The House in Smyrna (4 page)

He froze. His heart was in his mouth, fear of the answer flooding through him. He couldn't continue reading the letter, but he couldn't not read it.
With a stone tied to her ankle, she threw herself into the well in the square. She killed herself, dear brother. They found her body floating there, her dress puffed out by the water. Can you imagine the scandal? The family refused to mourn her death, and now the community is using her as an example to convince young women to marry suitors chosen by their fathers. But shouldn't it be the opposite? Don't you agree that the whole story shows us the impossibility of a loveless marriage?

He shook, feeling his stomach churn, his legs incapable of sustaining his body. He was filled with regret: he should never have come to Brazil — or he should have brought her with him.

Before leaving Brazil, I had never imagined it could be so hot here. I stopped at a café for a juice and analysed the map that the hotel receptionist had given me. Seen like that, on paper, Istanbul struck me as a city like any other. I looked for the street the hotel was on — which took a few minutes — and realised I wasn't far from the city centre. I just didn't know whether to go this way or that, right or left. I wanted to go to Eminönü, where the main mosques were. I wanted to start with the obvious and then allow myself to be carried away by the unknown. I paid for my juice and asked the waiter which way to go. His answer was friendly but no good to me, as it was in Turkish, even though he'd nodded when I asked if he spoke English. I ended up taking a taxi: The Blue Mosque, please.

It was impossible not to be awed. I had no regrets, no fear; the minute I set eyes on that immense, imposing structure, I was certain I'd made the right choice. Not only was it monumental in size, with its tall, thin spires (at the top of which I detected a fine layer of blue paint), but also it was delicate and earthly in its tiny details. I forgot everything around me: the heat, the unpleasant smell, the hordes of tourists and street vendors. I forgot the reason for my journey: the key, the door, my grandfather, the past. It was just me and the mosque, as in all great love stories. We were eternal for a few seconds: the mosque, staring at me in its nigh almightiness, and I, staring at the mosque in my patent fragility. And that was how I adored it, how I admired it as I had never before admired a monument. I spent a long time walking around it, putting off the moment of entry for as long as possible. I saw a corridor with a row of taps and low stools. Halfway down it, two younger men and an elderly one were washing their feet, faces, and necks. I was so hot, and welcomed the idea of freshening up a little. I imitated them — sitting on a stool, I turned on a tap and wet the exposed parts of my body. The younger men looked at me and laughed and whispered. The elderly man stood and, before I knew what was happening, he was beside me, waving his hands, talking in a loud voice. I couldn't understand a word he was saying, but I understood that I shouldn't have been there, that I was doing something very wrong. I hurried out, red and embarrassed, and the young men laughed even more as the irate older man returned to his place and resumed his ritual. Only later did I discover that not only was the place sacred, but also that it was reserved exclusively for men, who had to purify themselves before entering the mosque to pray.

I walked away quickly and headed around to the main entrance. I climbed the stairs and found a rectangular paved area with a kind of miniature mosque in the middle of it. Behind it was an enormous wooden door, ornately carved, through which people came and went. Outside I saw lots of families — children, and women with scarves on their heads, others with veils, and one with a burqa, covered entirely in black, with only her eyes visible. I had already seen women like that in newspapers, on television, and in films. But seeing one in front of me, with everything hidden — her body, face, and hair concealed — was odd: I felt a great distance separating us, a deep gulf, and at the same time an understanding that is particular to women. That could be me, I thought, and wished I could uncover her. I wished I could see her. It wasn't mere curiosity — it was as if I needed to be near her, to touch her, to pull down the barrier between us. When she realised she was being observed, she got up, crossed the paved area, and sat where I couldn't see her, directly behind the central structure. I blushed again. It was the first time I had set foot in such a different world and I couldn't hide the fact that I wasn't a local. I was committing all kinds of faux pas that they wouldn't. I felt ashamed. I didn't want to be an outsider, but it seemed inevitable.

When I went to enter the mosque, a man approached me and gave me a scarf to cover my head and another for my legs. I also had to remove my shoes. I saw two young men talking, both with credentials hanging from their necks. One of them introduced himself and we chatted a little, and then he asked if I wanted him to accompany me during my visit. I accepted. I wanted the company of a local, and he seemed nice. I'm not a guide, he said. I work here in the mosque and I can tell you a few things about its history. Then he told me when, how, and why it was built, the meaning of some inscriptions, why it was called the Blue Mosque, as well as its real name. He showed me the direction of Mecca and how Muslims prayed. A boy walked past us wearing clothes that I imagined a prince might wear. He was dressed like that because he was going to be circumcised. But at that age? I asked. Yes, some do it when they're still babies, but most have it done between the ages of five and eight. It's a moment of great joy for them. I asked the boy if I could take his photo. He agreed and posed with a big smile on his face, clearly proud to be dressed in ceremonial attire.

The mosque was enormous and there was hardly anyone in it. I tactfully asked the man accompanying me if I could be alone for a while. I am not Muslim, or even religious, but something about the place gave me a feeling of peace, and I felt an urge to be alone — just me with my sadness, me with my happiness.

