by Sevgi Soysal
Lots had happened between then and now. His chest swollen with pride, he passed the exams which earned him a scholarship to boarding school and finished high school and then law school, again on a scholarship; he got in his professor’s good graces during university by taking on the bulk of the professor’s workload and research, and became an assistant to him; and thanks to his industriousness and his respectfulness, he quickly climbed through the ranks to become a professor at a very young age. Because for him the world was a one-dimensional goal, he never learned to think in a multidimensional way, conceiving of interconnections and contradictions, or to think holistically, and so he wasn’t in the habit of reading or going to the theater either. Now, that change he had always waited for had happened, and his industriousness had born fruit. He owned an apartment building and a car. He had a good salary. He was part of a co-op for a summer home. Still, he worked nonstop, he earned more and more money nonstop. He never turned down a job that would bring him good money. As he rose through the ranks, because he was forced to form friendships with people around him, he felt the need to take an interest in new subjects. At times one had to speak of philosophy or mythology. As a decorative topic for himself, he chose Ottoman history, the reason being that, during the meetings he took part in abroad, he came to realize that historical subjects piqued the most interest. Amongst foreigners, his knowledge of history was perfectly valid. And so he dove headlong into Ottoman history, and his efforts soon bore results. It wasn’t long before the foreign officials that he met both in Turkey and abroad were in awe of this Turkish professor’s knowledge of history. Of course, the historical conditions that led to the historical events were of no interest to him. Historical knowledge was, for him, tightwad that he was, freshly minted gold in his pocket. Drawing upon his old industriousness, he memorized details by the dozens. Like what that Ottoman Padishah so-and-so said to his Sultan mother after such-and-such war …
As a child, he hadn’t liked black-socked children because he didn’t want for them to stand in his way. Now he frequently found himself employing terms like “humanity” and “humanism.” These were words he had to use. And he had learned what he needed to know about these words. But as for affection, he had forgotten how to show it, how to feel it, at a very young age. He had never exhibited any industriousness when it came to liking people. And so he had zero experience at it. That facet of himself, the one that loved, remained so stunted, had calcified to such a degree that for him to start loving now would be like being someone who had never done gymnastics ever in his life trying doing a somersault. It could break his backbone. Because he was not used to making humanly connections with people, out of concern that they might keep him from working, now, whenever he was forced to express his opinions about the future of humanity, he would recite words he had read in such-and-such book or quote such-and-such thinker. Then he’d slither his way out of it by putting a definitive end to his statement with the pronouncement of generic, unalterable, invariable verdicts which he had documented using all the necessary ibid.’s and c.f.’s.
Salih Bey considered himself someone who had achieved the goal he set for himself in this life, in one way or another, and in this respect, he was, to a degree, right. The shorn-headed little kid who used to go to Samanpazarı Elementary School was now a notable professor occupying an important place in society; he’d married the daughter of a member of parliament; and he had improved his financial situation with the help of the inheritance his wife had gotten from her father, so that it was at least as solid as his social status. He no longer needed any changes in his life; to the contrary, what he needed to do now was maintain what he had, keep everything just as it was, right now. In this respect, he and his wife Mevhibe were in agreement and so they had no intention of getting rid of the furniture left to them by Mevhibe’s father, “Big Daddy Mister MP” as a symbol, in a way, of the station of theirs which they sought to perpetuate. When Salih Bey saw Güngör Bey, he recalled the pressure the latter had put on them to sell the furniture and other antiques in their house. But no, they were not going to refurbish. They were only renovating the bathroom, and that because of the foreign guests who had begun to come by frequently on ambassadorial visits or during trips abroad. That is, as required by the situation that they wished to maintain.
If Güngör Bey brings up the topic of selling the antiques again, I should turn down the offer definitively, he thought. Güngör, however, did not exhibit the least bit of interest in Salih Bey; he was thinking about crossing the street. When Salih Bey saw him taking a step forward, he interrupted to ask:
“What are you thinking of doing?”
“Getting in my car and going to Ulus.”
“But the traffic cop won’t let you cross with those fire trucks there.”
“So, I’ll do it anyway.”
Güngör stomped his way over to the traffic cop.
