The House in Smyrna (11 page)

This journey I am undertaking, this strange country I find myself in, it all hurts. It's beautiful, it's interesting, it's funny, but it hurts. This inheritance hurts. The things I bring with me without choosing to hurt. This conversation of ours, Mother, hurts too. The love story that exacted a pound of my flesh hurts. Grandpa's story, your story, your torture, our exile; it all hurts. And, above all, it hurts to talk about the hurting. It hurts to write this story. Every new word I find hurts. Writing, Mother, hurts immensely. It hurts as much as it has to.

We hadn't seen each other for over a month. You called me and said, I need to see you. I didn't want to, but I needed to too, I wanted to too. When I heard the doorbell, I felt as if a date had arrived. I wanted to escape through the window but couldn't. I shuddered with fear, terror, desire, nostalgia. Come in, I called, the door's open. I was in the living room, sitting on the sofa. When I saw you, I stood up like an animal in danger, wary. You walked toward me and said: I miss you. You knew how to disarm me. I was still an animal in danger, but I no longer had the means to defend myself. I was shaking on the inside; my blood was racing. On the outside, I was just a defenceless girl. Your body was close to mine, almost flush against it; I registered your breathing, your smell, your presence, but I couldn't move. You look lovely, I heard. That was the second blow. The third was to unbutton my blouse. In my eyes were tears that didn't spill over. At that precise moment everything was extreme. Desire-elation-pleasure-pain: all together, all jumbled, all just one enormous thing, all immense, every emotion pulsing through my veins, through my paralysed body. You took off my blouse and let it fall to the ground. You unbuttoned my jeans, took them off, and dropped them on the ground too. Finally you pulled off my knickers and left me without anything on. It was as if you were touching my organs directly, my blood, my flesh, without any protection. That's how it felt when you ran your hands over my breasts over my stomach over my thighs between my thighs, when you stroked my face and lightly tugged on my hair, when you ran your lips over my entire body, when you took me, when you squeezed my legs, when you made me wet and I wet you too. That's how it felt from beginning to end: you touched my skin and I had no skin.

In a room that was three metres square, they turned on the air conditioner and set it to the lowest temperature. They wanted to make the place into a refrigerator. It was the first time she had experienced such harsh cold. She felt the skin of her face begin to crack, her naked body ready to splinter like ice. She shook. Her teeth chattered. She sensed the end was near and regretted getting involved; she didn't want to die. Immediately afterwards she didn't regret it: if she died, it would be for the right cause. She shook so much that it felt like her arms wanted to flee her body. She began to do star jumps, without stopping. For almost two hours she exercised, until she didn't feel quite as cold. Warmer now, she sat down to rest. Then the cold began to ease off. She realised that the air conditioner wasn't even on anymore. Were they going to take her out of there? Her heartbeat quickened. No one could have imagined how badly she yearned to see the daylight. She was filled with hope: she would see her husband again, her parents, her friends. She promised herself that from then on she wouldn't put her life at risk, not hers or her family's. Her father had always said: Did I give you the best money could buy for
this
? So you could put everything on the line? Was that why you got married? How are you going to give me grandchildren like this?

But it's for them that I am doing this, for the children I'll have one day, she had replied.

She felt the moment was arriving, that soon she'd be reunited with her loved ones, taken out of the room, delivered home. Suddenly her neck felt hot. She was perspiring. Her forehead was moist. Droplets of sweat began to trickle down her body. The heat was intensifying, becoming oppressive. No, she wasn't going to get out of there. With the thermostat turned up as high as possible, the room was now an oven.

If someone had asked, I'd have said I'd never thought about travelling in search of the past. I had always believed that there was nothing to be gained by poking around in the ruins of things that no longer existed; that memories were the vestiges of tears that had dried on the faces of those who had departed. Now, leaving the hotel after having found a clue that might lead me to my family, it occurred to me that the tears were not just mine, and, contrary to what I had imagined, they still weren't dry.

