by Sevgi Soysal
And so Mevhibe, for this reason, spent her adolescence as an unappealing shadow, sickly and sallow, wandering about in ill-fitting clothes. No one thought she’d ever find a husband. But if a young woman has a father like Doğan Bey and is therefore surrounded by an influential circle and bound to inherit a considerable fortune upon her father’s death, then an ambitious, sober, prescient young man, someone of the likes of Salih Bey, will always be willing to ask for her hand; and just such a young woman was Mevhibe.
Mevhibe really could not have cared less whether she got married or not. If she hadn’t, she simply would have lived out her days as a respected lady, dusting off the silver-framed photo of her “MP beybaba” and going to get-togethers at the homes of her father’s old buddies’ wives and daughters. Indeed, Mevhibe’s father’s legacy would be tremendous—and not only in terms of worldly possessions, mind you!
If it just so happened that Mevhibe Hanım spent her adolescence as a pale, pimply faced, shabbily dressed young woman, then, according to Mevhibe Hanım, it was because her father wanted it that way, and that was just fine. It was perfectly acceptable, for it was just as her father saw fit.
“If beybaba sees fit!”
It was a sentence spoken to Mevhibe every day and the truth of which she accepted without question. “MP beybaba” knew what was and was not fit to do. “MP beybaba” always deemed appropriate that which was fit to do, because “MP beybaba” was the government, the state. And Mevhibe was the daughter of the government, the state. So of course she was going to respect the government, the state. If she didn’t, who would? Standing up to “MP beybaba” was, in a way, the same as standing up to the government, the state. Mevhibe Hanım had understood, had gotten into her head at a very young age the exalted nature, the immunity, of the government, the state. And with time, her incessant vocalization of the importance of respect for the government, elders and the law became a core characteristic defining her personality. And everyone, both in her home and outside of it, was obliged to silently perform his or her duty in the same manner that she dutifully dusted the silver-framed portrait of her beybaba.
Mevhibe never ever moved the silver-framed portrait of her beybaba from its spot. From behind his glasses her father peered down upon one and all there in the guest room, always from the exact same height, always from the exact same spot.
For Mevhibe Hanım, moving that portrait would have been akin to rocking the foundations of the state. According to her, the government was exactly like that portrait: something that had to remain always in the same place at the same height, always just as it was. It did not change, it was the unwavering representative of immutability. Mevhibe Hanım didn’t care for the word “change.” She never had, ever since her “MP beybaba” had been left out of the cabinet due to a change in government. It had come as a huge blow to “MP beybaba” and those close to him. They just could not fathom how such a change was possible. Would “MP beybaba” now become just another person, just like anyone else? How could the government change? How was it possible that “MP beybaba” would no longer be an MP? The official car would no longer arrive at their door, the ministry janitors and civil servants would no longer line up to kiss his hand. It was difficult to conceive of this change. Ever since then, Mevhibe Hanım disdained the concept of change; she was fully aware of the ill fortune that accompanied it. Her father died only a short while after being deposed of his seat in parliament. Perhaps because he couldn’t stomach this new state of affairs. It is to that great, great injustice that Mevhibe Hanım attributes his death. And that is why she has felt nothing but anger at each person who assumed her father’s ministry post in his wake. She’s also upset with the People’s Party for the same reason. But her father, when still alive, had registered his daughter with the party, just at the time when the issue of equality between men and women had made its way onto the agenda. It could hardly be said that, in his personal life, Doğan Bey truly and sincerely embraced the issue of women’s rights. But by registering his daughter, who had just finished high school, with the party, without seeing any need to consult with her about it, he had set an example regarding the vital importance of women’s participation in social life. And thus did he create an immutable situation in Mevhibe Hanım’s own life. From then on, for the rest of her mortal days, of course Mevhibe Hanım would be a member of the People’s Party. It was a situation as immutable as the silver-framed portrait of her father hanging there on the wall. This situation did not, however, really require Mevhibe Hanım to take an interest in politics. Politics was something else altogether, something dark. Politics was nothing but contradictory newspaper headlines, forever in a state of flux. And politicians who abused her father’s legacy, and inspired zero trust. A politician should be like an iron fist, like her father. Actually, a politician should be a servant of a firmly entrenched state, of a government of never-waning power. And the other citizens should not dare to stick their tongues out at these superior beings who have only the best interests of those citizens in mind, and they should not stick their noses into business that they do not understand, business that they did not spend day and night grappling with. And indeed, Mevhibe Hanım was a party member who did not stick her nose into such dirty business. Her father had made a choice for her. And any change in that department was now out of the