by Loren Edizel
I never found out why I lost two generations of my family at once. At the orphanage it was pointless to question the circumstances that brought you there. We were more than a hundred and fifty girls, presumably from all around the country, and the nuns were too busy keeping us fed, clothed, and clean to bother with questions of lineage. We were all God’s children, and were being raised to do His work. Some of us eventually left the orphanage to become seamstresses, governesses, cooks, tutors and school teachers. Some got married. Others chose to become nuns.
I excelled in math and calligraphy, but not much else. When I turned seventeen I was placed in an import-export company as a secretary. It was a family business known to the sisters, and run by a man named Kâmil Topuz. They were Christians. The owner’s actual name was Camille. His two sons, who were both older than I, also worked there and had bilingual surnames like their father. Cem’s Christian name was James and Can’s was John. They spoke French.
The nuns found me a small room to call home in a rooming house owned by a stout Armenian widow, Madame Lucine. The place was within walking distance from work, in the Tünel area. My adult life thus began there, taking the one-stop Tünel subway downhill to go to work and uphill to go home. After living within the damp walls of the crumbling French orphanage all my life, this miniscule subway trip that took a minute and a half defined freedom for me in those youthful days. I was indistinguishable from any other working woman taking the subway. The clothes I wore were hand-me-downs given to the sisters by charitable ladies, but they were real women’s clothing and a considerable change from the shapeless grey uniforms we wore daily at the orphanage.
At Monsieur Kâmil’s office I learned to use the typewriter, a Remington whose clickety-clack you could hear from the street. I typed letters addressed to business interests in Europe. Correspondence was usually done in French in those days and my knowledge of it served me well. Whenever letters had to be written in English, however, Cem would take over with panache, sitting at the typewriter with a cigarette in his mouth and typing energetically while winking in my direction through a haze of smoke if he happened to catch me staring. He had studied at the exclusive Robert College. His father regarded his eldest as his successor and took him along on all his business trips, slowly shifting the responsibilities of the office to his care.
Cem had the self-assurance of devastatingly handsome men whose fluid ascent in society is due to no effort or merit of their own, rather, the opposite. Istanbul’s high society made all the efforts possible to include him in their midst. His suave presence was sought in all the salons and parties attended by well-to-do families with girls to marry. Surprisingly, at age twenty-six he had not yet been “taken” and he continued the life of a carefree bachelor. Now and again tongues would wag about his dalliances with married women and young widows, but instead of tarnishing his reputation it gave him an air of roguish elusiveness, so that every eligible girl fantasized about being the one to finally ensnare him into matrimony with her charms.
Can, on the other hand, was not handsome. He was bookish and timid. He hardly came to the office and when he did he mostly kept to himself. His sullen disposition made being alone in the same room with him unnerving. We quickly ran out of things to say and the silences that ensued seemed to portend an omission of grave consequence. His father did not seem to pay much attention to him either; it was clear Can lived in the shadow of his older brother’s brilliance.
Everyone was in love with Cem, from his parents to the janitor; without exception, everyone who came upon his path became enamoured with his handsome face, his playful smile, the carefree way he wore his scarf or flicked his cigarette. This included me, of course. Every morning I rushed to work hoping he’d be there, and every night I returned to my small room to replay an exquisite moment: a glance in my direction, or the brush of his shoulder against mine while reaching for a file. There were many nights filled with anguish if I did not see him that day, or if he did not look at me. The pain I felt was physical; it radiated from the centre of my chest to the depths of my abdomen and into my limbs to only be relieved by long and plaintive sighs. Cem had come into my life to replace the ache of being an anonymous orphan in the world. I wept as a child every night, wondering and praying. Now, I had a whole new reason to do it: I was smitten with the most inaccessible man in all of Istanbul. Why would a gorgeous and worldly man such as Cem even notice the thin, mousy girl sitting at the typewriter in ill-fitting, second-hand clothes?
One such melancholy and sleepless night I resolved to excel at my work. I thought it was the only way I could ever attract his admiration. Aside from ordering his lunch, picking up his dry cleaning and bringing his tea, I offered to take on the bookkeeping duties his father had delegated to him, so that he would have more time to spend on his sailboat. He kissed my hand to express his gratitude and I considered not ever washing the top of it where his lips touched my skin. When he held my hand to place his kiss, I had the most baffling sensation. A delicate and faint smell of cologne had wafted my way as he bent. For days, I felt feverish. I wanted more of that; I wanted it again. As soon as I could manage, I bought a curling iron and perfume with my meagre savings. I was determined to also own a new dress. Madame Lucine was a professional seamstress. She had many clients come and go for fittings and I finally got the nerve to ask her to sew me a dress I saw in a magazine, proposing to pay her in instalments. As soon as she agreed, I rushed out to buy the material. It was pale pink and had a silky, sensuous touch to it.
He noticed the new curls in my hair, complimented me on my perfume and when I wore my pink silk dress for the first time, he was standing in his father’s office by the open door. He turned around when he heard my footsteps, and I could see the look of surprise in his eyes. His mouth was slightly open, and he was still sizing me up when I flicked my wrist in a small wave of greeting and smiled. He walked up to me immediately.
