The Bastard of Istanbul (22 page)

Capable of recognizing the word
food
in every language possible, Auntie Banu bolted to the kitchen to bring the lentil soup. Almost robotically Sultan the Fifth leaped over his cushion to follow her, meowing and pleading along the way.

As she sat in the chair reserved for her, Armanoush inspected the living room for the first time. Quickly, warily, she looked around, pausing at certain spots: the carved rosewood, glass-door cupboard with gilded coffee cups, tea-glass sets, and several antiques inside; the old piano against the wall; the exquisite rug on the floor; the multiple pieces of latticework glowing on top of the coffee tables, velvet armchairs, and even the TV set; the canary in an ornamented cage swinging by the balcony door; the pictures on the walls—a bucolic oil painting of a countryside too picturesque to be real, a calendar with the photograph of a different cultural and natural site in Turkey for each month; an evil-eye amulet; and a portrait of Atatürk in a tuxedo, waving his fedora toward a crowd not included in the frame. The entire room was pulsating with mementos and vivid hues—blues, maroons, sea greens, turquoises—and blazing with such luminosity that it seemed there was an additional light somewhere other than what radiated from the lamps.

Armanoush then looked at the dishes on the table with growing interest. “What a gorgeous table.” She beamed. “These are all my favorite foods. I see you have made hummus, baba ghanoush,
yalancı sarma
. . . and look at this, you have baked
churek
!”

“Aaaah, do you speak Turkish?!” Auntie Banu exclaimed, flabbergasted as she walked back in with a steaming pot in her hands and Sultan the Fifth still tailing her.

Armanoush shook her head, half-amused, half-solemn, as if feeling sorry to let down so much anticipation. “No, no. I do not speak the Turkish language, unfortunately, but I guess I speak the Turkish cuisine.”

Unable to get this last bit, Auntie Banu turned to Asya in despair, but the latter seemed to have no interest in fulfilling her role as translator, so fully absorbed was she in the task designated by the Turkish Donald Trump. The competitors were now instructed to dive deep into the textile industry to redesign the yellow and azure uniforms of one of the biggest soccer teams competing in the national league. The design rated highest by the soccer players themselves was going to win the competition. Meanwhile, Asya had been contemplating an alternative plan for this specific task as well, but this time she decided to keep it to herself. She didn’t feel like talking anymore. To tell the truth, the American girl had turned out to be far more beautiful than she had expected; not that she was
expecting
anything, but deep inside Asya had thought, and perhaps hoped, that it would be some stupid blonde who they would welcome at the airport.

For some reason unknown to her, Asya wanted to confront the guest, but lacked not so much the reason as the energy. At this point, she’d rather remain aloof and reserved to make clear that she shunned this Turkish hospitality.

“So, tell us,” Auntie Feride asked after completing the inspection of the American girl’s hairstyle and finding it too plain. “How is America?”

The absurdity of the question was enough to make Asya lose her composure, no matter how resolute she might have been in her decision to remain detached. She gave her aunt a pained look. But if Armanoush too had found the question ludicrous, she didn’t show it. She was good with aunts. Aunts were her specialty. Her right cheek slightly gorged with the lump of hummus inside, she replied: “Good, good. It’s a big country, you know. Depending on where you live, there are different Americas.”

“Ask her how is Mustafa.” Grandma Gülsüm demanded, completely dismissing the last pieces of information, which she hadn’t understood.

“He is good, working hard,” Armanoush said while she simultaneously listened to Auntie Zeliha’s melodious voice translate her words. “They have a lovely house and two dogs. It is gorgeous out there in the desert. And the weather in Arizona is always nice, you know, nice and sunny. . . .”

When the soup was eaten and the starters nibbled, Grandma Gülsüm and Auntie Feride made a visit to the kitchen and returned carrying a huge tray each, perfectly synchronized in an Egyptian walk. They put the plates they had shouldered onto the table.

“You have pilaf,” Armanoush smiled and leaned forward inspecting the dishes. “There is
turşu
and . . .”

“Wow!” the aunts exclaimed in unison, impressed by their guest’s command of Turkish cuisine.

