Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale

by Levi, Mario

  Isaac would not be returning for years. He had obliterated all the traces he might have left behind. Nevertheless, they would be receiving some information that he had indulged in dark dealings.

  After a lapse of twenty years, Isaac would return home a few months after Bella’s elopement with a fishmonger at the end of a long life of matrimony. Bella’s justification was also laconic and cruel. She had been flirting with that fishmonger for quite some time . . . the man was young and knew how to make her feel like she was a woman.

  Was Isaac’s return at such a moment pure coincidence? How come that a person, who had opted to be away from home for so long, could trace his father’s abode so successfully in no time? This seemed to prove that he had not estranged himself from him as was generally thought. Actually, to run away, to really run away from home was a figment of one’s imagination. Isaac had come back home as a decayed figure with a glassy look. He had not explained where he came from, why he had returned home, what he had been doing abroad and what his plans were for the future. He appeared to have lived longer than the twenty years he had spent in exile.

  In this new era, father and son had started to try to understand each other’s lives and their respective positions for the first time.

  Yasef had introduced long talks with his son, in all their minor details, as a new pastime at his house at Asmalımescit. It had become apparent that despite all well-meaning efforts by both parties, they would never be able to see eye-to-eye after so many years of separate experiences and sacrifices. Their fates had been sealed to different lives. Once they had had a row in the house. Isaac had accused his father of failing to arrange a religious ceremony in commemoration of his mother. His voice was timorous. His eyes were full of tears for the first time. Those who saw that scene had all felt like crying. Not once had Yasef arranged a religious service to pray for the soul of Diamante, for that silent and demure woman who had guided him through life and never betrayed him. But this had nothing to do with a lack of affection or devotion to her. He was one of those people who hardly knew how to look backward, or in other words, to look into the past. From that moment onwards this would be the proper way to mourn. Otherwise he would forever be a comedian. To be a comedian was no easy matter; it meant having the genius to forget, to wit, to focus on living. This was his father’s salient trait to which, despite all his past experiences and acquisitions, he was blind. Both had understood after their fight that they could never have a relationship. Not a few days had passed before Isaac had sneaked away for good, without a trace, saying: “I’ve been all around the world, I’ve tried my hand at nearly every trade, why not tackle new problems in some new fields.” They hadn’t even embraced each other while parting. Isaac, commanding a voice deep within him, had whirled about, unbuttoned his shirt and tore off his flannel undershirt in an act of fury. Yasef had grasped what had been left untold and did nothing other than nod his head. This moment was reminiscent of the behavior adopted at funerals. The survivors could not help impressing each other by their display of feelings. In the meantime, they had already lost all they had to lose. It was a moment of separation that they had exchanged, a moment of actual separation . . . as though death had paid a visit to their home. This was their only Jewish moment. They had effectively had a perfect view of each other at that very moment. Yasef had one other reason now for acting like a comedian in the streets; another reason for announcing to people that he had been a master in buttering people up. This profession of his had gained meaning especially in terms of his wish to avenge his abandonment. Brooding over these events, he kept asking himself the reason why there had been no common understanding between father and son throughout their long history. He had never found a convincing answer to his question. In this story there appeared to be a remarkable thing devoid of credibility that prevented people from giving credence to what was told. It wasn’t so easy to cast doubt on this separation and resolve to live alone. The best one could do would be to remain content with the knowledge that this had been an act of fate; they were fated to journey on different paths. The fact was that they had been caught at a pass where they thought they would find shelter. To have a better insight into this, one had to inquire into the reasons behind that deep remorse. Speaking of this remorse, Yasef had said that he had done his best to be left alone by his people. Life was averse to comedians, the true comedians; supposing it was not the case, it still didn’t pardon them.

