City Lights and Happiness
THAT EVENING Sibel's old classmate Ye?im was getting engaged at the Pera Palas; everyone was going to be there, so I went. In her shiny silver dress, over which she had thrown a knitted shawl, Sibel seemed delighted, as if this party were a rehearsal for our own engagement, and she took an interest in every detail, mingling with all the guests, smiling constantly.
By the time Uncle Süreyya's son (whose name I always forget) introduced me to Inge, the German model who'd done the Meltem commercials, I had downed two glasses of rak? and felt relaxed.
"How are you finding Turkey?" I asked her in English.
"I've only been in Istanbul," said Inge. "I'm so surprised. I never imagined anything like this."
"What sort of thing did you imagine?"
For an awkward moment we stared at each other in silence. This was a wise woman. Having evidently learned how easily she could break a Turk's heart by saying the wrong thing, she smiled, and in broken Turkish, she repeated the Meltem slogan that had captivated the whole country: "You deserve it all!"
"All of Turkey has come to know you in the space of a week. How does that feel?"
"The police recognize me, and so do the taxi drivers, and everyone in the street, too," she said, as gleeful as a child. "There was even a balloon seller who stopped me, gave me a balloon, and said, 'You deserve it all.' It's easy to become famous in a country that has only one television channel."
Did she know how rude she was being even as she struggled to be humble? "So how many channels do you have in Germany?" I asked. Realizing that she had said something wrong, she blushed. I thought there had been no need for me to say that after all. "Every morning on my way to work, I see your picture blown up so large it covers the side of an entire apartment building, and it's lovely," I said, by way of recovery.
"Oh, yes, you Turks are way ahead of Europe as far as advertising is concerned."
These words made me so pleased that for a moment I forgot she was just trying to be polite. I searched the merry, chirping crowd for Zaim. He was across the room, chatting with Sibel. It pleased me to think they might yet become friends. Even all these years later, I can remember the haze of euphoria that enveloped me. Sibel had coined a private nickname for him: "You-Deserve-It-All Zaim"; she found Meltem's promotional slogan to be selfish and insensitive. In a poor and troubled country like Turkey with young leftists and rightists busy killing each other, it was, she felt, ugly.
A lovely spring breeze was wafting through the balcony's grand doors, carrying the scent of linden trees. The lights of the city shone on the Golden Horn below. Even the slums and shantytowns of Kas?mpa?a looked beautiful. I thought how happy I was, even feeling as if this was a prelude to yet greater happiness. The gravity of what had transpired with Füsun confused me, but I told myself that everyone has his secrets, fears, and moments of worry. No one could guess how many of these elegant guests felt similarly uneasy or carried secret spiritual wounds, but it was when we were in crowds like this, surrounded by friends—and having downed a glass of rak? or two—that we persuaded ourselves how trivial and transitory those sentiments were.
"You see that nervous man over there?" Sibel said. "He's the famous Cold Suphi. He picks up every matchbox he can lay his hands on and saves them all. Apparently he has rooms and rooms full of them. They say he became that way after his wife left him. Let's not have the waiters wear such weird outfits at our engagement party, promise? Why are you drinking so much? Listen, I have something to tell you."
"What?" I said.
"Mehmet's really smitten with the German model—he won't leave her side—and Zaim is getting jealous. Oh, the one over there, the one who's the son of your uncle Süreyya … He's also related to Ye?im. Is there something upsetting you, something I should know about?"
"No, not at all, there's nothing wrong. I'm actually feeling very content."
Even all these years later I remember that Sibel spoke to me sweetly. Sibel was fun, and clever, and sympathetic, and I knew that with her at my side I would be fine, not just then but for the rest of my life. Late that night, after I had taken her home, I walked for a long time through the dark and empty streets, thinking about Füsun. What I couldn't stop thinking about, what perturbed me was not just that Füsun had given me her virginity; it was that she had shown such resolve in doing so. There had been no coyness, no indecision, not even when she was taking off her clothes.
At home I found our sitting room empty; sometimes I would come home to find that my father, having gotten up in the middle of the night, was sitting out there in his pajamas, and I would enjoy chatting with him before I went to bed; but tonight both he and my mother were asleep—through their bedroom door, I could hear his snores and her sighs. Before going to bed I poured myself another rak? and smoked another cigarette. But even so I did not drop off to sleep at once. My head was still swimming with visions of our lovemaking, and these began to mix with the details of the night's engagement party.