Armanoush suddenly spotted the last pot brought to the table. “Oh, I wish my grandma could see this, now this is a treat,
kaburga
. . . .”

“Wow!” echoed the chorus. Even Asya perked up with a dash of interest.

“Turkish restaurant many in America?” Auntie Cevriye asked.

“Actually, I happen to know this food because it is also part of the Armenian cuisine,” Armanoush replied slowly. Being presented to the family as Mustafa’s stepdaughter Amy, an American girl from San Francisco, she had initially planned to gradually reveal the secret about the remaining part of her identity, after having built up some degree of mutual trust. But here she was, galloping full speed directly into the nub of the matter.

Now lapsing into a taut yet equally self-confident mood, Armanoush straightened her back and looked from one end of the table to the other to see how everyone was reacting. The blank expressions she encountered on their faces urged her to explain herself better.

“I am Armenian . . . well, Armenian American.”

The words were not translated this time. There was no need to. The four aunts smiled simultaneously, each in her own way: one of them politely, the second worriedly, the third curiously, and the last amiably. But the most visible reaction came from Asya. Having now stopped watching
The Apprentice,
she eyed their guest with genuine interest for the first time, realizing that, after all, she might not be here to conduct research on “Islam and women.”

“Oh yeah?” Asya finally opened her mouth, and leaned forward putting her elbows on the table. “Tell me, is it true that System of a Down hates us?”

Armanoush blinked, having no idea what she was talking about. A cursory glance was enough to make her understand that she was not alone in her bewilderment; the aunts too looked puzzled.

“It’s this rock band that I like very much. The guys are Armenian and there are all these urban legends about how they hate the Turks and they wouldn’t want any Turk to enjoy their music, so I was just curious.” Asya shrugged, visibly discontent with giving this explanation to such an unknowledgeable bunch of people.

“I don’t know anything about them.” Armanoush pursed her lips. All of a sudden she felt so tiny here, weedy and vulnerable in the lonesomeness of being a stranger in a strange land. “My family was from Istanbul—I mean, my grandmother.” She pointed a finger at Petite-Ma as though she needed an elderly person to better illustrate the story.

“Ask her what their family name is.” Grandma Gülsüm elbowed Asya, sounding like she possessed the key to a secret archive in the basement wherein the records of all the Istanbulite families, past and present, were neatly kept.

“Tchakhmakhchian,” Armanoush replied when the question was translated to her. “You can call me Amy if you want but my full name is Armanoush Tchakhmakhchian.”

Auntie Zeliha’s face brightened as she exclaimed in recognition, “I’ve always found that interesting. The Turks add this suffix -
cı
to every possible word to generate professions. Look at our family name. It is
Kazan-cı.
We are the “Cauldron Makers.” Now I see Armenians do the same thing.
Çakmak . . . Çakmakçı, Çakmakçı-yan.
”

“So that’s one more thing in common.” Armanoush smiled. There was something in Auntie Zeliha she had liked right away. Was it the way she carried herself, with that eye-catching nose ring, the radically mini miniskirts, and the extra makeup she applied? Or was it her stare? Somehow she had a look that made one trust her to understand without being judgmental.

“Look, I have the address of the house.” Armanoush fished out a piece of paper from her pocket. “My grandma Shushan was born in this house. If you could help me with the directions, I’d like to go and visit it sometime.”

While Auntie Zeliha peered at the writing on the piece of paper, Asya noticed that something was bothering Auntie Feride. Casting panicky glances at the partly open balcony door, she looked agitated, like someone who had found herself facing a dangerous situation and not knowing which way to run.

Asya leaned sideways and, hunching over the steaming pilaf, muttered to her crazy aunt, “Yo, what’s up?”

Auntie Feride too leaned sideways, hunched over the steaming pilaf, and then, with eccentric sparkles in her gray green eyes, she whispered, “I heard stories about Armenians coming back to their old houses to dig out the chests their grandfathers had hidden there before they ran away.” She squinted her eyes and raised her voice a notch. “Gold and jewels,” she gasped, and paused to give that some thought until she had affably come to an agreement with herself: “Gold and jewels!”

It took Asya a few extra seconds to grasp what her aunt might be talking about.