From what they had told me at the hotel, Smyrna was a small city with a few tourist attractions, but nothing comparable to Istanbul. There might not have been any great monuments to see, but every last nook and cranny of the city — every door, house, and person — left me with a lump in my throat. I could have been born there and it could have been my city. I strolled around the port, along Atatürk Caddesi, and it occurred to me that it must have been right there that my grandfather had boarded the steamer to Brazil. The huge ship he had told me about had sailed this sea, docked in these same waters. The city must have been very different, I imagined, without the cars that now clogged the streets with traffic, without so many buildings, so much urbanisation. I thought that, in fact, this wasn't my grandfather's city; cities, like ourselves, have their own memories, their own vestiges of tears.

The face of Smyrna struck me as drier than my own. The hot sun — not as hot as in Istanbul — beat down on Konak Square, where the clock tower stood. I lay on the wall separating the asphalt from the sea and ended up dozing off. I only woke up when a girl poked me to ask if I wanted to buy a box of raisins. I was hungry, so I took her up on her offer. Behind the clock was a city that I had yet to see, but which I could almost divine in its designs, its smells, its colours.

I sat in a nearby café and ordered a cup of apple tea. I didn't feel like exploring the city right then. I preferred to sit staring at the sea and imagining what it must have been like to leave. Then I wondered if Raphael's grandfather really was my grandfather's cousin, and if I was ever going to meet him, talk to him. This was the city I was looking for — not the city of the carpets and gold, not the city of tobacco and good food, but my family's city.

Tell me when you're about to come.

We both smelled freshly showered. My hair was still wet; yours, almost dry. Your body on top of mine, in the most obvious, but indispensable, position. Our towels were lying next to us, making the sheets damp. It was a Saturday morning, and the shower had been an attempt to cure ourselves of a hangover after a Friday night that had gone on into the small hours.

I'm almost there.

Wait a minute, I murmured in your ear. You slowly withdrew and, starting with my lips, kissed me all over. The night before we had celebrated our second anniversary together. (Who'd have imagined we'd be together for so long? was the gem you offered me over dinner.) Mushroom risotto with plenty of champagne. For dessert, petit gâteau with guava paste and cheese-flavoured ice cream. Come back, I said. Come on top, you said. I smiled. You knew how much I liked having you underneath me, doing things my way, at my pace. I slotted us together slowly, with morning laziness, in an attempt to stretch out the time that we didn't want to pass. I ran my hands over your almost-smooth, almost-white chest, the redness of summer having faded.

Come, you said, I want to come with you.

Then wait, I said in a voice that made it clear you wouldn't have to wait long. Just a bit longer.

After dinner we had gone out to dance, which we hadn't done for quite some time. A real nightclub, with electronic music. The dancefloor was packed with women in miniskirts or tight jeans, tops showing off belly-button piercings; men with the top buttons of their shirts undone, gel in their hair; caipirinhas and beer spilled on the ground, on clothes. There we were, as if we did it all the time, dancing all night, rubbing our bodies against each other and against other people, kissing with our tongues out, displaying our lust in public. I'm almost there, I said, and you took one hand off my hip and pressed it to my clitoris. I bit my lip and closed my eyes tightly. I thought about our sweaty bodies dancing, your large, muscular body as you unabashedly pressed yourself against me from behind and squeezed my waist, trying to fondle my indiscreet breasts without anyone noticing. I'm coming, you said, and it made me come, you come, our spasms together. Afterwards we didn't say anything else, didn't think anything, didn't want anything.