“Son, look here!”
“Yes, what is it, sir?”
“How much longer are you going to keep us here? I need to get to Parliament. At least let those of us who need to be somewhere get in their cars and go!”
“But what about the poplar!” The words were barely out of the traffic cop’s mouth when Güngör exclaimed:
“What poplar, son? You’re going to be up a tree soon yourself, I tell you …”
And with that, he marched towards his car. The traffic cop was about to blow the whistle and rush after him when chaos broke out over by the poplar. Güngör hopped into his car and put a lead foot on the gas pedal. He was an excellent driver. He masterfully maneuvered his way out, weaving through the fire trucks and then parting the crowd as he virtually flew out and onto the avenue. Salih Bey was still standing right where Güngör had left him. He was not the kind of man who, in order to reach his goal, was prepared to tear down things or make his own rules. To the contrary, the fact that he had obeyed without exception and without fail the rules and those who made them undoubtedly played a role in his patient, calculating, industrious progress.
Mevhibe Hanım stands guard at the walls
From behind the tulle curtains of the window Mevhibe Hanım saw her husband speaking with Güngör Bey and how Güngör Bey, after talking with the traffic cop, crossed the street and then proceeded to part the crowd as he took off in his car. Her husband was just standing there, waiting with the rest of the crowd. Though she thought to herself, Oh, Salih, what a wuss you are, if only you’d just left with Güngör Bey, a familiar voice inside her head reminded her of the advantages of setting one’s foot upon firm ground. If you asked Mevhibe, though he was rich Güngör Bey couldn’t always be relied upon to walk on firm ground; as for Salih, on the other hand, she was certain that he always walked on firm ground, and one of the primary principles of doing so was showing respect to the police. Yet she was angry at her husband for shopping for the new bathroom sets at such an inappropriate hour. And now he’s going to be late for dinner! The kids would be home in half an hour. Today she was having Nurten Hanım prepare homemade pastries, puf böreği, because she knew it would make her son happy. And those pastries turn out awful if you don’t fry them right away. She was already in a surly mood when she entered the kitchen. Nurten Hanım, who was cutting dough using a saucepan lid, was immediately vexed by Mevhibe Hanım’s presence. Mevhibe Hanım was very demanding. She found fault in everything, no matter what. It made no difference the pains that Nurten Hanım went to since she’d begun working at Mevhibe Hanım’s house. For example, she no longer put dirty dishes straight into hot water with detergent. First she would wipe the plates off using paper that hung from the wall expressly for that purpose. Then, she’d take the dish brush and, after dipping it in sudsy water that wasn’t too hot (according to Mevhibe Hanım, really hot water scalded the dirt), she’d then use it to clean the plate, and then she’d dip it in the sink full of hot water next to the sudsy water and rinse it. Glasses were to be dried using a clean towel after having been left wet for a period of time, but no
t quite long enough to dry completely. The towel used to dry the glasses was never to be used for drying plates. Forks and knives were cleaned in separately boiling water. The kitchen towels she washed with boiling water every day before going home, ironing them first thing the next morning when she arrived back at work. She was also not allowed to string vegetables which were to be hung out to dry without first covering the table with paper. Most of Nurten Hanım’s time was spent covering things in paper and then throwing that paper away. When Mevhibe Hanım was around, Nurten Hanım was extra careful not to touch the cupboards, or anything for that matter, with wet hands. The refrigerator was cleaned out and wiped down every single day. Food that was to be put in the refrigerator would first be placed in special containers and then put into the refrigerator according to a strict regimen. “The kitchen should be just like a pharmacy,” Mevhibe Hanım always said.
Perhaps it was because of this frequent comparison to a pharmacy that Nurten could not bring herself to like the food cooked in this house. It was like medicine; she simply couldn’t eat it. All flat, bland meals, all cooked the same way, despite the meticulous care taken in the kitchen.
“How many eggs did you put in the dough?”
“Two.”
“One would have been enough, Nurten Hanım.”
“With one egg, the cheese ends up too dry.”
