I would feel it on my own lazy head. And suddenly on my lips would fly the Turkish poet’s verse:
“A drop of blood suffices to drown all tyranny and grief, O East! Awake, enough, O East! Awake, enough…”
Yes, living in this prison of resignation was making me ill. As the days passed, I became more nervous, paler, as if invisible needles were piercing my head.
One evening my head was aching terribly again. I felt like I would collapse. Midnight was approaching. “Let me get some air,” I said. Putting on my coat, I went out into the street. I didn’t know where I was going. I was passing through streets brighter than daylight with electric lights. Women, men, children, locals, foreigners mixed together, laughing, playing, flowing slowly and heavily. And over them waved a disgusting and sharp scent of debauchery and dissipation.
I was walking on the straight and shiny pavement, watching the pastry shops and haberdashery stores on my right and their contents to avoid seeing everything around me. From afar, I saw a clean and simple restaurant. It was nearly empty, quite deserted. The crowd on the avenue had bothered me greatly. Suddenly I felt the desire to enter this deserted place that resembled a Turkish restaurant. I entered through the open door. “I’ll have some soup at least,” I was saying. As soon as I sat down, the waiter came. He handed me the menu written in English and French and asked what I wanted. Without reading, I said, “Soup…” And when he brought it, I began to eat.
As I ate, I looked around. All the walls were mirrors. On the mirrors, large-scale portraits of the King and Queen of England and the Prince of Wales caught the eye. Next to them were other small pictures. They were probably oil paintings of Egypt’s pyramids and the Sphinx. I was absorbed in these. At that moment, a man entered through the door. He wore a large straw hat on his head. He was very stylish and tall. With the waiter’s help, he took off his hat and coat. He sat at the table right next to mine. I could see his reflection in the mirror across from him. I began to look carefully. Because I knew this face. But from where?
He was also looking at me in the mirror.
I was going through in my mind the foreigners and Greeks I had associated with in Istanbul and Thessaloniki. I couldn’t remember him at all. After the soup, I ate two more plates of food. He kept looking at me. Surely he wanted to recognize me too. I was getting uncomfortable now, feeling something like that unpleasant distress that troubles us when faced with unsolvable riddles. And I could see that he was bothered like me, I was aware of his discomfort. Finally, he finished his meal. He lit a cigarette. He got up. After putting on his coat and hat, he gave the waiter money and a tip. He was going outside. Suddenly he stopped in front of my table. There was almost a theatrical pose in his manner. He said my name.
“Isn’t that you?”
“Yes, it’s me,” I stammered. He was smiling, showing his bright teeth under his trimmed mustache.
“Didn’t you recognize me?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t remember.”
“I’m Ahmet Nihat…”
I immediately recognized the eyes that looked foreign and oriental under the hat. This was my school friend. But his state suddenly had a bad effect on me. I couldn’t get up and take his hand. I smiled forcedly. What was wrong with a Turk wearing a hat in a country like Egypt, which was at least considered Muslim by name? In fact, weren’t some foreigners here even wearing fezzes? He understood I was upset. And he broke the cold and awkward silence.
“What are you doing here, did you come to visit?”
I briefly said, “No, I was passing through.” He asked again: “Where to?”
“To Benghazi…”
“Ooh, heroism, eh… Congratulations. But you’re working in vain. That place is already lost.”
His saying this so suddenly irritated me even more. I answered somewhat rudely, unwillingly: “Turks who wear hats think so…”
He smiled even more. He was looking right into my eyes. Somewhat quietly he said, “But my dear, I’m not a Turk.” I was astonished.
“If you’re not a Turk, you’re an Ottoman, right?…”
“No, I’m not an Ottoman either.”
“At least you’re a Muslim, right?…”
“No, my dear, I’m not a Muslim either.”
I was completely astonished. His smile had also become strange.
“Then what are you?” I asked. And I looked at his face. He answered coolly: “I’m a Catholic and I’m French…”
His saying this touched my nerves. I was a bit bitter and sour, wanting to mock him. I wasn’t smiling, only showing my teeth.
