Stunned, I said, “I was sad enough about losing you and now it’s even worse. I can’t believe it.”
Kemalettin replied, “I’m guessing that package in your hand is for me – did you get your sister to make me something up for the journey? Come on, you’d better give it to me, the whistle’s going. And don’t worry, if what I said does turn out to be true, wherever you end up in Anatolia, I’ll come and find you. Speak to Vladimiros Efendi as well and see what he says about it all.”
The steamer filled up with people, the ropes were raised, and it began to move away, billowing clouds of black smoke. He was on his way home. The steamer became a dot and then it was lost. I looked on blankly.
__________
* A Cretan Ottoman bureaucrat who was later killed because he opposed the Armenian deportations and tried to protect some Armenians.
* Zambetula Ismail ran a coffeehouse in Chania and opened one in Ayvalık after the deportations.
18
Badoyan Mustafa, Grand Mehmed and Shahap Bey, a farmer who had joined our group much later on, thought we should leave the island. Their property was constantly being damaged by mobs, and as they only knew how to work the land, they had no chance of setting up any other business in the turmoil of the island. They were absolutely right when they said, “We can do the same job in the motherland without living in fear.”
However, I thought differently, along with my sister and brother-in-law, Ahmet Agha and even the tavern owner Nuri and Aunt Cemile, whose husband Mullah Mavruk had now passed away. This was our homeland; whatever the cost we shouldn’t have to leave. When I broached the subject with Hüsnüye, she was shocked and distressed, eventually breaking down into relentless sobs. What kind of life could she have in an unknown place? What did they mean by homeland? This was the place where she had first opened her eyes, where she grew and blossomed. This was her home, and she was making a good living from the rents – what else was homeland supposed to mean? What more did people want from her?
That was exactly how all those who favoured staying thought. But wanting to stay didn’t mean they weren’t worried. I tried to placate them with bits of information I had picked up from Kemalettin Bey and Kiri Vladimiros, or with the humble explanations I cobbled together in my own head. Obviously, it was true that pronouncements had been made, but that didn’t necessarily mean they were going to happen. Why jump before you were pushed? Perhaps there was some misunderstanding about what had been said. Surely it couldn’t be so easy to uproot that many people and, in exchange, take in all those who had been forced out by the other side?
I explained all this to them, trying to keep up their spirits, all the while with a huge lump in my throat and tears welling in my eyes. It was no use. The news was true, and eventually everyone on the island had heard about it. Very few Greeks expressed any regret about the expulsions. The rest could be divided into two groups: there were those who understood the suffering of being uprooted, but said nothing, choosing to keep their heads down, and, on the other hand, were those who already had their eyes set on the Turks’ property.
I often asked myself which group Kiriya Marigo belonged to and each time I failed to come up with a convincing answer. She was a well-read woman of the world, but when it came to thinking of others or love for humanity, she was no Kiri Vladimiros. That was the conclusion I came to, based on her silence and general behaviour. We had worked together as business partners for several years, during which I had proved myself time and time again. Yet despite this, and despite the positive recommendations about my character that she had received from Kiri Vladimiros, she still kept me at a distance. The only signal of affection she had given was helping me to buy the two neighbouring houses. And I suppose she did that because I put my heart and soul into our business, not because she was fond of my beautiful eyes.
When the so-called Treaty of Lausanne* confirmed beyond doubt that, sooner or later, we would be taken from home and sent to our motherland, Kiriya Marigo began to seem increasingly preoccupied. Often, as we discussed business in the office, I would catch her eyes resting on me, completely lost in thought. On occasions, I felt the need to say something to her about it. “Kiriya Marigo, you’re miles away!’
With a rare smile, she would reply, saying, “Sorry, I was lost in thought.”
One afternoon, on a day I will never forget, with her face turned away from me towards the door, she said, “Aynakis, let’s go back to my house and eat together. Ariadne will have cooked something or other.”
It was the first time I had received such an invitation. I looked at her, speechless.
Ariadne was a gaunt woman, in her mid-twenties, who was still single. She rarely smiled. She moved slowly as she carried out all her solitary tasks, from cleaning the house to making food. In the room we had entered, at the centre of a medium-sized table, was a plate of the courgette and cheese pie called kolochtiha. Judging by the smell in the room, it had just come out of the oven. Around it were three plates and three chairs, indicating that the invitation had been pre-planned. I couldn’t help but ask, “I didn’t know you knew how to make kolochtiha?”
Passing her hat to Ariadne, Kiriya Marigo replied: “We heard that the Turks made it and were curious, but weren’t sure how it was made. Your mother gave us some when we went to your home to celebrate you buying the two houses. We loved it so much, we asked how to make it. She gave us a good lesson, I can even repeat it back to you. Let’s see how well I learned…”
“Let’s see!” I said, as she began to recite the recipe memorised from my late mother.