“Of course it does, if you just go and drop the egg in there like that. You have to beat the egg real good first, so that it thickens. Stop rushing! The patient dervish gets what he wishes, you know …”
Nurten Hanım said a silent prayer, asking God to grant her patience. The patient dervish shits in his britches! That, by God, was the correct version. That’s the version her husband said when he came home drunk in the evenings. “Nurten, girl, c’mere and let me smack you up a little! Nurten, girl, why don’t you cry for God’s sake … C’mon, yell girl! Girl, you’re gonna kill me with that patience of yours … Look here, now you get this into that puddin’ head of yours: the patient dervish shits in his britches …”
You can beat a single egg as much as you want, sure, it might thicken, but it still tastes the same. When she prepared this pastry at her own home, she did so with peace of mind, and she didn’t skimp on the ingredients. And her kids would gobble it down by the plateful. It was only once in a blue moon that she made pastry at home, but still, when she did, the oil would drip from her little boy’s fingers, and his eyes would shine with delight. She couldn’t imagine any meal ever being devoured with such enthusiasm in this home. For one, any dish you made was bound to be tasteless if you skimped on the ingredients and stuck to myriad dietary rules. And every meal had to be cooked according to some strict rule. Not once was rice with tomatoes ever cooked in this house. Rice was always cooked like this: First the rice would be boiled in salty hot water, then drained, then a wee bit of butter would be added and it would be left to steep. Olive oil dishes would be put on the stove without any oil, and then, as soon as they were taken off the stove, Mevhibe Hanım herself would attend to the oil. She never let Nurten Hanım pour the oil on anything. In fact, she kept the oil locked up. Nurten Hanım wondered, Why did Mevhibe Hanım go to so much trouble? Why would someone hire a maid if they were going to stick their nose into everything anyway? If only she’d just do everything herself. Salih Bey had a delicate stomach, or so she said. The truth of the matter was, there wasn’t a thing wrong with his stomach. The whole family was healthy as could be. They had high cholesterol, supposedly. That’s why they were on a special diet. She didn’t believe a word of it. If you asked Nurten Hanım, there was only one reason for all of this nonsense: stinginess.
Mevhibe Hanım put half of the meatballs that had been prepared for the grill in plastic containers and placed them in the refrigerator. She always made Nurten Hanım wear plastic gloves when she kneaded the ground meat. Then she’d wash the gloves, using measures of cold and boiling water, and hang them out on the balcony so that they wouldn’t stink up the place. There were only two meatballs per person left for lunch that day. If the son of the house was particularly voracious and failed to get his fill from the portion allotted to him, then Nurten Hanım would end up with one meatball, or none. “Sorry, Nurten Hanım,” Mevhibe Hanım would say, “you’ll have to find yourself some other nibbles.” But Nurten Hanım could never pluck up the courage to eat something of her own accord in this house. Actually, no person in their right mind would get upset at having missed out on those meatballs anyway, she thought. They were nothing but dry, fatless veal, containing neither onions nor pepper. When you grilled them, they turned out like rubber. And they barely had any bread or egg in them either. And the salads, well they were virtually inedible. Mevhibe Hanım would have her slice up the lettuce real fine, then pour on some lemon with a little bit of sugar. She had come back from her last trip to Europe convinced that this type of salad was the healthiest of all.
“Now would you look at that, you’ve gone and washed the greens too early again. When you do that, you kill them. The greens have to be washed exactly fifteen minutes before we sit down to eat. And I told you not to squeeze the lemon like that. It loses all its vitamins that way. If you don’t put the juice on the salad as soon as it’s squeezed, it’s worthless …”
Saying this, she would then point to the clock which hung in a highly visible spot in the kitchen, thus reminding Nurten Hanım that she wanted everything to be done according to the clock.
Indeed, every day she wrote on a piece of paper exactly which chores were to be done when and in what manner, and then hung it up on the side of the refrigerator. I wonder what would happen if I were illiterate? Nurten would think each time.
