The House in Smyrna (3 page)

An old man deposited his belongings on the bed next to his with a frown, as if to say he didn't feel like chatting. It's for the best, he thought, since he wasn't really in the mood to get to know other people either. He preferred to keep to himself, lying on his bed, thinking his own thoughts.

Rosa was her name. When her father had found out that she and one of his shop employees were exchanging glances, he hadn't hesitated to take drastic measures. Rosa was only allowed to leave the house in the company of her older brother, whose job it was to ensure their father's orders were obeyed. My grandfather was fired. Get out, go get a job somewhere else, preferably far from my establishment, my house, my neighbourhood, my country. He had been looking for another job for a year and it was only now that he was taking his former boss's advice. Only now, on the eve of Rosa's marriage to the young man her father had chosen for her.

In his suitcase were the few letters he had exchanged with her on the rare occasions that they had managed to be alone, even if only for a few quick seconds. When he'd heard of her engagement, he'd spent a few days locked in his room until he decided to leave for a distant country. Before departing for Brazil, he gave her one last letter full of sweet, tender words and swore that his love was eternal.

When I arrived in Istanbul, I was holding my Portuguese passport instead of my Brazilian one, thinking it would be less of a headache. There was a long queue in front of the federal police counter. Turks on one side, foreigners on the other. When it was my turn I heard: You need a visa.

What?

It's the law
.
Portuguese citizens need visas.

But I'm not Portuguese, I'm Brazilian. No, I'm not Brazilian, I'm Turkish. My grandfather is from here
;
my forefathers were all Turks. I am too. Don't I look Turkish? Look at my long nose, my small mouth, my olive eyes. I'm Turkish.

The officer sniffed. You need a visa.

I didn't bother to argue. I'd never convince him. I turned and headed for immigration. Peeved, indignant, and disappointed. I needed a visa to enter the country of my ancestors? They were born here, grew up here: didn't any of that matter? Ten euros and a stamp in my passport:
úç ay süreli müteaddit giri vizesidir. Çalişma hakki vermez
. I have a three-month tourist visa, but I can't work. I am definitely not Turkish.

You were already blind in one eye when the doctor said: There's nothing else I can do. If you can afford it, your best bet would be to try a hospital in the United States. Maybe there they can stop the disease from advancing.

We didn't hesitate. We packed our bags and in two days we had moved country.

The first time I rang your doorbell I knew I was signing a contract without an expiry date. If any kind of rescission were possible, it should have been established there, at that moment, before walking through your door. But how could I not walk through it? Why not walk through it? My body still wasn't paralysed, I wanted to walk; I wanted to see what had caught my attention on the corner, discover what was waiting for me on the other side of the road. In those early days, my passion manifested as hunger — for novelty, conversation, caresses, sex. I wanted to devour everything in front of me, everything that came from you. And that is what happened. I rang the doorbell, perspiring. My t-shirt clung to my torso, lightly outlining my breasts. When you opened the door, I couldn't disguise my desire to jump on you, right there in your front hall. You ran your hand across my face, taking your time behind my ear, my neck. You tidied my hair with one hand and held the back of my neck with the other. You were asking too much of me at that moment, requiring that I be patient. I let myself be led, containing my fury and desire to control. And therein lay my pleasure: in being surprised, in being guided somewhere unexpected. With each touch of yours, fingers, lip, nose, I felt my skin quickly unravelling, in contrast to the slowness of your movements. You stared at me — eyes, chin, breasts, stomach — as if you wanted to destabilise me, lift my feet off the ground. And you did. At that moment, I was already treading on air. My feet were no longer in contact with the earth. There was no doubt in your mind: I was already yours. And, as if wanting to show me that you knew it, you held me firmly, squeezed my arms, and pressed your mouth to mine, your tongue to mine. You ran your hand down my body. The further your fingers probed, the more vulnerable I felt. Your tongue found my breasts, one and then the other, and slid around my nipples, leaving them almost as wet as I was below, still waiting. Not for long, it is true, because I soon felt your hand under my skirt, my legs parting slightly, the invitation already made. And, as I was able to testify so many other times, few things excited me as much as your fingers pulling aside my knickers, leaving me exposed. To quickly cover me again with your fingers. Take me to bed, I said. You pretended not to hear. With both hands, you lifted up my skirt, yanked off my underwear, and then kneeled slowly. I remained standing while you implored something between my legs, in a language understood only by the two of you, my clitoris and your mouth.