  Isaac would understand Yasef’s justified resentment, a revolt he had been able to display to a few people, only years later, when Jacques came across Isaac in the Karmel market in Tel Aviv, selling stockings. Isaac, whom he had run into quite casually, was a decrepit old man. Engaged in selling the wares displayed on his stand, he could not help combining Turkish words with the Hebrew as he sounded off the items he had for sale. He winced at his own coinages at times and while shouting the Hebrew word “Yarad” (sales), he pronounced it at times as “Yarak” (vulgar Turkish word for penis). At that very moment their eyes had met. After a flicker of an eyelash, he had said, as though they had only seen each other yesterday, despite years of separation: “Well, father Jacques, I must have inherited the art of being a comedian from the old man. I understand him much better now. ‘Buttering up’ is our profession in life.” He had stared with affection at the aged boy. He couldn’t bring himself to announce to him that his father had died all alone yearning for his only son . . . They had spoken of insignificant things, of the weather and of the affairs in Turkey. They hadn’t dared to ask each other the vital questions; they had observed momentary silences before resuming their casual smalltalk, acting out their distress, and trying to appear as if they were in the best of moods. Well, so far so good! As he moved away, he had heard Isaac hum an old hit. An individual in an open market in Tel Aviv singing a popular song of earlier years, of the days he had spent in Istanbul, as though keeping the memory of those days fresh in his mind. Isaac’s song also signified his loneliness and was designed to stress the art of the comedian he had inherited from his father. He had found someone who could understand him and empathize with him. The image of Yasef had emerged before him. He repeated the words: “The art of the comedian is our profession after all!” He smiled; he smiled one his frequent smiles.

  Yasef had begun frequenting that house at Asmalımescit after his separation from Isaac. Actually, nobody could foresee when his visits would take place. Yet, the door always stood open to him. Everybody in the family, and a man who considered himself one of the family, knew this. His presence was well received by his mother as well. They sometimes had conversations speaking of the good old days, although they could not remember certain details. Certain dates and incidents had been obliterated from their memories; this gave them the occasion to accuse each other of forgetfulness, nay of softening in the brain. This must have been the best method of sharing the past. Yasef used to tell anecdotes to them. However, what he told them were but the repetition of his old anecdotes which he believed he was telling for the first time. The listeners continued to smile and laugh as they used to as if they were indeed being told to them for the first time. They feigned ignorance and took part in the game. Thus both during his talks with Madame Perla and when he cracked jokes, he found the opportunity to display his skill at being a comedian. This was his swan song . . . Yasef’s visit had always been a cause for jubilation for those who lived there. It had occurred to him during one of his visits to declare that he had lived to a ripe old age and that it was high time that he died, but death never came to knock on his door. He no longer mentioned the names of Bella or Diamante . . . However, he occasionally muttered the name of Isaac, apparently he had been dreaming of him at night. Then, one day, in a house at Kurtuluş, he had passed away after having recited lewd jokes to them until the early hours of the morning . . . They happened to find themselves moved from Asmalımescit to Harbiye.

  Fire

  They had witnessed the time when ho
uses, their houses, had begun gradually dwindling in parallel with the rush of the population to the big cities. It was the time when the settled people of a city saw their gardens expropriated; however, what was taken was not merely the living spaces. Despite the fact that he had suffered all sorts of losses over the course of many years, he felt afraid, now that he was isolated and abandoned, of facing new confiscations. Thus he preferred to lead a static life for the time being. Yasef had also lived with the solitude and loneliness that everybody would sooner or later come to taste. There was no denying that solitude was everybody’s eventual and ultimate state. Everybody was fated to experience it in the long run as a representation of the places they used to see and live in more deserted, derelict, and forsaken forms. This was the fate of those who lived a long time.

  He had chosen Hasköy cemetery for Yasef. It was not because the burying ground was less expensive there. The soil matched that of the man he had wanted to take by the hand; that is where he was born. He had lost his father there at an early age. It was there he had learned how to put up with poverty, with his mother who used to frequent houses as a charwoman; it was there that he had been forsaken in various ways by women; it was there that he had pondered on Isaac’s departure to foreign lands; it was there that he had discovered his skill as a comedian, spending most of his time there. It was there that he had exercised his trade in the butter business before he had moved to that small room in that house in Kurtuluş, and to his little lair of a boarding house where he had stayed cooped up, looking at the city outside as an alien sight. He had had one single means which could link him to the earth, his humor; a sanctuary he could take shelter in from the outside world. That’s where he had resolutely continued to live in the company of his lies and self-deceptions.

