The Bastard of Istanbul (44 page)

“Ours will,” Selim Kazancı rasped in return, a defense he would repeat each time. “I made up my mind. Levon it shall be!”

But when the time came to take the baby to the Population Registrar, he softened.

“What is the boy’s name?” the lanky, edgy-looking clerk asked without lifting his head from over a mammoth, clothbound notebook with a maroon spine.

“Levon Kazancı.”

The officer lifted his reading glasses to the bridge of his nose and took a long look at Rıza Selim Kazancı for the first time. “Kazancı is indeed a fine surname, but what kind of a Muslim name is Levon?”

“It is not a Muslim name; it was a good man’s name nevertheless, ” Rıza Selim Kazancı replied tensely.

“Sir,” the officer raised his voice a notch, sounding self-important and knowing it. “I know what an influential family the Kazancıs are. A name like Levon will not serve you well. If we write down this name, this boy of yours might have problems in the future. Everyone will assume that he is Christian, although he is a hundred percent Muslim. . . . Or am I mistaken? Is he not Muslim?”

“He sure is,” Rıza Selim immediately corrected.
“Elhamdülillah. ”
For a fleeting moment it occurred to him to confide in the clerk that the boy’s mother was an Armenian orphan converted to Islam and this would be a gesture to her, but something inside told him to keep this information to himself.

“Well, then, with all due respect to the good man you want to name this child after, let’s make a slight change. Make it something akin to Levon, if you so wish, but choose a Muslim name this time. How about Levent?” The clerk then added kindly, too kindly for the harshness of the statement he was about to make: “Otherwise, I am afraid I will have to refuse to register him.”

And so it was Levent Kazancı; the boy born upon the ashes of a past still smoldering; the boy no one knew his father had once wanted to name Levon; the boy who would one day be abandoned by his mother and grow up sullen and bitter; the boy who would be a terrible father to his own children. . . .

Were it not for the pomegranate brooch, could Shermin Kazancı have ever found the urge to leave her husband and son? It is hard to say. With them she had started a family and a new life with only one direction for it to go in. For her to have a future, she had to become a woman with no past. Her childhood identity was nothing more than morsels of memory, like crumbs of bread she had scattered behind for some bird to nibble on, since she herself would never be able to return the same way back home. Though even the dearest memories of her childhood eventually vanished, the brooch remained vividly ingrained in her mind. And years later when a man from America appeared at her door, it would be this very brooch that helped her to fathom that the stranger was none other than her own brother.

Yervant Stamboulian appeared at her door with dark, bright eyes set off by black, bushy eyebrows, a sharp nose, and a thick mustache that grew to his chin, making him look like he was smiling even when doleful. With a trembling voice and in words that were lacking to him, he announced who he was and then told her, half in Turkish, half in Armenian, that he had come all the way from America to find her. As much as he wanted to hug his sister there and then, he knew she was a married Muslim woman now. He stayed on the doorstep. Around them the Istanbul breeze drew circles and for a second it was as if they were pulled out of time.

At the end of their brief exchange, Yervant Stamboulian gave Shermin Kazancı two things: the golden pomegranate brooch and time to think.

Perplexed and dazed, she closed the door and waited for the revelation to sink in. Beside her on the floor Levent crawled and babbled with unbounded enthusiasm.

She went quickly to her room and hid the brooch inside one of the drawers in her wardrobe. When she came back she found the toddler laughing, having just managed to pull himself up into a standing position. The baby stood like that for a full second, took a step, then another one, and brusquely fell back on his bottom, the delightful fear of his first steps sparkling in his eyes. Suddenly the boy broke into a toothless smile and exclaimed: “Ma-ma!”

The entire house took on a rare, almost ghostly luminosity, as Shermin Kazancı broke out of her daze and repeated to herself: “Ma-ma!” This was the second word that had come out of Levent’s mouth, after experimenting with “Da-da” for a while and finally saying “Ba-ba” the day before. Now she realized her son had uttered the word
father
in Turkish but the word
mother
in Armenian. Not only had she herself had to unlearn the language once so dear to her, but now she was obliged to teach the same process to her son. She stared at the toddler, baffled and brooding. She didn’t want to correct “Ma-ma” by replacing the word with its equivalent in Turkish. The withdrawn but still vivid profiles of her ancestors surfaced. This new name, religion, nationality, family, and self she had acquired had not succeeded in overtaking her true self. The pomegranate brooch whispered her name and it was in Armenian.