“You understand what I’m saying, this girl is here to track down a treasure chest,” Auntie Feride added excitedly, now poring over the contents of an imaginary chest, her face brightening with the taste of adventure and the glow of rubies.

“You’re damn right!” Asya exclaimed. “Didn’t I tell you this? When she walked off the airplane, she was carrying a shovel and pushing a wheelbarrow instead of luggage. . . .”

“Oh, shut up!” Auntie Feride snapped, offended. She folded her arms and leaned back.

In the meantime, having detected a far deeper reason behind Armanoush’s visit, Auntie Zeliha asked, “So you came here to see your grandmother’s house. But why had she left?”

Armanoush was both eager to be asked this question and reluctant to answer. Was it too early to let them know? How much of her story should she reveal? If not now, when? Why should she have to wait, anyway? She sipped her tea. In a listless, almost sapped voice she said, “They were forced to leave.” But as soon as she said this, her weariness disappeared. She lifted her chin as she added, “My grandmother’s father, Hovhannes Stamboulian, was a poet and a writer. He was an eminent man, who was profoundly respected in the community.”

“What does she say?” Auntie Feride nudged Asya’s elbow, understanding the first half of the sentence but missing the rest.

“She says her family was a prominent family in Istanbul,” Asya whispered to her.

“Dedim sana altın liralar icin gelmiş olmalı.
. . . I told you she must have come here for golden coins!”

Asya rolled her eyes, less sarcastically than she had intended, before concentrating on Armanoush’s story.

“They tell me he was a man of letters who liked to read and contemplate more than anything in this world. My grandmother says I remind her of him. I too like books very much,” Armanoush added with a bashful smile.

Some of the listeners smiled back, and when the translation was over, all of the listeners smiled back.

“But unfortunately his name was on the list,” Armanoush said tentatively.

“What list?” Auntie Cevriye wanted to know.

“The list of Armenian intellectuals to be eliminated. Political leaders, poets, writers, members of clergy. . . . They were two hundred and thirty-four people total.”

“But why’s that?” asked Auntie Banu, a question which Armanoush skipped.

“On April 24, a Saturday, at midnight, dozens of Armenian notables living in Istanbul were arrested and forcibly taken to police headquarters. All of them had dressed up properly, spick-and-span as if going to a ceremony. They were wearing immaculate collars and elegant suits. All were men of letters. They were kept in the headquarters without an explanation until finally they were deported either to Ayash or to Chankiri. The ones in the first group were in worse condition than the second. Nobody survived in Ayash. The ones taken to Chankiri were killed gradually. My grandpa was among this group. They took the train from Istanbul to Chankiri under the supervision of Turkish soldiers. They had to walk three miles from the station to the town. Until then they had been treated decently. But during the walk from the station, they were beaten with canes and pickax handles. The legendary musician Komitas went mad as a result of what he saw. Once in Chankiri they were released on one condition: They were banned from leaving the town. So they rented rooms there, living with the natives. Every day, two or three of them would be taken by the soldiers outside the town for a walk and then the soldiers would come back alone. One day the soldiers took my grandpa for a walk too.”

Still smiling, Auntie Banu looked left and right, first to her sister then to her niece, to see who was going to translate all this, but to her surprise there was only perplexity on the faces of the two translators.

“Anyway, it is a long story. I won’t take your time with all the details. When her father died, my grandma Shushan was three years old. There were four siblings, she being the youngest and the only girl. The family had been left without its patriarch. My grandmother’s mother was a widow now. Finding it difficult to stay in Istanbul with the children, she sought refuge in her father’s house, which was in Sivas. But as soon as they arrived, the deportations began. The entire family was ordered to leave their house and belongings and march with thousands of others to an unknown destination.”

Armanoush studied her audience carefully, and decided to finish the story.

“They marched and marched. My grandmother’s mother died on the way and before long the elderly died as well. Having no parents to look after them, the younger children lost each other amid the confusion and chaos. But after months apart, the brothers were miraculously reunited in Lebanon with the help of a Catholic missionary. The only missing sibling among those still alive was my grandmother Shushan. Nobody had heard of the fate of the infant. Nobody knew that she had been taken back to Istanbul and placed in an orphanage.”