  During his days at Halıcıoğlu nobody could possibly have guessed the sudden rush of people that would come from the provinces to the metropolis. Diamante lay ill, seriously ill. His father had had recourse to all possible and imaginable ways of dealing with her malady; not remaining content with the general practitioner he had even asked Doctor Barbut from the Balat Hospital to come over. Nothing worked; it was a hopeless case. The medicine of the time was helpless to make a diagnosis, let alone remedy the ailment. They were in the presence of an imminent disaster for which nothing could be done. Misfortune seldom arrived alone.

  It was a fire that was to befall them; one of the artisans living on the premises had come rushing in panting to inform them of the bad news. His words were disjointed. The old retainer ‘Jackie the Lame’ had indulged himself in raki cans and had drained their contents until he had fallen unconscious, letting the butt of a smoldering cigarette fall somewhere near some flammable material. This small inadvertence had caused the material to catch fire; there was a sudden flare which eventually burnt down the whole house. The lodgers had rushed out like madmen, with the exception of Jackie; having informed the people around him that it was too late before he had realized the cause of the fire, he had stopped listening to their pleas, informing them that he wished to stay inside. Everybody understood the reason for his insistence. He had opened his eyes in that house, every nook and cranny looked at him with a familiar stare. He was one of those retainers who owed service to the household, he was ‘jackie of all trades’; in a sense he led a life in synergy with that house. Nobody dared to meddle in his affairs. All things considered he was the next in line to take on the romantic male lead. All the repairs, maintenance of the garden, tidying of the workshop, were among his chief responsibilities. He performed all these jobs without complaint. Jackie came from Italian stock; a child of a poor Italian family. When asked about the number of cans left it had been his custom to lie. He must have taken stock of his situation and concluded that he had to pay for his crime by sacrificing himself. He had identified himself through that house. He had to perish along with the murder he had committed. He could not come out; there was no out for him anymore. He had destroyed the interior, his own interior.

  They had all rushed to the blaze; they couldn’t believe their eyes. Bereft of all hope, they had nothing else to do but wring their hands. A large part of the house was in flames; dousing the flames was out of the question. Their prisoners could do nothing but look on. In the darkness of the night the flames shot high in the air, while they were licking round the foot of the stairs. There were so many objects inside, of varying significance and meaning for different people at different times, reproduced with untold reminders. The onlookers stood petrified. They didn’t say a word: what was being destroyed was not only the house but also the workshop that had been erected by the collective efforts of many people, a treasure in itself, a depository; it was the mainstay of many an artisan who earned his living there; it was a symbol of hope, which appeared seated on an unshakable foundation. The people of the district had done their best to save whatever they could get their hands on, but all efforts had proved to be in vain. All steps ventured toward the house were steps taken into the void. Those were the days when nothing substantial could be done to fight fire.

  His father, who stopped, realizing that the efforts were in vain, kept his cool saying to his cousin Albert Naon who had approached him offering his services, “I believe we have no other chance but to stay with you for a while.” The fact that he could extend a helping hand to his wealthy cousin Avram at such short notice, had, mixed with the dejection experienced, a concealed pleasure and pride. There was nothing extraordinary about this. A man, who had been shoved by some fatal unforeseen conditions to an inferior position, was thus avenging his fate in the hope that the future would be more promising. All these feelings were the consequences of the tribulations he had suffered during his life. The figures that had had a part to play in his misadventure were no longer around, yet the aftereffects of the steps he refrained from taking still lingered in his mind. The aftereffects would be slow in parting, if they ever did. Cousin Naon along with his wife Beki said: “El ke bien se quiere, en poco lugar cave” (People who love each other can squeeze themselves in a small place), agreeing to show them hospitality in their modest home. They could never forget those days and the warmth of the home. When they had set out in a state of confusion, not knowing what to say, the blaze continued. Their father had said that he wanted to be alone for a while and they had better proceed. Needless to say they had not had a wink of sleep that night. He had also felt an overwhelming desire to have a last glimpse of the house in the early hours of the morning. His father was there, seated on a rock, leaning his chin on his palms with his elbows on his knees. He was still staring at what remained of the fire. When he saw him approach, he had waved him to come near: “Come,” he said, “come, sit by me.” He couldn’t utter a word except “Father . . . ” The tremor in his voice was meaningful, of course; it might be the sign of many different emotions. Yet what he wanted to say had been jammed together in one single word, ‘father.’ He was not prepared for such an eventuality. “Say nothing, my son . . . We’ve been reduced to nothing . . . But we still have our art . . . we’ll recover . . . we’re not dead yet,” said his father. He seemed to have perceived what he meant to say and had given voice to it. Seated side by side, they remained staring with fixed eyes at the ruins of their house which the day before was a symbol of hope for them with its contents, carpets, and rugs, etc. “Don’t worry . . . we’ll get back on our feet . . . Difficult times are ahead of us, no doubt. That idiot Jackie is no more alas, reduced to ashes. We might have been the victims of the same fate . . . It’s true we can never replace those rare specimens . . . pieces that no weaver can ever weave henceforth . . . Years of labor vanished into thin air . . . ” However, he was not incensed . . . He did not seem vexed . . . He was not cursing Jackie the Lame. He seemed to be beyond all worldly cares. He was mourning for his carpets as though they had been human beings; every one of them was a treasure trove of souvenir wraps and wefts; they had been his other family, which he believed to be among the people who would
live forever.