question. Divorce too was a deplorably immoral act. Whether a person chose his or her own spouse or not, upon becoming married, he or she became entrenched in a situation. Situations should not be radically changed; to the contrary, situations needed to be constantly reinforced. That was her philosophy of life. The photo inside the silver frame on the wall could not be changed. But the silver of the frame should be polished once a week. That was true of marriage too. Over time, the couple should become increasingly bound to one another by bonds more important than marriage, such as an apartment, a few children, acquired possessions. In Mevhibe Hanım’s home were possessions left to her by her father. That is, what was left over after everything had been dispersed to everyone else. But because there was such a large amount of possessions in her father’s home, which was actually never really lived in, she had still ended up with a lot of possessions. And of course changing those possessions was out of the question. Such stuff could not be given away; giving it away would be tantamount to denying her lineage. And it was the stuff that one possessed which defined one’s lineage. For example, Salih had been successful in his lifetime, but there wasn’t a single item in the house passed down from his family, and that only went to show that his family wasn’t a “good” family. Even a single armchair passed down from one’s father was proof that one had a family, that one wasn’t a bastard. Mevhibe Hanım had preserved the items in her home for years by changing the upholstery when it got worn out, or polishing it when it lost its shine. Spending money on household items was done for the purpose of reinforcing those items, so as to prevent even graver changes from happening. If you don’t get the armchair reupholstered, then you have to buy a new armchair. The cause of such change is neglect. And people pay a high price for neglect. Mevhibe Hanım has no tolerance for neglect that produces such results. And just as important as conserving one’s possessions is getting maximum use out of them. If you’ve got tomatoes at home, you use tomatoes; if you’ve got cucumbers, you use cucumbers. So long as there were two cherry trees in Mevhibe Hanım’s father-in-law’s tiny garden, she would never attempt to make strawberry jam. In the end, this philosophy led to a state of monotony in the home of Mevhibe Hanım and her family which drove her children to insurrection. The same jam is made in that home every season. Certain meals are cooked in certain seasons, and the items in the cupboard occupy permanent spots.
Her husband’s water for shaving is always heated in the same bowl. Hand and face towels are always hung from the same spot. Hair and nails are always done by the same barber. If you ask Mevhibe Hanım, changing something only results in a longing for what one has given up. Therefore, frequent changes of apartment buildi
ng attendants or maids are not to her liking. She only makes such changes when deemed absolutely necessary. The right thing to do is to make the attendant and the maid contributors to the reinforcement of the order that reigns over the apartment building. And Mevhibe Hanım is quite successful at doing this. Very few maids who have worked for her have ever dared to cheat or rob her, or ask for a raise. She has little trust in those acquaintances who move often or frequently hire new employees to replace the old. Actually, an honest person should remain exactly as he or she first introduces him-or herself to be, otherwise, it’s akin to committing fraud or an act of deception. Whenever Mevhibe Hanım’s stringent espousal of her theory of immutability becomes too extreme, Salih Bey starts to get upset. Had he himself not achieved great changes in his life? During a harsh spat between the two about getting new furniture and appliances for the home, Salih Bey had said: “In that case, if it were up to you, I would have spent my entire life in Samanpazarı.” Mevhibe Hanım in response had said that she did not think that way when it came to honest, hardworking people, that of course there were exceptions.
Despite this right to change which Mevhibe Hanım recognized under special circumstances, both Salih Bey and the children had clearly understood that it was necessary to move through the house in an unwavering pattern, like the hour and minute hands on a clock. And as bored as they may become of the monotonous progression of domestic time, they never attempt to push either of the hands in the opposite direction. It is only outside the clockwork regimen of home that the children consider abandoning the beaten path. Mevhibe Hanım views her children as pieces of this domestic clock. They were meant to stay put, so that the hour and minute hands might continue to turn in the same direction. Without getting their hands or shoes dirty. For them to do something on their own would only obstruct the routine. Seeing as, so long as they remain inside the machine, the children have no choice but to ensure the smooth running of the machine, they can only escape their roles as instruments ensuring constant rotation in the same direction by severing themselves from the machine as a whole. But Mevhibe Hanım knew that if that were to happen, the machine would no longer function. And she had no intention of turning a blind eye to such a possibility. Meanwhile her children, knowing that they are in fact part of a specific machine, live on the edge of a no-win situation filled with the fear that, even if they do manage to rend themselves from this machine, they might end up meaningless, lonely parts, or that they won’t be able to fit into a machine they do like, or that they might not like the machine they do fit into.