On the walls of the room, just moss. The stench of a closed environment. Objects green with mould. Everything falling apart, old before its time. In the middle of the room lies my bed of rotting wood. I don't even know how it is still standing. In the middle of the bed lies my body. Dilacerated, covered in open wounds, purple and yellow spots, boils. Corroded by the ancestral nature of the room. Almost incapable of movement. In the middle of my body sits the typewriter. Its keyboard almost entirely erased, its ink almost gone. My blood-caked hands type these words, one letter at a time.

I left the airport still indignant about needing a visa. Better to forget the whole thing quickly. The lack of recognition on the part of Turkish Immigration wouldn't change my relationship to the country in the slightest. Or maybe they were right and I wasn't Turkish after all. Maybe I had no reason to be there. I'd be a tourist like any other, I thought, wandering through mosques, boating on the Bosporus, eating lamb, visiting castles and museums, buying rugs, leather, and spices in the Grand Bazaar. I'd ask people in the street to take pictures of me and I'd say
cheese
at the right moment. I'd be the most foreign of tourists, awkwardly asking for information, laughing at things that weren't funny. I'd take guided tours and see the city from the top deck of a bus, paying attention to everything the guide said. I'd go to restaurants where there was belly dancing, women with gyrating hips. Then I'd return to Brazil and invite my friends over to see the photos. I'd tell everyone what a beautiful country it was, that I had never imagined it was so exuberant, with enormous palaces and mosques, overflowing with the wealth of times past. I'd tell everyone I'd never seen anything so different before, a mixture of Eastern and Western cultures. I'd tell everyone that most of the women wore headscarves or veils. That the men stopped working when they heard the call to prayer. I'd tell everyone that the city was a little dirty, but very safe — you didn't have to worry about going out with your camera hanging from your neck. I'd tell them all that they had to go, they had to visit Istanbul, it was worth it, really worth it, the most beautiful city I'd ever seen.

With the name of the hotel in hand, I turned down all taxi offers between the arrivals area and the airport exit and tried to find a cab myself. After walking a distance, I spotted a row of cars. There, I thought. I showed the piece of paper to a man, who, in turn, showed me to the car that would take me to my destination. I didn't need to do a thing. Both the man to whom I had handed the piece of paper and the taxi driver put my bags in the car.

The airport was far from the hotel, and after a while the silence started to bother me. Do you speak English? I asked the driver. A little, he replied with a thick accent. I sensed that the conversation wasn't going to go very far and didn't insist. To be honest, I didn't actually have anything to say. He was the one who asked if it was my first time in Turkey. You'll love it, it's a beautiful country, the people are friendly, very welcoming. After the praise, I couldn't help myself and said with conviction: My grandfather is from here, from Smyrna.

From Smyrna? He didn't seem to believe me. As he drove, he glanced over his shoulder once, twice, three times to get a better look at me. Suddenly, as if stating the obvious, he proclaimed: Of course. You have a Turkish face: the olive skin, the long nose. I don't know how I didn't see it before. But… you don't speak Turkish, do you?

No, unfortunately. My grandfather didn't teach my mother his language.

After my revelation, he was even friendlier. We chatted all the way to the hotel. He told me I'd really like the city and, who knows, maybe I could return for a while to re-establish my roots? I slowly recovered the good mood that I'd lost in Immigration. Perhaps there were other things to do besides boat tours and visiting mosques and museums. The driver had already convinced me: I wouldn't be just another tourist. I had a Turkish face.

I laughed my head off when you said you loved it when a woman had her period. What do you mean
love
it? What exactly do you love? The smell? The colour?

The taste, you said.

I laughed and half-grimaced. No way.

Oh yes, you assured me, yes way.

I hesitated a few seconds, the time I needed to take in your reply. Okay then.

Last night I had a strange dream. A nightmare. I arrived at my grandfather's house in Turkey, a big, beautiful, very old house with ornate walls, like an embroidered dress. The salmon-coloured paint looked fresh. The door — of dark, chiselled wood, swirls within swirls — occupied almost half the wall. And the almost imperceptible lock, instead of being located on the right, next to the latch, was on the left, near one of the hinges. I plunged my hand into my bag, sure that the key was there, but to my surprise there wasn't one but many — a dozen perhaps. All enormous! Proportional to the door but not to the lock. I threw my bag to the ground and, in desperation, began to rummage among the keys for one that was the right shape and size. But the harder I looked, the more keys appeared, and in the end there must have been a hundred lying around me. I repeated to myself: It isn't possible
.
It has to be here
.
I know it's here.