“Angélique, you look so lovely today,” he said in a breathless mumble and smiled. I must have coloured from all that excitement and my voice came out as a croak when I tried to thank him for the compliment.
“Is this a new dress? I have never seen it before. It looks very fine on you, indeed.”
I fumbled with my hat pin, trying to casually remove it while soaking in the compliment, but instead, the pin became more tangled inside my hair and I could not pry it loose. My palms were sweaty and I was getting clumsier in my attempts to look natural. He reached over, still smiling, so that his cologne filled my nostrils and his clean-shaven cheek almost brushed my face, and took my hands off my hat, gently placing them in front of me and then proceeded to remove the pin and the hat from my head, his face now almost touching mine.
“There you are,” he said as he placed the hat in my hands. “I knew you were very smart, but now I see how pretty you are, too. The man who will marry you is a very lucky chap.” His voice was unctuous, like cream.
“There is no one else,” I blurted. “I mean … I’m not ready to … I won’t marry anyone … yet,” feeling like a complete fool.
I loved the way he uttered my name, “Angélique,” softly extending the third syllable as if pleading for something, pleading for me. Until I heard him say it, my name used to make me feel like a fake. The sisters had given it to me when they took me in. There were no records of birth, no documents that were given for me when I was brought there. This name had served as a reminder of my being nobody until Cem made it sound desirable, with that long “liii” sound in the middle, as if my name could suddenly cause him to break into song.
Loving the man was torture. One day he would flirt with me, and the next he would completely ignore my presence and go about his business, hardly looking up when I brought in his coffee or presented a typed letter for him to sign. Sometimes his friends would come and pick him up for lunch and drinks at the Pera Hotel, or for a drive along the Bosphorus, or whatever it was rich people did together. Among them wer
e such beautiful women that my heart would sink to the bottom of my gut as I watched them flirt and tease him. Neither my math skills nor my clever letters in French were going to impress Cem. For a man of his calibre, only beauty mattered, I realized, a beauty that had been carefully crafted not by God’s grace, but a by father’s riches. Hands that never scrubbed, faces that slept into mid-morning, servants that did one’s bidding, eyebrows waxed and painted over, and purses that matched the shoes. I was a cheap imitation. I could never compete with such opulence.
It was one such afternoon, when I was utterly despondent after Cem’s departure with a coquette, that Can approached me. He had started coming to the office more often and was also starting to take on some duties, learning the trade. A quiet, morose presence as usual, he did not join in the boisterous fun his father had with his older brother. He asked me if I minded joining him for lunch at the small restaurant down the street. I was surprised by the invitation, but accepted, out of polite obligation mostly, thinking he was perhaps trying to avoid having lunch alone with his father. As I nibbled at my dessert, he looked into my eyes and said,
“You’re in love with my brother, aren’t you?”
I felt faint. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said,” he shrugged. “You know, you’re neither the first nor the last to fall for the man. He is interested in everyone and no one at the same time. And, he is mostly interested in himself. One day, he will lavish all his attention upon you and the next, he will already have forgotten you. My brother is shallow, yet captivating.”
I thought to myself “and you may be deep but you’re unattractive.”
He chuckled as if reading my thoughts, “Listen, you’re a fine girl and don’t deserve to waste your time pining for a fellow whose interest in you may, at best, be fleeting. Really, he’s got the attention span of a fly.”
I nodded looking at my dessert, embarrassed to have my secret emotional life exposed and presented back to me by a stranger.
“Do you think you can forget him?” he asked.
His question seemed genuine in that he appeared interested in my feelings rather than the class difference that made such a match ludicrous.
I lifted my face up. His brown narrow eyes were set upon mine, “I see. In that case, I can perhaps help you.”
“And, why would you do that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “As I said, you’re a fine girl and I’d hate to see him break your heart.”
“How would you help me?”
“I know my brother better than anyone else does. I know what attracts his attention.” He straightened his back. “We’ll play a little game.”
I leaned over the table to listen closely to what he was about to say.
“Cem is intrigued by women who pay attention to others. He is especially interested in women who prefer me, which doesn’t happen often, of course.” There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice, even though he was smiling as he spoke the words.
“I don’t know that I can play such games. It would be very dishonest. I would have it on my conscience.”
“Suit yourself,” he paid the bill as if he had already forgotten his conspiracy. “On retourne travailler avec mon paternel?”
“So you want me to flirt with you when he’s around?” I asked as we rose, not wanting the conversation to end there. The words fell out of my mouth, unchecked. I usually took care not to utter words without thinking about them; it had to do with my upbringing with the nuns. Now suddenly I was behaving in ways I did not recognize.
We started playing the game. At first, Cem was oblivious to it. He only took notice after Can invited me out for lunch a few times and left him out. As we departed, I caught Cem’s gaze following us and was surprised to see something harsh in it. Was it jealousy? It gave me hope that our deception was working. Meanwhile, during our lunches and walks by the Bosphorus, Can would tell me about books he’d read, his thoughts and dreams. He wanted to become a priest, apparently, but his parents got in the way. They had taken him on a trip to Europe and explained to him not so subtly that he would lose his share of the family fortune if he ever wore the robe. I grew to enjoy his company as he became more expansive, all the while anxiously observing his brother’s moves.
