by Nadia Marks
It was no use arguing: his father was rigidly set in his traditional ways and would not be persuaded. Hassan was in despair. Then, just as he was about to give up hope, Fatima arrived in their lives and changed everything. She could never have replaced his mother – no one could ever replace Anastasia for either father or son – but she brought brightness into their home and lifted their spirits in a way that only Anastasia had been able to do. Fatima filled the air with her feminine ways that Hassan had missed so much, and she caused his father to smile and walk with a lighter step.
It had been a few years since Enver’s friends started to urge him towards finding a wife. From time to time they had tried to match him up with one or other unmarried female acquaintance: ‘You are still young and vigorous, my friend, you need a woman by your side and maybe another child,’ they told him. ‘The years are passing, your son is growing up and you’ll end up alone.’
Enver was not opposed to the prospect of a wife and kept a roving eye for a fitting match. Eventually he found this at work, in the form of Fatima. She was a young doctor, a paediatrician, who had just been appointed to the same hospital as Enver. She was petite, pretty, with bright sparkling eyes, a sharp mind and a good sense of style, which met with Hassan’s approval. At first the young man resented the idea that she might hope to replace his mother and was irritated by this new woman’s intrusion into their lives, until he realized that on the contrary, what she had introduced to the household was love, peace and tolerance.
Enver had asked Fatima to marry him soon after they met, and within a short time Hassan could see the softening influence she was having on his father. She was able to infuse in Enver a sense of acceptance and understanding towards his son that he had never seen in him since Anastasia died.
‘Times have changed, my love,’ the young man heard Fatima tell his father one balmy summer’s evening as the pair sat in the garden drinking coffee after dinner. Hassan had gone upstairs to his room to work on a drawing and as he sat by the open window he could hear them talking.
‘The boy has to follow his passion and his ambitions,’ Fatima told Enver. ‘If he doesn’t want to be a doctor you can’t push him into it and, besides, if his heart is not in it what kind of doctor would he be?’
‘But what of this nonsense?’ Enver countered, stretching his legs on the lounger and lighting a cigarette. ‘What is this fashion trumpery that he wants to study? What kind of work is that for a grown man?’
‘Oh . . . my darling,’ Fatima replied with laughter in her voice and reached for a cigarette herself. ‘These are modern times now, my love, and your son has talent, don’t you see? If that is his calling you shouldn’t stand in his way.’
It didn’t take many weeks or many more such conversations for Enver’s vehement opposition to begin to wane; eventually, grudgingly, he agreed to support his son in his preferred studies.
‘I suppose if he’s going to go anywhere it might as well be London.’
‘Exactly!’ Fatima told him. ‘It’s your birthplace, after all, and it would be good for the boy to get to know it.’
‘In fact, I haven’t been back for many years myself,’ he replied, swept along by the young woman’s enthusiasm and support for his son.
‘You must have plenty of contacts for the boy to look up when he arrives, no?’ she asked, already worrying on Hassan’s behalf at the prospect of his new start in a foreign country.
‘Of course I do! But better still, you and I will go with him. I will show you both the city where I was born.’
‘I owe everything to you,’ Hassan told Fatima, wrapping her in a tight embrace and landing a loud kiss on her cheek the day he heard that he had been accepted at Saint Martin’s School of Art to study textiles and fashion design. ‘If not for you, I might have had to run away . . . however much my father insisted, I would never have gone to medical school.’
In his wildest daydreams he had never foreseen that this next phase in his life could work out so well for him and for that he knew he had Fatima to thank. At last he would be escaping from Turkey, from his confusion and the constraints of his family existence. Now he could become his own man, whoever he chose to be, not the troubled being who had been moulded by his parents. He even chose a new name for himself. Once he arrived in England his name would be Hassandreas; he would be neither one nor the other, an amalgamation of the two.
‘You owe it to your perseverance and talent,’ Fatima told him, ‘and besides, it will be wonderful for us all.’ She too was thrilled, not only to have managed to help the boy but also to be making this journey of discovery with her new husband. She promptly started to busy herself with arrangements for their trip. They planned to spend a month in London, settling Hassan in lodgings and visiting the city. Once Enver came round to the project his enthusiasm grew too.
‘It really was about time I returned,’ he told them. ‘It’s been so many years, I may not recognize the London I grew up in.’
This would be Hassan’s last summer in Turkey. He’d been reading about a summer of love in Europe and America and he couldn’t wait to be part of it. Istanbul was hot and humid, and the most exciting news on the streets was regarding a championship of the Turkish football league – Hassan couldn’t care less. Of far greater concern were the earthquakes that had been striking parts of the country lately but they too couldn’t detract from his mood of optimism and thankfulness that soon he would at last be leaving. He was increasingly detached from the news at home; what was happening in the streets of the rest of the world was on his mind and he was buzzing with anticipation to be part of that world. His spirits were soaring with excitement, the future was now beckoning him, but before any of that began, before he set off on this new and exciting path, there was one thing that he had to do first. There was a promise he had to keep, a pledge he had made that once he was old enough he would fulfil. The time had now come, he informed his father and Fatima; before anything else he must keep the promise he had made to his dying mother. There was no time to lose: before he set off for England he had to travel to Cyprus and find Orhan.