Suddenly, I heard a loud creak. It was the door opening. A man of about my father's age appeared, inviting me in. It's here, come inside, come into your house. I was surprised. Why was this man speaking Portuguese? Come, he said again. When I entered, the house was full of people, young and old, and they all had something familiar about them. The men were wearing kippahs, and most — but not all — of the women had white scarves draped over their shoulders. They surrounded me, hugging me, welcoming me: This is your home, they said. The table was laden with bread, honey, apples, matzah, wine, boyos, cheese, bourekas, and almonds. Come, take a seat, we've made you some treats.

I wasn't hungry, but the smell was so inviting that I couldn't resist. I started with the cheese and the eggplant bourekas. But I soon realised that I was the only one eating; in fact, I was the only one sitting at the table. As I ate, they all just stood there watching me, as if I were a strange animal, an exotic jungle creature. I stopped chewing and looked for a face that I recognised. I was afraid. They all noticed and began to laugh. I raced to the door, wanting out, certain that I was in the wrong house. Then I heard a deep voice say: This is your family! I tried to open the door, but it was locked again and now I had no key at all. The laughter grew louder and louder, as I screamed: Where's the key?

I woke up drenched with sweat, lying in my bed, in my room, in my apartment.

Almost every day there are moments in which I do something and immediately afterwards think: That wasn't me. Silly, everyday things, like smiling, curling up on the sofa to read the newspaper, or holding a cup of coffee with both hands. Suddenly, mid-gesture, I get the feeling that it isn't me. When I start laughing and can't stop, for example, I'm sure it's you who's laughing.
It's true; we're very alike. I've had that feeling too and I'd look at you and think how alike we are
. But it's not just that, it's a weird feeling, an absolute certainty that it isn't me. It isn't always you. Sometimes it's Dad, sometimes Grandpa, sometimes it isn't any of you. Sometimes I sense that it's someone I've never met, but who speaks through me. As if my body weren't mine alone. I sense this multiplicity all the time, other people accompanying me.
But it's just a feeling; it isn't real. You are you, full stop. The rest, my dear, are just similarities that remind us of other people
. No, Mother, I won't reduce what I feel to such a simple word: similarity. I'm not saying that they are spirits, but the word ‘similarity' doesn't exactly do it justice. I might not be able to convince you, but I know that when my back hunches over like a hook it isn't just me who is hunched over. I know, Mother, even if I can't find the right word, that my body is not mine alone.

In the beginning we didn't even see the light of day, shut away in the bedroom as if we'd spent our entire lives waiting for that moment. We forgot everything on the outside and spent days and nights in bed.

He learned of Rosa's death in a letter from his sister. He had already been in Rio de Janeiro for a few months, working with a cousin and making plans to open his own hardware shop. He missed his family and wrote them at least once a week. The letters from home were almost always the same. It seemed that nothing had changed after he left. His heart sped up every time he received an envelope from Turkey. He'd open it in a rush, anxious for news or a word of encouragement. His sister wrote about their father's work, their mother's health problems, and a few bits and pieces about their older brother, who was soon to be married. The youngest did nothing but talk about Brazil. He wanted to follow in his brother's footsteps, try his luck there. She, in turn, was waiting to see what would come of their father's search for a husband for her.
But I don't want to get married like that
, she wrote.
I want to marry for love. Won't Father ever understand? I don't want a husband chosen by him. I want to be able to choose one myself. Don't you agree with me, dear brother?
His heart went out to her. He knew what she was talking about.
I'm afraid I'll go the same way as that girl Rosa. Remember Rosa, the daughter of your old boss at the shoe shop? Well, apparently she was in love with a young man of whom her father didn't approve. Afraid they might elope, he quickly arranged for her to marry. He sent for a lad from Istanbul, the son of a good family, childhood friends of his. She refused to accept his decision, and didn't want any man but the one she loved. But you know how things are done here. Rosa had no say in it. Do you know what she did?