Breathe: quickly, before they dunk you again. Hang in there, you can take it. There were three men, three brutes, standing over her. She was no longer a woman, just a gaunt, debilitated body, loose skin trying to hold together bones. Every time they plunged her head into the basin, her legs would buckle under her. Then, to stop her from falling, one of the torturers would press down harder on her head to compensate for the lack of support from her legs. She heard distorted voices through the water but even if she'd had the strength to make an effort she wouldn't have been able to understand what they were saying. Breathe: quickly, before they dunk you again. Hang in there, you can take it. She didn't think about anything specific. Images floated up, diffuse and without explanation. She had heard that before you die your life passes before your eyes like in a film, frame by frame. Was that it? Was she dying? Were these her last images? She didn't react and merely let it happen. When they lifted her head up, she had no time — or intention — to speak, to ask them to stop because she was going to tell them what they wanted to hear. Breathe: quickly, before they dunk you again. Hang in there, you can take it. They repeated the same movement dozens of times: head in water, head up. Until they saw that her eyes were closed and her body limp, and they stopped. They dumped her on the cold floor for an orderly to drag to her cell, where she would wait to be summoned again.

We were in the car and it was a long drive. Raphael asked if I'd enjoyed the dinner and apologised for his relatives. Politely, I said it had been great; there was no problem at all. As he drove, I studied his gestures, the outline of his face, the way he spoke. I thought that I could have been him, that it could have been me in his place. If I'd been born there I'd definitely be a real Jew — I'd speak their language, marry a Jew. If I'd been born there I wouldn't have found myself with my back against a wall. What, you don't speak our language? I had been caught off guard. They had all stared at me with incredulous, recriminating expressions on their faces, as if I'd committed a serious, if not grievous, offence. I'd listened to them talking among themselves in the language that I didn't speak. In front of me, Raphael had fidgeted and shot me sympathetic looks, as if thinking that it could have been him, that he could have been born in another country and not be able speak his grandparents' language. I found support in his eyes, trying hard to remain oblivious to what the others were saying, even though I was able to understand the odd word here and there. At some point, I had tried to justify myself. It was a question of survival, I said. My grandfather needed to forget the past, which is why he never taught anyone his language.

A real Jew doesn't forget the past, Raphael's grandfather had stated firmly. Maybe my grandfather wasn't a real Jew, I thought, but didn't say anything.

You know what the older generations are like, Raphael said when he pulled up at a red light. They don't mean to be like that. They're just afraid.

Yeah, I replied, that must be it. And I wondered if it was fear his grandfather had felt when he'd announced that only Ladino would be spoken during dinner and that all other languages were forbidden. No one had protested. Not Raphael; or Grandfather Raphael's wife, Judith; or Salomon's widow, Marta. I had wanted to run away, to shout in Portuguese that I had no reason to be there. Instead, I'd accepted the decision, smiled, and said in a mishmash of Portuguese and Spanish that I'd try. Despite this initial incident, I had noticed certain affinities. When I said that we made that same food at home, Grandfather Raphael had relaxed a little and smiled for the first time, as if thinking that the culture didn't reside in the language alone.

We were already in front of the hotel when Raphael asked if I wanted to go to Bornova the next day to see the neighbourhood where my forefathers used to live.

Apparently, he said, when your great-grandmother moved to Brazil, she left the house empty. It was abandoned for many years and demolished about fifteen years ago, but there are others very similar to it, built in the same era, in the same style.

I took the key out of my bag and stared at it, thinking that if the house wasn't there anymore, I had no reason to go. I didn't say a word, but he understood. I wondered if we'd ever see each other again and perhaps he was thinking the same thing. His nose was narrow, like mine, but we were very different. I'd never have imagined we were cousins. He smiled, and I suddenly felt an urge to kiss him. I felt an urge to kiss him repeatedly, to put my arms around him, invite him up to my room, spend the night with him. But we said goodbye with simple pecks on the cheek, saying that we hoped to see each other again soon. I closed the car door and, as I headed up to my room, it occurred to me that I had nothing left to do in this country. I'm not sure I ever did.

Angrily, hatefully, I hurl the typewriter to the ground and tear up everything I have written. I tear up the blank pages too, so there is no risk that I might keep on writing. I realise how useless it is to write this journey back to my origins. I don't want to write another word. I want to destroy what has already been committed to paper. This journey has no reason to exist, in reality or on the page.