“The Ahmet Nihat I knew could be a Catholic. There are no shortage of people in this world who can change their creed like clothes, who sell their conscience like a common commodity. But an Ahmet who was born in Istanbul, whose mother is Turkish, whose father is Turkish, who comes from a family that speaks Turkish, who has Turkish blood in his veins, cannot change his nationality. He cannot become French, he only deceives himself…”
“No, I’m not deceiving myself. I’m a pure Frenchman.”
“Is it possible? What kind of science is this, this is contrary to nature…”
“If you knew, you’d understand I’m telling the truth. But not here. It’s a bit long. Come on, get up. Let’s sit somewhere. Understand that I’m completely French and don’t be angry that I wear a hat, all right?”
He seemed to be mocking me… I already knew the nonsense he would say. He would claim that religions, traditions, customs, and racial theories were all legends; that nationalities change according to comfort, upbringing, and benefit; that if one sees the upbringing of any nation, one will possess that nation’s spirit; and finally, that a man who wants civilization must necessarily Europeanize. But I wanted to hear this empty and ugly claim from his mouth once. I gave the waiter my money. And I immediately got up. He was walking beside me. This fellow who had renounced his nationality resembled a dead or exploded dogfish that had come out of the sea. I felt almost a revulsion, I was disgusted, I was nauseated.
We didn’t walk much. We entered a large café. It was dazzlingly bright. We sat at a table on the side. Next to us was a large pot, inside it a plant I didn’t recognize was raising its large leaves to the ceiling, casting large and strange shadows over us. I leaned my elbows on the marble. “Come on now, I’m listening to you!” I looked at the face of this Turkish fugitive, this feelingless half-breed, as if [saying]. He showed no excitement at all; being with a friend from his old religion, his old nationality, his old country didn’t affect him at all.
“My story is as strange as a fictional and emotional novel,” he began. “You probably won’t believe it. But I’ll tell it briefly so as not to bore you. Listen carefully. Indeed, we didn’t associate very closely at school. Our spirits, our inclinations were different. There was some distance between us, not some… a lot. But you still know me. Remember. You Turks used to call me ‘Frankish Nihat’ and you were right. I would wear the latest fashion clothes, grow my nails long, reveal my irreligiousness, insult everything Turkish, and show fanaticism in my hatred to the point of not speaking Turkish.
I always spoke French and spent my holidays in Beyoğlu. I was disgusted and nauseated by everything Turkish and everything resembling Turkishness. I suffered more at home than at school. My father, with his large body, broad shoulders, strong arms, simple face, thick lips, resembled exactly a stupid Turkish wrestler. All his movements were vulgar, crude, and common. My mother, a very delicate and graceful Circassian, was terrified of him and hated him. I understood this. I didn’t love any of his relatives either. Istanbul seemed like a dungeon to me. If I hadn’t had Levantine friends, I might have gone mad. At night, Europe and western cities would appear in my dreams. I would always shut myself in my room, singing national pieces and operas shouting, sometimes even dancing alone. Finally, I went to Paris to study law. There, no one could call me a Turk. I had completely become French. I didn’t return to Istanbul during the holidays. In vain my mother and father called me. I made excuses about school. The western life that adorned my dreams when I was in Istanbul pleased me so much that when I remembered my country and that I was Turkish, I would become sad and tremble. I had a longing, a nostalgia. This nostalgia had attached an eternal refrain to my lips. I would repeat this refrain inwardly in crowds, aloud when alone.
