Silent House (33 page)

Story

just to let my readers know that my narrative has otherwise been scrubbed clean of those pleasant tales typically offered for people who expect and enjoy them. If someone should bother someday to read my work, which will run significantly longer than Evliya Çelebi’s six thousand pages, he would find there in black and white the whole cloudy mass of history exactly as it exists in my mind, and as in Evliya, natural things, like a tree, a bird, a pebble, will give the reader to feel that behind each description is an equally natural reality. In this way I’ll free myself at last from the strange worms of history that I feel wandering through the folds of my brain. On that day of liberation, perhaps I’ll finally go swim in the sea with as much pleasure as Evliya found in his pool.

A car was obnoxiously blowing its horn. I quickly got up from the bed and went downstairs and out into the garden. The wind had picked up, the clouds were closer: rain was on the way. I lit a cigarette, walked across the garden, and found myself out on the street walking. Yes, show me now whatever you have to show me, all you walls,
windows, cars, balconies, and people cooking on them, beach balls, sandals, inflatable life preservers, flip-flops, bottles, suntan lotions, boxes, shirts, towels, bags, legs, skirts, women, men, children, bugs, show me, show me your dismal faces … I want to press my nose up against every surface and lose myself, forget myself staring anew at the neon lights, at the Plexiglas billboards, at the political slogans, at the televisions, at the corners of shops, at the pictures in the newspaper, at the tawdry advertisements.

A sailboat slowly making its way toward the jetty to escape the southerly wind was gently rocking back and forth in the waves that were not yet big. As it swayed, it seemed unaware of the subconscious that was tossing it about: happy boat! I walked toward the coffeehouse. It was crowded, and outside, the corners of the tablecloths were flapping in the wind, but thanks to the rubber clips put on the edges of the tables, the mothers and fathers and little ones could enjoy their tea and soda pop in peace. Offshore, they were having a hard time taking down the sail, now full of the wind. The white canvas resisted with the fluttering despair of a pigeon’s wing, but to no avail: in the end, they managed to lower it. If I put aside this game called history, what would it matter? Should I sit and have a tea? There was no empty table outside, but going over to the window I could see men playing cards within and empty tables. The card players studied their hands, then put them down as though they had wearied themselves doing this and now needed to relax. One of them picked up the cards he’d laid down and shuffled them. As I absently watched him shuffling, I thought of something. Yes, yes, a deck of cards could solve everything!

On my way home I was thinking like this:

I’ll take all those crimes and robberies, wars and villagers, generals and crooks, that are asleep in the silence of the archives and write each of them down, one by one, on slips of paper the size of playing cards. Then I’ll shuffle that awesome deck consisting of hundreds—no, millions—of cards, just as you shuffle a deck of playing cards, but, of course, with much more difficulty, perhaps using special
machines, like those lottery machines in front of notaries, and I’ll place them in the hands of my readers! And I’ll tell them: None of these has any connection with any other, preceding or following, front or back, cause or effect. Come, young reader, this is life and history, read it as you will. Everything that exists is in here, it all simply exists, but there’s no story binding it together. Then the disappointed young reader will ask: No story at all? At that point, appreciating his point of view, I’ll say, You’re right, at this age you do need a story to explain everything just so you can live in peace, otherwise you’d come unhinged. And with that, as if slipping a joker into my deck of millions of cards, I’d write

Story

and begin to gather together the cards in a way that tells a tale. But no sooner have I done that than the young reader peppers me with questions: But what’s the meaning of all of this? What does it add up to? To what conclusion are you leading me? What should we believe? What’s right, what’s wrong? What is life? What should I do?

As I passed by the beach, the sun went in behind the clouds, and the whole mass of people covering the sand suddenly had no purpose for being there. I tried to imagine them stretched out not on the sand but on a glacier, their business being not to sunbathe but rather to warm up the ice sheet, the way hens brood on their eggs. I recognized my intention: to break the chain of causality, to free myself of the moral imperative of necessity. If what they were lying on were ice instead of sand, I could recover my innocence; under such freedom I could do anything, anything was possible if one’s imagination was free. I walked on.