Shermin Kazancı cuddled her son and for three full days managed not to think about the brooch.

But on the third day, as if her mind had been reflecting and her heart aching without her knowing it, she ran to the drawer and held the brooch tightly in her palms, feeling its warmth.

Rubies are distinguished gemstones known by their fiery red color. Yet it is not uncommon for them to alter their color, growing darker and darker inside, especially when their owners are in jeopardy. There exists a particular kind of ruby which the connoisseurs call the “Pigeon’s Blood”—a precious blood-red ruby with a hint of blue, as if dimmed deep inside. That ruby was the last surviving reminiscence from
The Little Lost Pigeon and the Blissful Country.

On the eve of the third day, Shermin Kazancı found a brief moment of solitude after dinner to sneak into her room. Appealing for consolation that no one could grant her, she stared at the Pigeon’s Blood.

Only then did she acknowledge what she needed to do.

A week later on a Sunday morning she went to the harbor where her brother awaited her with a pounding heart and two tickets to America. In lieu of a suitcase, Shermin only had a small bag. She left all her possessions behind. As for the pomegranate brooch, she put it in an envelope with a letter explaining her situation and asked her husband two things: to give the brooch to their son as something to remember her by, and to forgive her.

When the plane landed in Istanbul, Rose was exhausted. She moved her swollen feet carefully, fearing they wouldn’t fit into her shoes anymore, though she was wearing comfortable orange leather DKNY footwear. She wondered to herself how on earth these stewardesses with their high heels could stay on their feet through a whole day of flying.

It took Mustafa and Rose half an hour to get their passports stamped, get through customs, pick up their luggage, exchange money, and find a car rental service. Mustafa thought it would be better if they had their own car, rather than using the family car. From a brochure Rose first chose a Grand Cherokee Laredo 4x4, but Mustafa advised something smaller for the crammed streets of Istanbul. They agreed on a Toyota Corolla.

Shortly thereafter, the two of them walked out of the arrivals area, pushing a cart loaded with a matching luggage set. They found a semicircle of strangers waiting outside. Among the group they first spotted Armanoush, smiling and waving; next to her was Grandma Gülsüm, her right hand pressed on her heart, about to faint from excitement. A step behind them stood Auntie Zeliha, tall and aloof, wearing a pair of dark purple-lensed sunglasses.

R
ose and Mustafa spent their first two days in Istanbul eating. At the table they answered a plethora of questions different members of the Kazancı family asked them from all directions: How was life in America? Was there really a desert in Arizona? Was it true that Americans survived on mammoth portions of fast food, only to go on a diet in TV contests? Was the American version of
The Apprentice
better than the Turkish version? And so on.

Then there followed a series of more personal questions: Why didn’t they have children together? Why hadn’t they come to Istanbul before? Why didn’t they stay longer? WHY?

The questions had opposing effects on the couple. Rose for her part did not seem to mind the interrogation. If anything she enjoyed being in the spotlight. Mustafa, however, steadily drifted into silence, getting smaller and smaller in his body. He spoke little, spending most of his time reading Turkish newspapers, conservative and progressive alike, as if trying to catch up with the country he had left. From time to time he asked questions about this or that politician, questions answered by whoever might know the answer. Though always an avid newspaper reader, he had never been so interested in politics.

“So this conservative party in power seems to be losing blood. What is their chance of winning in the coming elections?”

“Rascals! They are a bunch of liars,” growled Grandma Gülsüm, in lieu of an answer. There was a tray in her lap with a pile of uncooked rice, which she sorted through before cooking in case there were any stones or husks. “All they know is to make promises to the people and forget what they said as soon as they get elected.”

From his armchair by the window, Mustafa glanced up at his mother over the newspaper in his hand. “What about the party in opposition? The social democrats?”