“Cut the courgettes, lengthways in thin slices as if you are going to fry them. If it’s a juicy one, strain it in a colander. Make a dough of flour, olive oil, one egg and a pinch of bicarbonate of soda to make it rise, then roll out a thin sheet of pastry – enough to cover the bottom of the dish you’re going to use. Grease the dish, lay the pastry in the bottom and sprinkle with olive oil and grated hard cheese. Fill it with layers of courgette dipped in flour and shaken lightly; the layers must be set at diagonals to each other and each one sprinkled with olive oil, cheese and black pepper. Finish off with olive oil, cheese and black pepper on the top, then cook in the oven at medium heat. Cook it for about forty-five minutes, or until the top is crusted or the colour of onion skin.”
“You remembered everything, bravo!”
“We made it twice for ourselves to tease out any beginner’s mistakes. Ariadne’s become a kolochtiha expert. The third pie was the best one yet, so I wanted us to eat it together. Maybe it’ll be your first kolochtiha since your mother died.”
I remembered a final detail of the recipe: “You shouldn’t scrimp on the cheese, but at the same time take care not to overdo it – don’t be tempted to throw in all the leftover cheese on top to finish it off; if you make the top layer too thick, the bottom layer of courgette won’t cook. That’s the key to success… And making sure you use our good quality olive oil.”
I was in fine spirits at being invited into the house for the first time in two and a half years and treated to a glorious courgette pie followed by delicious coffee. My contented and relaxed mood gave me the courage to indulge my curiosity about the house. A sizeable framed picture on the wall contained a photo of Kiriya Marigo and a man, as large as she was, with a huge moustache.
“That was our wedding photo,” she explained. “We only had six months together – he had a heart problem that took him away. God bless him.”
I left the house, making the excuse of two customers I was due to meet later in the afternoon. I couldn’t bear to stay in the room with the photograph any longer, unable to stomach the thought of the flamboyant, curvaceous Marigo, in her delicate tulle-veil hat, being married to that man with the handlebar moustache. What a pity it was for such a magnificent woman!
As far as I understood she hadn’t had the most stable of marriages. Perhaps that was why she was always so solemn? Neither was there any child from this short marriage of six months. I
had noticed about thirty leather-bound books in the room. Was that how she had filled the years, by reading books alone?
Throughout our business partnership, which was now entering its third year, I had never seen any sign of her having a man. I mean, it was a subject I knew something of, albeit not a great deal. Yet, my knowledge and experience weren’t getting me any nearer to a conclusion. She was four years older than me. She had needed to show her ID papers once when we were buying an olive grove in her name and, overcome by curiosity, I had taken a good look. Such an educated woman, in rude health, with a unique beauty and wealthy to boot, spending her nights, years without a man? Going through life without a man’s ardour?
A storm began to rage inside me when I saw the photograph – no, it was more than a storm – it was a rebellion, and it intensified the fear of being exiled that gnawed away at me every day. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that it added insult to injury; Lausanne might have confirmed the expulsion of enemies from our motherland, but it sunk all of us island Turks into mourning at the thought of being torn from our roots. How could we be expected to leave our homes, our Crete?
Kiri Vladimiros had interpreted the routs in Anatolia as the price paid by the Greeks for trying to expand: “If you decide to cause trouble instead of getting along with people and living in peace, then you end up getting a beating. It’s the poor wretched people who end up bearing the brunt of the mistakes made by their ancestors and those in power!”
Since the announcement of the exchanges, we had been living on borrowed time, and it crossed my mind to wonder whether we too were paying for the sins of our ancestors. One day, during my time at the print house, Vladimiros had showed me on a map how far the Greeks had expanded and how far they had later been pushed back. Then he showed me the growth and collapse of the Ottoman Empire… It was certainly time to wonder how far we would be pushed back as well. In the midst of all this pushing and shoving, it was us, the ordinary people, who were suffering, going hungry, losing our homes. “Nothing ever happens to the big wigs, Hassanaki,” that’s what Kiri Vladimiros used to say. “When they lose at their land-grabbing games, they say to their successors, ‘Come on, now it’s your turn to play. You can take the beating now!’ On our side, it’s the next king in line, on your side, another padishah in waiting! What a nice game, don’t you think?”
__________
* Signed in 1923 between the Allies and the new government of Turkey, the Treaty of Lausanne replaced the Treaty of Sevres and redrew the boundaries of Turkey and the Middle East.
19
It was Saturday. I had just returned to the city after showing some farmland to a potential buyer and was sitting in Floru’s coffeehouse on the corner near our office. I had hardly begun to sip my coffee when I noticed the door to the office opening gently and saw Kiriya Marigo appear in front of it. I got up to welcome her over to the usual place at the table.
When she entered the coffeehouse, Marigo normally lifted the tulle veil on her hat or removed it completely. She didn’t sit down. She was subdued and avoided my eyes. I could see that her smooth, dusky complexion was flushed red under the lace veil.
“No, I’m not staying,” she began. “You sit down – you’ve been outside the city and you must be tired.”
She came and stood right in front of me, her head bowed towards the floor. She never came to the office on Saturdays. Yet, here she was in front of me with her rosy face. Thrown off guard by her unusual behaviour, I waited silently, giving nothing away. I was puzzled by her flushed cheeks. Why was she blushing? Why was she standing there without saying a word? Why was her head stooped? Why was the strong woman I had become accustomed to suddenly behaving like a coy maiden? There had to be a good reason. The silence continued. Exasperated, I took off my fez and tossed it on to the table.