  I had loved my father superlatively at that moment

  Labors, hopes and souvenirs . . . Everybody would realize what that fire had taken away in due time. The door that it had opened would, however, contribute to one having a clearer insight into himself and his fellow beings. They had stepped from their secure world into another in which they felt stripped naked. It was true that they hadn’t dared to mention this fact the morning after that fatal night; both knew that the cost of those carpets that had been turned into ashes within a couple of hours was as much as five thousand liras—a considerable fortune back then. A fortune suddenly wiped from the face of the earth, quickly to be followed by a similar disappearance of wealth surprisingly soon after. A smile flickered across his face. In the days that followed, during which he spent his time as a spectator to worldly events, how ridiculous it seemed to witness people in his immediate surroundings looking at their fellow beings with condescension; those who seemed absolutely convinced that their means were indestructible and perennial. If only they knew . . . It suddenly occurred to him that he should communicate certain facts to them . . . certain simple facts . . . Then he gave up on the idea. They wouldn’t understand him anyway. He had remained seated by his father without saying a word. “Look, the pine tree also has burnt down; we lost the chance of sipping our rakis at the foot of it in the evenings.” They were trying to evade each other’s stare. They were aware of the important role played by that pine tree. Now they were burying many a summer night along with it. Had he such a great weakness for melon those summer nights? Had this been the reason why the two pine trees in the garden of their house at Büyükada had had a special place in his mind? Had this been the reason why he had believed in the soothing effect of the pine trees? They were evading each other’s stare; they probably had similar thoughts. That silence that reigned was contrapuntal for this very reason. They kept silent. In order to be able to speak they had preferred to observe the silence. A deathly stillness hung over them. This aided the protection of their jealously from one another. “We can sell the shop at Akarçeşme, father. We’ve got some money in hand. Don’t take it to heart. We’ll get back to normal; the carpet trade is a dead end. I’ve got other ideas,” he said following this prolonged silence. His father, who was busy drawing meaningless figures in the soil with a stick, a relic from the blaze, had raised his head to have one last look at the ruins. “As you wish son . . . ” he said. He tried not to display his sense of defeat. He could do nothing else at that moment. However, for those who knew him well these few words meant a lot. This was one of the rare moments when he felt closest to his father; when he loved him most. Those who had been a witness to such relationships knew all too well that such moments were very rare indeed in one’s lifetime. The feelings were mutual; they were on the brink of an embrace. But something held them back, pinned them down. People were capable of smothering the emotions that grazed within them. One couldn’t easily take the one step toward what was nearest to them. “As you wish son” was an important expression; it pointed to the direction they should take in the wake of the fire; it marked a transitional point . . . That was to be the last night when his father appeared to him in his identity as head of the family. It was now his turn to take over. To be honest, he was not prepared for it. Nevertheless, a change of responsibility brought a certain resolution with it. A necessity led to new discoveries. Actually, all the relationships that gave direction to our lives could not be seen beforehand.