Mevhibe Hanım wandered around the kitchen with a long face. She hardly ever smiled as it were. As she monitored the household chores, she always wore the grave expression of one engaged in a momentous task. It reminded Nurten of the municipal workers who occasionally came to inspect the grocer’s stand in their neighborhood. With the graveness of an inspector Mevhibe Hanım reviewed every minute detail in the kitchen. Everything was in its place. It had to be. Mevhibe Hanım wouldn’t allow for it to be otherwise. “In my house, everything is always in its proper order,” was her constant refrain. How about you live in a cramped gecekondu with six little bastards, lock them up at home and leave for work, that’ll teach you how the order of a house is disrupted, Nurten thought bitterly to herself now and again. And then, you can watch your husband arrive in the evening and make a mess of the house you worked so hard to pick up after you got home exhausted from work.
“Nurten Hanım, did you do the laundry and ironing like I told you?”
“Yes, only the pants aren’t dry yet.”
“Please, iron those pants right after lunch. I’m going to go to the hospital this afternoon and give them to the kids there.”
Nurten Hanım was enraged; the pants that Mevhibe Hanım’s son had outgrown were just the right size for her own son. She very well could have given the pants to her. But she had never given Nurten Hanım any hand-me-downs. Mevhibe Hanım kept everything. She kept everything, clean and ironed, in chests. She made use of everything. She kept everything for the inevitable day when it could be used. If a person can’t lend a helping hand to the help in her own home, what good can she possibly be to some stranger’s family? Nurten Hanım thought. She bent over, directing her reddened face towards the pastry.
Mevhibe Hanım was a long-standing member of the Republican People’s Party. She had been working for the party’s women’s branch for years, and she was the head of one of its philanthropic associations. Every Thursday the association directors would go to the hospital, or to an orphanage, or to a circumcision celebration they had organized. On Wednesday afternoons, they played bridge. And they had get-togethers at one of the women’s homes once a month. The get-togethers were always amply attended. Ladies from all of the prominent old families of Ankara would be in attendance. Mevhibe Hanım’s father had been a member of parlia
ment in Atatürk’s day. He knew all of the elite families of Ankara.
She left the kitchen and went to the living room. She glanced at the dining table, thinking, That Nurten will never learn how to set a table properly. But then if you don’t have it in you, if it isn’t in your genes, well … Mevhibe Hanım’s father was a very strict man. Her heart would beat fast with fear whenever she took him coffee. He was unforgiving, her father. He never forgave a fault, never. And it was thanks to that scrutinizing eye of his that he had won the favor of the famous pasha, Atatürk. According to her mother, Atatürk too was very prudent with his money. He once bestowed upon Mevhibe Hanım’s father a few of Ankara’s old vineyards as a gift. In his lifetime, Mevhibe Hanım’s father had never shown his children a good time. Mevhibe Hanım was never allowed a luxury as a child. And she didn’t care for luxury now either. She only cared that her home was always clean, orderly and decorated in a way that befit an honest family of good standing. Her clothes were made by excellent tailors. She didn’t even throw out old newspapers. She saved every empty jar. Even though the house was large, all of the numerous built-in cupboards were packed full. Underneath the beds, on top of the wardrobes, everywhere was full of carefully placed stuff. “This place isn’t a home, it’s a cellar,” her daughter would complain. Her daughter was a horrible spendthrift. “Whenever I set foot in this place, I feel like a jar of pickles stashed away in the cellar, only to be used when the time comes. This place suffocates me …” she’d once yelled at her mother, who thought: So she’s suffocating. Well, she can just suffocate then, the ingrate. She forgot to pay the installment for her school tuition. And I already gave her the money myself. Mevhibe Hanım had kept the endowment she had inherited from her father, and which would not run out easily it seemed, all to herself. She never gave her husband a cent of the money she got from it. It was her job to look after the house. Mevhibe Hanım spent her own money—and of course she never misspent it—on expenses that she deemed necessary. And it was she who had given her daughter the money to pay for the installment of her high school tuition. Olcay had graduated from high school the previous year, and now she’d started university. When Mevhibe Hanım’s son was in Europe and his scholarship was suspended, she’d sent him money too so he could pay off his debts. I wish I’d been willing to pay for his university over there too, she thought. Now it was much worse since he’d started university here. Those kids with their unfathomable ways, of which she did not, could not, approve. She herself was a consummate child of Atatürk. She took pride in her Turkishness, in her father, and she knew her responsibilities, the tasks that were her righteous burden … She was hardworking … She stood by her word. My father raised me well.