“Are you ill, Kiriya Marigo? Or is there something else wrong?”
She began to speak, neither lifting her head nor looking at me.
“Let’s stop all this Kiri, Kiriya formality. It’s just me and you in here. I need you. I can’t explain now when a customer or the coffee boy might appear at any minute. Let’s go to your house together in the evening when it gets dark. I’ll tell you there. Don’t ask me anything now. Wait for me here tonight. I don’t want Ariadne to know where I’m going. We’ll leave from here. Bring one of those dresses that your women wear, I’ll slip it over my head and leave my hat here. I don’t think anyone will recognise me in the dark. I’m going to go now.”
After she left, I remained in a daze that lasted from the minute she departed until the minute she returned later. I bought a selection of foods from the market, before going home to lay a clean sheet over the bed and sort out the disorder of the kitchen. I didn’t know why she was coming, but I knew it wouldn’t be right for her to see the bachelor topsy-turvy of my home. Nazire came a couple of times a week to clean the house and collect my washing, but never on Saturdays. My business partner, the woman for whom I had the utmost admiration, had announced she was coming to my house; it was hard not to get lost in speculation.
No explanation I came up with was convincing. That she would come to my home and sleep with me – it was impossible, rubbish! That’s how I spoke to myself. Obviously, there was something else she needed to talk to me about that she couldn’t mention at the house, or the office. All the conjecture and dashing about, on top of a trip to the outskirts of the city and back, had tired me. Weary with anticipation, I lay down on the large floor-cushions at the entrance to the house, hoping for the impossible, my head full of half-waking half-sleeping dreams, and tried to relax. When I woke up, the light was starting to fade outside. I leapt up and grabbing one of my mother’s abaya robes, rushed out into the street.
She arrived! We waited in the office until it was dark. We put her hat on the table and pulled the abaya over her together. As I was helping to adjust it around her face, in the way that our women wore it, she took my hands and clasped them in hers. This small movement so excited me that I trembled and felt weak at the knees. I could feel her breath on my face. “Don’t tremble, Hassan,” she whispered. “I need you. I need you.”
We set off, walking just like the Turks, with me, the man, walking ahead and her a few paces behind. We avoided the open roads, walking via the side streets to my house in Veneti Kastana. My walking cane echoed in the darkness as we took care to avoid the glow of the corner lamps. She had held my hands in hers, she had said she needed me: the excitement pounded inside of me until eventually we arrived. When we entered the house, the small lamp I had left burning gave enough light for me to remove my fez, for her to remove her outer dress and for us to see each other.
“We’re finally here,” I said. “I don’t think anyone saw us.”
I looked straight into her eyes. They glittered against her flushed face like two black jewels.
“Welcome to my house, Kiriya Marigo. I know I’ll never forget this evening. You gave me such a surprise and I’m still giddy with excitement. If I’m speaking out of turn then please forgive me. The first time you held my hand in yours was the day my mother died, and today when I was helping you cover your face, you took my hands again. Now I feel brave enough to take your hands in mine.”
She jerked her hands away from mine, wrapped her arms around my neck and astonishingly fell upon me in a way that melted my whole body, without saying a word. Her lips were on my face, my mouth, my neck, kissing me everywhere.
To have expected more than this would have made me the most foolish of all God’s creatures. I placed my left arm around her waist, pulled her towards me, and with my right hand began to caress the beautiful breasts I had at times caressed with my eyes. This heightened her arousal. By now we were both breathless. Then, she pulled away from me and began to undress as if she wanted to tear her clothing apart. We hadn’t moved from the entrance to the house, and the gentle rush of air stirred by our movements was enough to make the wispy flame of the night-light quiver.
; Here was the magnificent Kiriya Marigo, the woman I had admired from afar for all these years, at my house – with no hat, no veil, wearing nothing at all! She said nothing, her breasts rippling with the force of her breath, her nostrils flaring as if she wanted more air. I don’t remember at which point she took off my jacket and shirt as we moved closer to the bedroom, or how she managed to pull off my grand boots, trousers and long johns. We fell together on to the bed, her on top of me and I felt her wetness as she immediately took me inside her. Her nipples had swelled to the size of hazelnuts and she seemed almost delirious, repeatedly gasping, “What’s happening, what’s happening to me…”
In the morning, at the first hint of sunrise, when the muezzin began the call to prayer, followed minutes later by the ringing of church bells, we left the house. I again walked in front and she a few steps behind, all the way to the door of her house. After leaving her there, I raced home and threw myself on to the bed, just removing my jacket and boots. We had been awake all night, opening up to each other about all the things we had not dared talk about during our years of acquaintance, interrupted twice more by passionate intimacy. The first time she had been firmly in control, but after that I relaxed, giving in to the instinctive experience I had forged under the guidance of the glamorous Hüsnüye; so much so that, after our last intimate union, the intensity of feeling caused her to briefly lose consciousness, driving me into a panic.
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