The sun came out again. I went to the store and asked for three bottles of beer. While the clerk was putting the beer into a brown paper bag, I tried to find a resemblance between another customer—a short ugly old man with a big forehead who was waiting there—and Edward G. Robinson. The amazing thing was he
really did look like him, from the pointy noise to the little teeth and the mole on his cheek. But he also had the big head, and there was a mustache. So, to ask the question that was central to the hopeless social sciences of a non-Western country: How does the physical construct we have before us differ from the original of which it is a poor copy? The answer could be a bald head and a mustache or, equally, it could be democracy and industry. I came eye to eye with the fake Edward G. Robinson. Suddenly he said what he felt: Sir, do you know how hard it is for me to spend my whole life as a pale copy of someone else! My wife and children look at the real Edward G. Robinson and then criticize me for the ways in which I don’t look enough like him, as though it were my fault. Is it a crime to resemble him somewhat, for God’s sake, tell me, can’t a person just be himself, if that guy hadn’t been a famous actor what would have happened, what fault could they have found with me then? I thought, and I told him that they’d have just found some other famous original and criticized your inadequate resemblance to him. Yes, of course, you’re right, sir, tell me, are you a sociologist or something, or perhaps a professor? An associate professor, actually! Then the aged Edward G. Robinson slowly picked up his cheese and left. I took my bottles; I, too, had had enough for now.

At home, I put the beers in the fridge, but the devil got to me as I was closing the door, and I poured myself a glass of
raki
, having it on an empty stomach as though it were medicine, and I went to find Nilgün. She was waiting for me so we could go out. Her hair and the pages of her book were fluttering in the wind. I said there was nothing to see in the neighborhood, so we decided to take the car. I went upstairs for the keys, getting my notebook, too, then I picked up the
raki
bottle, a bottle of water, and some beers from the kitchen, not forgetting the opener. When she saw what I was bringing, Nilgün ran off and got the radio. The car started up with a whine and cough. We made our way slowly through the crowd coming from the beach, and, as we left the neighborhood toward the open spaces, a bolt of lightning flashed very far off. The elegant thunder clap came much later.

“Where should we go?” I said after a while. “To your caravanserai with the plague,” said Nilgün. “
Nights of Plague and Nights of Paradise,
” I muttered. “Is that a novel you’re reading?” said Nilgün in astonishment. “Do you know,” I said, suddenly more animated, “this whole idea of the plague is getting to me more and more. Last night I remembered having read somewhere that it was plague which allowed Cortez to defeat the Aztecs and take Mexico City with such a small army. When plague broke out in the city, the Aztecs decided that God must be on the side of Cortez.” “That’s great,” said Nilgün. “Now, just uncover our plague, connect it with some other events, and you’ll be on your way.” “But what if there is no such thing.” “Then you won’t be!” “And what do I do then?” “You’ll do what you’ve always done, keep tinkering with history.” “I’m afraid I won’t be able to do that anymore.” “Why do you refuse to believe you could be a good historian?” “Because I know that people can’t be anything in Turkey.” “Nonsense.” “Yes, you better learn that now, that’s how this country is. Give me some of the
raki
.” “Oh no, you don’t! Look how pretty it is here. Cows and everything. Auntie Cennet’s cows.” “Cows!” I bleated. “I’m surrounded by them every day!” “Seriously, aren’t you just looking for an excuse to give up on yourself?” said Nilgün. “Exactly, so pass the
raki!
” “But why give up like that?” said Nilgün. “Isn’t that a waste? A man like you?” “Lots of people give up. What’s so wasteful about my case?” “Well, sir, for one thing you’ve spent much more time studying than they have!” Nilgün said in a teasing voice. “You actually want to say that seriously, but you don’t dare, am I right?” “Actually, yes,” said Nilgün, this time with conviction. “Why should a person give up on himself for nothing?” “It’s not for nothing,” I said. “When I give up on myself I’ll be happy. I’ll be myself then.” “But you are yourself now,” said Nilgün, with a slight hesitation. “Where are you going?” “Up there,” I said, suddenly getting enthusiastic. “Up where?” she said. “Wherever we can have the best view of everything. All of it together …” “All of what?” “Maybe if I can see everything at once …” “Maybe what?” said Nilgün, but I was pensively unresponsive.