‘Ah, why wasn’t I born French…’
And thinking that I was Turkish would give me the desire to kill myself. I finished my second year of studies. Again, I didn’t return to Istanbul during the holidays. I thought that if I went to Istanbul, I would die of rage and anger. One night, the idea of changing my nationality and religion came to my mind. I didn’t see the need for a court. I immediately decided. In a year, I would become a lawyer. I could find a small position in Paris and live comfortably. I had already made my decision, I was joking around, because I would never return to Istanbul, to the Turkish environment, I felt an indescribable joy. At that time, I received a telegram from Istanbul: ‘Your mother has undergone surgery. Her death is certain. Come quickly. She has a will for you.’ I didn’t care. Twenty-four hours hadn’t passed. I received a second telegram: ‘Your mother is giving up her soul. She has a will for you. If you don’t come, you will be deprived of your inheritance.’ I was going to ignore it again, but the inheritance matter turned my stomach. They had found my most sensitive nerve. Since childhood, I knew my benefit extremely well and preferred my benefit to everything. I had no choice but to get up. Without even taking my suitcase, I jumped on the train. I would wear that disgusting liver-like fez again, I would resemble a stupid Turk again, a red-headed soulless champagne bottle. I jumped from the station to a carriage. I had lowered the window curtains so as not to see my surroundings. I came straight home. They told me standing up. Cancer had appeared in my mother’s breast. They had operated twice. The doctors were saying ‘She won’t make it to tomorrow’ every day. I didn’t wait. I immediately went to her side. Poor mother seemed as if she had died. Only her eyes were alive. She smiled when she saw me. She called me to her side. She wanted to hold my hands. But she couldn’t lift her arm.
‘Everyone go out, everyone…’ she moaned. My father, bellowing like a cow in his nightshirt at her bedside, my elderly aunt, my aunt’s fat and widowed daughter, the servants, all went out the door. We two remained. My mother said in a weak voice, ‘Bolt the door…’ I found this precaution strange. I went and bolted it; I came back to the bedside.
‘What I’m going to say is a bit long, Nihat,’ she said, ‘pull up a chair.’
Without answering, I obeyed. I was looking at her face. The yellow color of death was slowly turning into a cold and terrible violet color. She started crying. Large tears were flowing from her eyes, clinging around her hair.
‘Why are you crying, mother? God willing, you’ll get better!’ I stroked her head with my hand. Smiling through her tears:
‘I don’t want consolation, Nihat,’ she said. ‘I’m dying; in an hour I’ll be dead. Let me cry. I’m crying from joy. If you hadn’t come, if you hadn’t arrived, a sacred secret would have gone to the grave with me. You wouldn’t have known.’
I didn’t understand anything, I was looking at her face distractedly. She continued, covering her eyes with her hands that she lifted with difficulty.
‘Don’t get angry, don’t be upset… Think that what you hear comes from the mouth of a dead person. The dead don’t keep secrets. Before dying, to tell the things we’ve hidden all our lives is the most sacred duty of humans.’
I still didn’t understand anything. ‘Mother,’ I said, ‘why would I get angry? I’ll gladly listen to whatever you say. I’ll carry out your will point by point. Here, I promise.’
‘No, I know, you’ll be upset,’ she answered. ‘If I were alive, if I weren’t lying on my deathbed, you’d probably throw me under your feet, crush me. But now I’m sure, nothing, nothing… You won’t even be able to raise your hand. Here, let me say it; your father is not your real father…’
I opened my eyes. And I was astonished. Holding her weak arm, I shouted, ‘He’s not my father? Then who is my father?’ I was dumbfounded. She, bringing one hand to her lips, looked at me as if pleading.
‘Quiet, Nihatcığım, they’ll hear from outside. But I want to tell only you. I married very young. The man who won’t leave my side even as I die, who won’t let me rest in my last breath, back then he made me suffer unimaginable torments. He couldn’t have children. Every evening he would scold me, provoke me, beat me, saying “Why aren’t you getting pregnant?” I couldn’t endure this life for three years. I got sick. I fell to bed. Many doctors came. They couldn’t cure me. Finally, Dubois examined me. This was a Frenchman. He was about forty years old. His hair had turned gray. He spoke very sweet but incorrect Turkish, making me laugh so hard. In short, I fell in love with this Dubois. Even after I got up from bed, he kept coming to see me every week, and because he was a doctor, no one suspected anything. I also started going to his house in Beyoğlu. Our love lasted more than a year. I became pregnant with you. Yes, I became pregnant with you from him… But this luck, this happiness didn’t last. Monsieur Dubois was going to his country. His father had died there, and all his family, home, and small farm had been left to him. He was a man who loved solitude very much. He left his position in Istanbul. He wanted to withdraw to his mother’s side, to the village where he was born. He pressed me so much to run away together… I can’t describe it. Ah, I wish I had run away… Finally, when he understood he couldn’t persuade me, he became desperate. The last day I went to his house to say goodbye, we locked ourselves in his room for exactly five hours. And we cried in his bed, we cried. I was young. But he was mature.