It was not long before Cem invited me to see a movie after work. I had to refuse at first, according to my well-rehearsed plan. I refused the second time as well, feeling very anxious he would stop wanting this. When he asked again, I pretended to succumb to his insistence. We were going to Melek Sineması in Beyoğlu; a lovely rococo theatre I only ever saw from the street, having no one to accompany me to the movies until that day. “It Happened One Night” was playing. Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert were a mismatched couple from different social classes, somewhat like us, though in a comedic way, and they fell in love as they goaded each other wittily. I wanted that ending for us too. As we watched the movie, he put his arm around my shoulder and caressed the top of my arm a little. I lost track of the film, trying to hold on to the physical sensation of his arm touching my neck, his hand on my shoulder. The pleasure of it made me swoon. I tried to inch closer to him ever so imperceptibly to make it easier for him to hold me tighter. When they kissed on screen, I happened to look at him and he kissed me too! The entire world was gone in that instant: my woeful childhood, my shabby room, the hand-me-downs, the absences searing my heart. Our breaths mingled, his warm lips promising indescribable happiness to come. It Happened One Night at Melek Sineması. My life was new.
I wanted to weep from all that tenderness but I knew enough to keep my composure. The trick with Cem was to always keep him in suspense, have the upper hand, or so Can had instructed me. The next day when Can invited me for lunch, I took my purse to follow him, wanting to spend time with Cem instead. As if reading my thoughts, Cem picked up his coat and said, “Do you mind if I join you two?” and opened the door to hold it for me before Can could refuse.
At the restaurant, Cem did all the talking, as usual. Once in a while he would caress my hand under the table, secretly. His younger brother seemed annoyed and kept gazing out the window. I was pleased to be with Cem, and feeling guilty about Can even though our lunches together were supposed to be a game. We had succeeded in attracting Cem’s attention on me, yet this also seemed to have brought to the surface a hidden rivalry, a festering rancour between them.
The next day Cem handed me a folded, handwritten note asking me to meet him at the Karaköy ferry dock after work, before leaving with his father for some business meeting. At the end of the day, as I was preparing to leave work, Can wanted to know if things were going well with Cem. I could not help blushing as I nodded.
“Well,” he smiled. “Good luck to you Angélique. It is all up to you now.”
“Tell me something, Can. Did something happen between you two in the past? You seem so tense around each other.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His tone was curt, obviously meant to stop my line of questioning. I did not insist.
I continued meeting secretly with Cem. He took great care to avoid parts of the city where we were likely to run into people from his entourage. We took walks in faraway neighbourhoods and parks, and only held hands under the table if we sat down at a teahouse or a café. I was too taken by him to care about the secrecy. I convinced myself he was protecting my reputation. Our secret kisses in alleyways and behind trees in Yıldız Parkı became more and more passionate, to the point where we both wanted more. He was persistent in convincing me to take the next step. There was my strict Catholic upbringing on the one hand, and my ignorance, on the other. I was afraid of pain, of sin, and mostly of losing him. With a wink and a caress he made it all seem easy and irresistible.
The family had a summer mansion in Fenerbahçe that was unused off season. We took the ferry across the Bosphorus and made our way there one Sunday morning. After a stroll along the
quiet waterfront we returned to the house where everything was covered with white sheets, like a home filled with ghosts. He led me up the stairs to his bedroom and we made love, at first with awkward affection and as the afternoon wore on, fiercely. Neither of us wanted to part.
Later, sitting in my own small room, I finally let myself weep. I had held back all afternoon so as not to scare him away. I loved him desperately. I wanted him to want me the same way, to marry me. I wasn’t one of his usual conquests, a girl with a position in society and painted nails, and I imagined he loved me for being so different from what he already knew.
Every Sunday morning we took the ferry across the water and went to the house in Fenerbahçe where we spent the day making love, taking walks and even boat rides when the weather got warmer. Fenerbahçe became our secret home. When we lay in bed one afternoon he told me he loved holding me in his arms as we fell asleep. He said I belonged there and fit the space between his chest and arms like no one else ever had. I was certain he loved me then.
We continued keeping our distance at work for his father’s benefit. One day at lunch I asked him what would happen if his parents found out he loved me. He sighed. “They will probably ship me to America until I forget you.” I felt dizzy and nauseous suddenly. I could not finish my meal and excused myself from work on account of being ill. I vomited again that night, and the following morning. It did not occur to me I was pregnant, even though I vomited frequently. My periods were irregular and it was not unusual for me to skip a few months at a time. I asked Madame Lucine, very fearfully, if she knew a midwife who was discreet and she wrote an address on a piece of paper, shaking her head. “Is it that rich boy who walks you home?” she asked. I could not speak. I burst into tears. Madame Lucine offered to accompany me to this lady’s house the next day.