28
Cyprus, 1968
Hassan arrived at Nicosia’s newly built international airport on a scorching day in mid-July with a letter from Leila in his pocket containing Orhan’s address and how to find him. After Anastasia’s death, Orhan would once in a while write to the boy via his sister, as he had done for his mother previously, but it was Leila who kept Hassan informed about everyone in Cyprus. After Anastasia’s death Leila felt it was her duty to keep in touch with her young nephew and continue writing to both her cousin Enver and the boy. She had remained unmarried, to her great disappointment, and was still living in the village with her uncle Ahmet, helping him to run the family business. Hassan knew about the Greek family too from his mother, who made sure of it, and once in a while curiosity would get the better of him and he would brood about trying to find them but something always held him back. If they ostracized Anastasia, how would they view him, and besides he had no way of knowing where they were or how to find them.
‘We should go and visit your aunt and your grandfather,’ Enver would promise Hassan whenever a letter arrived from Cyprus, but he was always too busy to keep his promise and they never did. So now, after all this time, Hassan was standing outside the airport looking for a taxi to take him into the city centre, where he must find his way around these unfamiliar streets that he had only ever heard about from his mother’s stories.
‘Your flight was from Constantinople, eh?’ the taxi driver asked him after he settled on the back seat with his small backpack next to him. ‘Are you Turkish or Greek?’ he asked again in broken English, examining the young man in the rear-view mirror.
‘Both,’ Hassan replied in Greek, causing the driver to apply the brakes and turn to look at him. ‘What do you mean, both? Nobody is both,’ he said. ‘You Christian or Muslim?’
‘Both,’ Hassan said again rather sharply, hoping to put an end to more
questions. His answer shocked not only the probing taxi driver but also himself, as he realized that for the first time in his life, with this single word, he had actually defined who he really was. He had been feeling as if he was both for so long, yet he had never before consciously expressed it verbally, because he had become used to secrecy and besides, he understood it would have caused distress to those who knew him. But here on this island he was a stranger, no one knew him and what anyone thought of him was utterly unimportant, which gave him the courage to be honest. Honesty, he now realized, was what he looked forward to most about leaving Turkey. In London he would be anonymous. He could leave all his conflicting feelings behind. In England he would be able to re-invent himself as he wished. He did not have to be one thing, or the other; not a Greek or a Turk, not a Christian or a Muslim. He could be just himself, just a member of the human race.
‘Where shall I take you?’ the taxi driver asked, speaking in Greek now, still stealing glances in the mirror above his head. ‘Where shall I drop you off?’ Hassan took the letter from his pocket and looked at his instructions from Leila.
‘By Kyrenia gate, please.’
‘Ah! You are going to “the other side” then, inside the wall?’ the driver asked, burning with curiosity to find out who this young man was and what he was doing; Kyrenia gate being one of three main entrances into the walled city and the one closest to the Turkish north. ‘They have taxis over there too, I used to work all over Nicosia before the separation,’ he informed him. ‘Or if you know where you are going you can go on foot.’ Hassan made no reply. Leila had already explained in her letter how to make his way around the old city to find Orhan.
There had been little of interest to see in Nicosia’s outskirts during the ride from the airport, other than a series of half-constructed modern houses on arid-looking plots of land destined for the same fate. The place was obviously expanding and undergoing extensive development and modernization. Cyprus so far was nothing like he had imagined – mountains and pine forest, streams and waterfalls as Anastasia had described to him over the years. The only similarity connecting it to his home city that he had just left was the physical sensation of the burning sun. The heat in the taxi had been oppressive and the hot air that blew in through the open window had no cooling effect whatever. Not until Hassan walked into the walled city did the landscapes become more familiar to him. Here the influence of hundreds of years of Ottoman rule was apparent, although there was none of the grandeur and opulence found in the centre of Istanbul; yet the confusion of architectural styles, Turkish, Greek and Venetian, along with minarets piercing the sky and church domes looming above the streets, made him feel more at home.
He made his way to a kafenion to collect his thoughts and make a plan. He sat inside under the huge ceiling fan to shelter from the unforgiving sun and ordered a sweet Turkish coffee and baklava – he decided he needed the sugar for energy – and then took Leila’s letter from his pocket again.
‘Number 3 Kuruçeşme Sokak near the Yenicami Mosque where he preaches,’ Leila wrote. ‘You pass Büyük Han and go straight ahead then take a left . . .’
He read on: his aunt had taken good care to give him detailed instructions to Orhan’s house. He took a sip of the thick syrupy coffee and sat back on his chair to check her notes again, feeling the energy returning to his limbs. How hard can it be to find a house in such a small place? he mused. I’ve wandered the streets of Istanbul on my own since I was twelve, and besides if I get lost I’ll just ask someone, it’s not as if I don’t speak the language . . .