Mevhibe Hanım lifted the muslin headscarf from her eyes. She looked at her watch. She must have taken a five-minute nap. Salih still wasn’t back yet. Had he made it to Ulus, she wondered. It looked like this bathroom renovation was going to cost a pretty penny. But it would make their home more dignified, more appropriate to their situation, which would in turn be reinforced. I was mortified when that professor came for dinner the other day. We need to do this for the sake of Salih’s career. If we neglect this bathroom business, it would be bad for Salih’s situation. Again she considered going to the kitchen and calling on Nurten Hanım to come massage her legs. She walked over to the window to see if her husband was back yet. She parted the tulle curtains and looked out. What a disgrace! She was furious. Once again the wife of the apartment building attendant Mevlût Efendi had put up a clothesline between two poplars in the garden and hung her clothes on it, on the side of the building facing the street for all and sundry to see. She opened the window to yell at Mevlût, to call him up and rake him over the coals good.
Doğan and Ali
Doğan was standing with Ali in the middle of a crowd. They were on the sidewalk. They were so wrapped up in their heated debate that it occurred to neither of them to investigate the reason why so many people had gathered there on the sidewalk. And there were people blocking their view. They couldn’t see a thing.
“Look, it’s time you stopped talking like a book,” Ali said. He wore a tense expression on his face. Doğan’s corduroy pants, beige sweater, the collar of his sport shirt sticking out over his sweater, and his suede boots clearly contrasted with Ali’s attire. Ali wore cheap, tacky shoes from Sümerbank on his feet. Ali didn’t care much for them himself, to tell the truth, but his mother had bought them and, after all, they were super cheap. He wore a nearly threadbare suit with pants shiny from being ironed a few times too many and a white-striped navy-blue jacket that wasn’t at all appropriate for the spring weather. The suit hadn’t been tailored for Ali. It hadn’t been tailored for anyone. They’d given it to his father once when he landed a government job for a stint. Now they’d had it adjusted to fit Ali. It was one of those suits which, in its attempt to mimic reserve and decorum, only served to emphasize the poverty from which it sprang. Ali had lost weight recently. The double-breasted jacket was too big for him. His shirt had grown yellow. And the tie he wore around his neck was a present from the son of a relative who’d gone to Germany as a guest worker. It was an awful tie made of shiny, fake silk. Ali was tall. Though thin and bony, his was a strong, limber body. The back of his pants hung baggy over his rear. Thick veins were visible on his bony hands and arms. He had a Roman-like nose and hazel eyes that rarely blinked. Those eyes inevitably compelled the person he was addressing to say something, to explain or to defend themselves. His curious, patient gaze, far from being distrustful, was filled with great warmth. Sometimes when he spoke, Ali’s eyes would well up with tears. He’d get upset at the tears that streamed down his face, despite all of the gravity and calmness of his words, and after wiping them away with the backs of his hands, he’d continue speaking in calm, measured sentences, as if he hadn’t shed a tear. Yet his graciousness, intelligence and attentiveness were not enough to quell his exuberance and sentimentality. Anyone who looked into Ali’s eyes immediately understood his power to love and to exude passion, and after listening to him speak, they would be shocked at how someone so emotional could speak so logically. One day, when Doğan asked Ali how he managed to do so, Ali replied, “I’m not one of those people who puts his heart up for sale. I hate the idea of deceiving others with the pain and the passion that it holds. It needs to learn to endure pain because I have to teach it to bear not only its own pain but that of countless others as well.” When he spoke, Ali, whose eyes might well up at the slightest thing, never delivered sentimental pleas, he never raised his voice nor gesticulated. He was straightforward and unpretentious. Sometimes he explained his appearance as such with the following words: “You don’t need to make paintings about the power of dynamite in order to make dynamite explode.”