Silently, we went up the hill, passing Ismail’s house. I turned onto the Darica Road, going by the cemetery, and then took the old dirt road that ran behind the cement factory, and we swayed back and forth as the car rumbled up the road that had been left rutted by the rain. When we got to the top it had started to sprinkle. I turned the nose of the car toward the view, stopped, and, like the young people who came here from Cennethisar in the middle of the night to kiss, we gazed at the view: the shore that twisted and turned as far as Tuzla, the factories, vacation villages, the campsites of bank employees, the olive groves fast disappearing, the cherry trees, the agricultural college, the meadow where Mehmet the Conqueror died, the barge on the sea, the trees, houses, shadows, all were being swallowed up by the rain that was gradually advancing on us from Tuzla Point. We saw the quivering white trace of the thunderstorm on the sea. I filled my glass with the remains of the
raki
bottle and drank up.

“You’ll ruin your stomach!” said Nilgün. “Why do you think my wife left me?” I said. There was a brief silence; then Nilgün said carefully, reluctantly, “I thought the decision was mutual.” “No, she just left me.” “No.” “Actually, yes,” I said. “Hey, look at the rain!” “I don’t understand.” “Don’t understand what? The rain? If you drank you’d understand more. Why don’t you drink? Maybe you consider it a sign of defeat?” “No, I don’t think like that.” “Yes, you do, I know what you think. So I’m surrendering, so what?” “But you haven’t even declared a war yet,” said Nilgün. “I’m surrendering because I can’t stand living with two souls. Do you ever feel that way: sometimes I think I’m two people. But I’ve made up my mind, I’m not going to do it anymore. I’m going to be one person, one whole, completely healthy person. I love the carpet commercials on television, and those for refrigerators overflowing with food, I love my students who raise their hands during exams and ask, Professor, can we start from the second question? I love the magazine supplements of the newspapers, guys who hug one another when they drink, the ads for night schools and sausage that you see inside buses. Do you understand?” “A little,” said Nilgün in a melancholy way. “The sky
looks bad, doesn’t it?” “Yes …” “Well, I’m drunk.” “You couldn’t be drunk on what you’ve had.” So I opened one of the bottles of beer, and as I drank from it I said, “Well, what do you think looking down at everything from up here?” “You can’t see everything …,” said Nilgün seeming cheerful now. “What if you could? I remember a passage from
The Praise of Folly:
if someone were to go to the moon and look down at the earth and see everything happening all at once, what would he think?” “Maybe he would think it was all confusion.” “Yes,” I said, and suddenly I recalled, “ ‘This matter of the imagination seems confused as well …’ ” “What’s that from?” “It’s a poem of Nedim’s from the early eighteenth century!” I said. “His capping off a
ghazal
of Nesati’s. It just stuck in my mind.” “Recite a little more!” “I don’t remember any more. At the moment, however, I’m rereading Evliya’s travels. Why do you suppose we’re not more like him?” “What do you mean?” “Well, this majestic poet and a singular soul, he manages to be himself. I can’t do it. Can you?” “I guess I haven’t really thought about it enough,” said Nilgün. “Oh,” I said. “So cautious. You’re terrified to take one step outside of your books, you can’t help but keep the faith, like my colleagues … Look, the rain’s made the factory disappear. What a strange place this world is.” “What do you mean?” “I don’t know … Am I boring you?” “Not at all.” “We should have brought Recep along.” “He wouldn’t have come.” “Right, he’d be embarrassed.” “I really like Recep,” said Nilgün. “Chops!” “What?” “That’s the sneaky dwarf in one of Dickens’s