Close to when we would separate, stroking me with his hand, he said, “Ah my darling, this is my child, but unfortunately I won’t be able to see it,” he said, “life was certainly made for sorrow and tears. At least promise. When he grows up, will you send him to me, at least to see him?”
Crying and swearing, I promised. He gave me the address of his village and farm. He said he would never leave there until he died. I’m sure he’s still there. Because he had a very emotional and poetic nature. He had even come to Istanbul with the enthusiasm of this nature. He also left a photograph as a memento…’
She closed her eyes again. And began to cry. Her story and the repetition of the past had tired the poor thing a lot. She continued through sobs.
‘Twenty-five years have passed since then. I’ve always looked at this photograph secretly. You grew up. You completely resembled him… Here, I’m dying. Take the keys under my pillow, open that console. There you’ll find the photograph inside a blue envelope. Your father’s, dear Dubois’s address is written on the back. Go. Find him. If he’s alive, tell him that in my last breath I died remembering him, saying his name, thinking of the beautiful and sweet hours we spent together…’
She was crying and choking. I put my hand under the pillow. There were four keys tied to a purple ribbon. With the largest one, I opened the console at the head of the bed. I took the blue envelope. My hands were trembling. I looked at the photograph. Suddenly I said, ‘Oh…’ This picture completely resembled me. It was as if it was completely my photograph. Only the grayness of the hair was different. I read the address. A village near Paris… I had even gone there on a trip last year. I closed the envelope again. I turned to my mother. Her sobbing and all had stopped. I touched her hand. It fell. She had fainted. She didn’t wake up until evening. She didn’t come to herself at night either. In the morning, when I opened my eyes on the couch where I slept, I saw the whole house covered with a cry. My mother had died. Before the funeral, I left the house. I had mentioned to my father that my heart couldn’t bear it and I had convinced him. I jumped on the first train. And got off in Paris. I was leaving the inheritance matter to my father, pardon… to my mother’s Turkish husband. Without wasting time, I found Monsieur Dubois. He was living at the address my mother had left. A small and clean village house… Our first meeting was a bit theatrical. When he saw that youthful photograph, he remembered everything. I told him about my mother’s last moments.
‘What fidelity! What fidelity!’ he was saying and trembling. This was a senile, white-haired and white-bearded old man. He found me good and loved me. It turned out he had never married. He offered to give me his name. I gladly accepted. In short, not to prolong it, I also changed my religion. My name today is Pierre Dubois… My father had many friends in Paris. When I got my law diploma, he found me an important clerical position at a commercial bank. Now I’ve come to Egypt for a business matter of the bank I’m employed by. Now, my dear, did you understand that I’m a pure Frenchman?”
He was smiling and looking at my face with a victorious manner. My elbows leaning on the marble had gone numb and were aching. I pulled back.
“I understand, but you weren’t Turkish anyway… You’re a bastard!” I said, getting up. He was probably expecting admiration and amazement from me. He asked:
“What’s that? Are you leaving? You could at least have had a drink. We could have talked.”
Now my nervousness, the Turkish mind that had taken hold of me, the faith I had nourished about the unreachable honor of the Turkish harem, this innocent and sacred dream was now broken, now shattered!
“I have nothing to discuss with Monsieur Pierre Dubois,” I said. I left without saying goodbye. I threw myself out into the street.
At the hotel, in my bed, I hardly slept at all that night until morning. I kept thinking about Ahmet Nihat’s unpleasant, shapeless behaviors at school and his cold bows, his strange poses, and then I was remembering those long-nailed, latest-fashion-dressed, monocled dandies in Istanbul who denied their Turkishness, hated Turkishness, looked down on Turkishness and tried to Europeanize with all their being, and I was saying to myself, “I wonder if all of them are bastards too? Did all their mothers get pregnant in Beyoğlu?” and among terrible nightmares I was seeing large, black and bloody crosses rising in torn red and ruined crescents, bronze and fire-colored.
Ömer Seyfettin