“Same difference!” came the answer. “They are all a bunch of liars. All politicians are corrupt.”

“If we had more women in the parliament everything would be different,” Auntie Feride joined in, wearing the I LOVE ARIZONA T-shirt Rose had brought her as a present.

“Mama is right. If you ask me, the only trustworthy institution in this country has always been the army,” Auntie Cevriye said. “Thank God we have the Turkish army. If it weren’t for them—”

“Yes, but they should let us women serve in the army,” interrupted Auntie Feride. “I myself would go immediately.”

Asya stopped translating the conversation for Rose and Armanoush, who were sitting alongside her, and chuckled as she said in English, “One of my aunts is a feminist, the other is a staunch militarist! And they get along so well. What a nuthouse!”

Grandma Gülsüm turned to her son, suddenly concerned. “How about you, dear? When are you going to complete your military duty?”

Having a hard time following despite the instantaneous translation, Rose turned to her husband and blinked.

“Don’t you worry about me,” Mustafa said. “Provided I pay a certain fee, and show them I live and work in America, I do not have to complete full-term military service. I’ll be done with only basic training. Just a month, that’s all. . . .”

“But isn’t there a deadline for that?” someone asked.

“Yes there is,” Mustafa replied. “You need to go through this training by age forty-one.”

“Well, then you need to do it this year,” Grandma Gülsüm said. “You are forty now. . . .”

Sitting at the end of the table painting her nails a shiny cherry, Auntie Zeliha raised her head and darted Mustafa a glance. “What a fateful age,” she hissed all of a sudden. “The age your father died, just like his father and his grandfather. . . . You must be pretty nervous now that you are forty, my brother. . . . So close to death. . . .”

The silence that followed was so deadly it made Asya inadvertently recoil.

“How can you talk to him like that?” Grandma Gülsüm rose to her feet, the tray of rice still in her hands.

“I can say whatever I want to whomever I want.” Auntie Zeliha shrugged.

“You shame me! Get out, miss,” Grandma Gülsüm rasped, her voice low and steely. “Get out of my house right now.”

Still having two fingernails unpainted, Auntie Zeliha left the brush in the bottle, pulled back her chair, and walked out of the room.

On the third day of their visit, Mustafa stayed in his room all day long, excusing himself as sick. He had been running a fever, which must have diminished not only his energy but also his ability to talk, for he had grown excessively quiet. His face was drawn, his mouth dry, and his eyes bloodshot, though he was neither boozed up nor had he cried. For hours on end, he stayed in bed lying still and supine, studying indiscernible motifs of dirt and dust up on the ceiling. Meanwhile, Rose and Armanoush and the three aunts walked the streets of Istanbul, particularly the streets around shopping centers.

They went to bed earlier than usual that night.

“Rose, honey,” Mustafa whispered to his wife as he caressed her light blond hair. The straightness, the blondness, the smoothness of his wife’s hair had always soothed him, canopying him tenderly against his dark-haired family and dark-haired past. She lay against him, her body warm and soft. “Rose, sweetheart. We need to go back. Let’s fly back tomorrow.”

“Are you crazy? I’m still jet-lagged.” Rose yawned, stretching her sore limbs. She was wearing an embroidered satiny nightgown she had bought that day from the Grand Bazaar, and looked pale and tired, less from the jet lag than from the shopping frenzy. “Why are you so antsy? Can’t you bear to see your own family for a few days?” She pulled the soft covers up to her chin and in the warmth of the bed pressed her breasts against him. Then she patted his hand as if sweet-talking a boy and she kissed his neck gingerly, soothingly, but when she tried to pull away he wanted more, hungry for passion.

“Everything’s fine,” Rose said as her body tensed up and her breath quickened only to rapidly dwindle. “I am so tired, sorry honey. . . . Five more days and then we’ll go home.” With that she turned off the lamp by her side and it only took her a few seconds to fall asleep.

Mustafa lay there in the dim light, distracted from his erection, looking disappointed and taut. Though heavy-eyed he couldn’t possibly sleep. He lay still there for a long time until he heard a knock on the door. “Yes?”