novels …” “Faruk, you are really cruel.” “Yesterday he was trying to ask me about some historical event in Üsküdar, I think.” “What did he ask?” “I didn’t really give him a chance to ask! Look what he showed me today!” “You really are cruel.” “A list that our grandfather wrote.” “Our grandfather?” I reached in and pulled it out of my notebook. “Where’d you get that?” “I told you, Recep gave it to me!” I said and began to read aloud. “ ‘Knowledge, hats, pictures, commerce, submarines …’ ” “I don’t get it.” “List of things lacking in our poor Turkey.” “You know Recep’s nephew Hasan?” “No.” “I think that Hasan has been following me, Faruk.” “Shall I
continue with the list?” “I’m telling you he’s following me.” “Why should he be following you? Let’s see, ‘submarines, a bourgeoisie, the art of painting, steam power, chess, a zoo …’ ” “I just don’t get it.” “You never even go out—how could he be following you … ‘factories, professors, discipline.’ Pretty funny, isn’t it?” “Every time I come back from the beach this Hasan is behind me.” “Maybe he wants to be friends.” “Yes, that’s what he said.” “Well, that explains it … Our grandfather had given this matter some real thought, all those years ago, let’s see, ‘zoo, factories, professors’—well, I think we have enough professors by now—‘mathematics, principles, sidewalk,’ and then he wrote with a different pen ‘the fear of death’ and ‘the awareness of nothingness’ and ‘liberty.’ ” “That’s enough, Faruk.” “Maybe he’s in love with you.” “Something like that, I suppose.” “Now, here’s his list of the things we have an excess of: ‘men, villagers, bureaucrats, Muslims, soldiers, women, children.’ ” “Those don’t seem funny to me.” “ ‘Coffee, laziness, arrogance, bribery, sleepiness, fear, porters … minarets, honor, cats, dogs, guests, family and friends, bedbugs, oaths, beggars …’ ” “Enough!” “ ‘Garlic, onions, servants, shopkeepers’—certainly too many of all of those—‘little shops, imams …’ ” “You’re making this up.” “I’m not. Take a look.” “It’s in the old script.” “Recep showed this to me today, read it, he said our grandfather gave it to him.” “Why would he have given it to him?” “I don’t know.” “Look at the rain! Is that an airplane I hear?” “Yes!” “In this weather!” “The plane is such an incredible thing!” “Yes!” “Imagine we were in that plane right now.” “It would probably crash. Faruk, let’s go back, I’ve had enough.” “My wife always used to say that. First, tell me what you think of me.” “What I think of you? I love you very much, Faruk.” “Besides that.” “I wish you wouldn’t drink so much.” “And?” “And why are you like this, my wonderful sweet brother?” “Like what?” “I want you to be happy!” “You think I’m no fun? Wait, let me entertain you. Where’s my notebook? Hand it here! Listen: ‘Butcher Halil’s twenty-one
akçe
’s worth of beef were weighed and came out one hundred twenty dirhems short.’ The date, the thirteenth of Zilhicce 1023, so that’s, let’s see,
January fourteenth 1615.” “But what does it mean?” “The meaning is very clear: ‘The servant Isa robbed his master Ahmet of thirty thousand
akçe
, a saddle, a horse, two swords, and a shield, then took refuge with someone named Ramazan.’ ” “Very interesting! Maybe you should turn on the windshield wipers.” “Interesting? What’s interesting about it?” “It makes me glad that these things intrigue you, but please, dear brother, don’t drink so much.” “Nilgün, would you like to come stay with me?” “What?” “Not in this car, at my house, I’m very serious now, instead of living with our aunt in Istanbul, Nilgün, come stay with me. There’s a huge empty room and I’m all alone.” There was a silence. “Thank you, it is a good idea,” said Nilgün. “Well?” “I’m just wondering if my aunt and her family would think it was rude.” “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go back.” I turned on the ignition and started the windshield wipers.