The mosque was easy enough to find, not only because of the directions he held in his hand but also because he had no option but to accept instructions from passers-by. The labyrinth of back streets he walked through were strongly reminiscent of Istanbul’s poorer neighbourhoods, the women doing their washing and chores in the open air and children playing in the alleys. As he continued, he was soon to discover that many alleyways led into people’s backyards, so he found himself in effect walking into their homes. It was obvious to all that he was a stranger and, their curiosity ignited, he was warmly greeted and welcomed. Once locals found out what he was looking for, they volunteered to direct him towards Yenicami Mosque. He eventually arrived as prayer was being called and he thankfully took refuge from the heat inside with the other faithful who had started to gather.
During prayers he caught sight of the middle-aged imam with a thick head of short cropped hair peeping through his white skullcap and wondered if this was Orhan, rather than the old imam with a long white beard. But he decided to wait before approaching him, preferring to pay him a visit in his home where they could talk more privately. He hardly had to ask where he could find Orhan at home, for everyone knew him. He had been teaching at the mosque, Hassan was told, for several years alongside their old imam and was living across the street, just as Leila had told him.
After prayers ended, Hassan walked into the mosque’s garden and sat under the sycamore tree to gather his thoughts. He wanted to compose himself and consider exactly how and what he would say to this man once he came face to face with him; this man who he had never set eyes on before, yet whom he thought he knew from his mother. Anastasia had made him promise to convey her love to him, but what kind of love was it that his mother had for him? Was it possible that she loved him more than his own father? When he thought now about the way Anastasia referred to Orhan, perhaps she did have even deeper feelings for Orhan than for Enver. Faced with the reality of meeting the man after hearing so much about him, Hassan’s mind was alive with questions which he had never considered or asked himself before. Could it be that his mother and Orhan harboured a secret love for each other – or worse still, what if Orhan didn’t care for his mother at all; what if she had lived with a fantasy all her life, and what if Orhan did not welcome his visit? He felt nervous, the anxiety played on his stomach. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; he had come all this way to honour his mother’s dying wishes and no matter what his reception would be, he would go through with it. Finally, he got up and hesitantly left the garden; he walked across the street to house number three. He lifted the brass door knocker in the shape of an elegant female hand and knocked three times.
Enver had never been a man who showed his emotions; even when Anastasia was dying, and afterwards, he held on to his feelings in the manner he deemed a man should behave and would reproach his son if he thought he was not following suit. Hassan had therefore never seen a man cry. Sitting across from Orhan now, observing an unashamed display of emotion from a grown man openly showing his grief was something of a revelation. The unfamiliar sight of shedding tears, tears that flowed freely without embarrassment or restraint, touched the young man deeply.
‘Did she suffer?’ was the first question Orhan asked, then without waiting for an answer he quickly added, ‘How could such a thing happen to her?’
‘It was so fast,’ Hassan replied, stifling a sob at the memory of his dying mother. Orhan knew about Anastasia’s death as his sister had informed him and he had shed tears of grief then, but now sitting down with the boy, the sorrow came flooding back for both of them.
‘Oh! My Anastasia,’ Orhan whispered, his sadness etched all over his face, ‘always so full of life . . .’
‘I grew up knowing you,’ Hassan told him. ‘She talked about you often.’
‘Not a day went by that I didn’t think of her,’ Orhan replied, wiping his eyes with a white cotton handkerchief.
‘She made me promise to come and find you,’ Hassan said, tears welling up in his own eyes now, and for once he didn’t feel that he had to hide them. ‘She told me I had to come and tell you she loved you.’
‘I know she did . . .’ Orhan replied, his eyes welling up again too. ‘But she didn’t love me the way I loved her. I didn’t understand then, I was too young, but now I do.’
Hassan stayed with Orhan in his house for two days. They talked together; Orhan wanted to know everything abo
ut the boy. They ate together and prayed together and then when it was time for him to leave, they promised that they would always keep in touch. Perhaps, Hassan wondered after he left, my mother should have married Orhan instead of my father? Would they not have been better suited?
Cyprus, 2008
The sound of the land line ringing from the kitchen made Stella and Spiros start. No one ever called on it anymore unless it was an old relative in Nicosia who didn’t have a mobile. The two siblings were sitting on the veranda of their apartment to cool down and review the events of the day. It had been an exceptionally hot and emotionally charged twenty-four hours and there was much to think about and discuss. Stella’s trip to the hospital earlier that morning and the mounting excitement of locating Orhan at last had taken their toll on her, but the ice-cold ouzo they were now drinking and the evening breeze blowing from the sea were helping to ease the tension and focus their minds on the next step.
Their father was due to arrive in a few days and although Stella was eager to see him, she told Spiros, she was also apprehensive of how Lambros would receive the news that awaited him. It wasn’t that she thought her father would not be pleased, no, she didn’t doubt that for a moment, but this meeting that the two of them had conspired to arrange could be crucial and she couldn’t be sure of the emotional impact it might have on two old men, one of whom was gravely ill. Years of wishful thinking and regret on their father’s part might be about to come to an end, but all the same, Stella couldn’t be fully certain of how he’d respond. And that was not her only reservation. She knew Lambros wanted to see Orhan but could the same be said of Orhan? When she visited him, he was in no position to express himself fully; she hadn’t even been certain that he had understood who she was. They were discussing all this and more when the ringing from the flat’s telephone cut into their conversation.