brief period. It was nice to be able to talk with those people from beyond like in the olden times. Madame Roza’s rose jam would never be consigned to oblivion under any circumstances. It would perpetuate that warmth forever. Nor would her dish of artichokes in olive oil, eaten with relish, whose taste remained on the palate long after it had been savored ever be forgotten. Her stuffed squash with minced meat and caramel sauce, and the kashkarikas prepared with the outer layer of the squash swathed with garlic which had an acrid taste . . . her unforgettable leek stuffed with minced meat whose main ingredient was black pepper . . . her broad bean dish with spinach, her white mastic pudding, and to crown them all off the date pudding with currants she specially prepared for the Passover evenings. Those dishes were the tastes, the odors, the local colors that one took notice of after they were gone, real things with living parts . . . These were of the recorded stories which readers interpreted differently. The preparation of these dishes had caused many a controversy between her mother-in-law and herself, just like in other similar houses intent on being faithful to their tradition. However, in weary resignation she had to submit to her fate with resolution, diffidence, and kindness. This affection was expressed by a warm approach. After all she could not turn a blind eye to the state of her mother-in-law. The atmosphere created by this affectionate voice had brought them to a very special standing despite all the problems they had encountered. It may be that over a course of time they had not been conscious of this journey, the place they had arrived at was a place they could not describe nor define, of which they would never be deprived. Could it be that what had brought them so close to one another was the bitter experience of the man who had gone away never to return? She was reluctant to mull this over at present. Actually, they had made a point never to discuss this issue among the family members. To ignore, to refrain from recalling something was in fact one of the ways to carry about a loved one to the bitter end, blessing him with perennial life. There was no sense anymore in starting again from a new point of departure.
Who had Monsieur Kirkor hidden where?
When Madame Perla, advanced in years, had begun waning, shutting herself up in her room with her multitude of ‘chambers’ within, it hadn’t been for nothing that she, whose personality and looks commanded respect and diffidence and whose reticence inspired fear among her peers, had expressed the wish not to die without informing Madame Roza of the approaching hour, having appreciated the favors and sacrifices that her daughter-in-law had shown her, despite her worsening condition. A smile flickered across her face, expressive of her dejected frame of mind. She had dreadfully missed her mother; as a matter of fact, not only had she missed her, but she missed a lot of other things, a lot of other things besides; Halıcıoğlu, her childhood at Halıcıoğlu . . . she inevitably saw it now through the illusory and deceptive gears of her imagination as seen in the other stories. Those were the days when her father’s close friend Monsieur Pardo, whose idols throughout his life had been Voltaire and Rousseau, was teaching French, the days when the Little Officers School, once frequented by Ismet İnönü, had not yet been occupied by the British troops. Years were to pass before that officer was to kill that Jewish girl who had turned him down. They lived in a three-storied house with nineteen rooms overlooking the Golden Horn, whose drawing-room was heated by a huge brazier, where electricity was still nonexistent, where water had to be obtained from a well, where rakis of different flavors were kept in cans; in a three-storied house often visited by acquaintances, wherein everybody lived collectively.