I was about to nod off in the silence when he approached me again to say that I had to leave. In a little while prayers would begin, and tourists weren't allowed inside while they were taking place. I left quickly, afraid of committing another gaffe. At the door, I returned my scarves and put my shoes back on. The young man was still there and said he wanted to show me one last thing. We crossed the paved area and he asked me to look carefully at the pillars to see if I noticed anything unusual. I said no, I couldn't see whatever it was that he wanted me to see. He pointed to several names written in Arabic, almost completely faded. Those are the names of the stonemasons, he said. Every time they finished a section of the mosque, they'd leave their signatures.

We exchanged a few more words and then he excused himself: I have to go. I must get ready for my obligations.

I left the mosque in a state of thrall. I strolled across the paved area without looking where I was going: my feet were there, but my mind was elsewhere. I was sitting on a bench when I heard a voice flood through the square, through the city. It seemed to come from nowhere, from somewhere distant, somewhere unknown. It was rasping, melancholic, a true lament. I felt like I'd heard it before, but I was also certain I hadn't. I saw people quicken their pace, hurry back and forth. It must be the call to prayer, I thought. The voice persisted, echoed, and continued to resonate even after the singing had stopped. It stopped and started again, finding a few people still in the street. I took out my camera, which also captured sound, and recorded it. I wanted to be able to hear it in the future, in other places, at other times. Again, the voice rested and then resumed the call. The square emptied almost completely: I didn't see the boys selling knickknacks, the kebab vendors, or even the birds. Just tourists like myself. The singing continued, stopping and starting about four more times, echoing unexpectedly in some archaic part of my body, with some memory of which I was not aware. The voice — a wail, a mournful cry — spread across the entire city until it ceased. Then Istanbul appeared to be dead, and I felt that something very old in me had begun to be reborn.

In the lift, on our way down, I asked: Why the hurry? I was really enjoying our conversation —

You said, It's you: the clothes you're wearing, your loose dress, your habit of not wearing a bra.

I made a face. What do you mean?

That's all there is to it. I can't help myself, you drive me crazy.

I smiled, a little disconcerted, and drew you into a kiss that lasted longer than the time it took to reach the ground floor.

We barely spoke in the car. You drove fast, ran red lights. Take it easy, I said. You turned and smiled. That was the nature of our desire: it would strike suddenly, and we'd have to go with it. I saw the way you were driving and understood that you couldn't have stayed at the dinner. I understood, because it happened to me too.

At home, you took off your shoes and went to get some whisky. In spite of your urgency, you made an effort to wait. You served us and lit a cigarette. I'd like one too, I said. The cigarette was between my lips when you lit it. We sat there a while, drinking, smoking, looking at each other, smiling. Almost in silence, just the odd comment or two. Until you looked at me more lustfully, indicating with your eyes that the hour had arrived. I didn't say anything or ask anything. I just stood and slowly began to undress. I slid the straps of my dress over my shoulders, showing the top of my breasts. You fidgeted on the sofa. I smiled. I lowered the straps even further, revealing my breasts completely, and stepped out of the dress. Turn around, you said. Unable to see you, I felt all the danger of the world at my back. I knew you were staring at my arse, your favourite part of my body. It was a pretty obvious choice, but I was pleased nonetheless. I kept my back to you as I slipped off my knickers. My naked body, a bookcase of dark wood in front of me, and the certainty that you were staring at my arse. Turn around, you said again. We locked eyes: you, fully dressed, and I, completely naked. I couldn't have moved if I wanted to.

You stood and began to undress too. Your penis was hard, upright, and I liked seeing it like that, as if it were looking at me too. I liked gazing at your defined, almost hairless torso, your legs like those of a football player, your slightly muscular arms. You were still staring at me, with growing arousal, and your eyes touched me from across the room. We remained distant for a time, until our burning bodies could no longer bear the solitude, until they demanded the presence of hands, mouths, another burning body.

I tell (make up) this story about my ancestors, this story of immigration and its losses, this story about the key to the house in Smyrna, about my hope of returning to the place that my forebears came from, but you and I (just the two of us) know that the real reason for my paralysis is something else. I tell (make up) this story to justify my immobility, to give the world and, in a way, myself, an answer, but you and I (just the two of us) know the truth. I wasn't born like this. I wasn't born in a wheelchair; I wasn't born old. There is no gust of ancient times at my back. I became like this. I lost my movements one by one after you were gone. After I met death and it looked at me with its eyes of stone. It was death, your death, that slowly took away my movement, left me paralysed in this musty bed.

I don't want to be blamed for your paralysis. I am still holding my hand out to you, but I can't be an accessory to this madness of yours. I didn't choose to depart, and you know it. Now it is up to you to manage your life. All I can do is offer you my hand, my words. Please understand: I am gone now, and the only way for me to live on is through you. If you give up, I will be dead. If you don't move, if you don't leave this dark room, I'll be stuck here too. Get up. Move. If not for yourself, for me. I'm not asking you to live without the dead, but to live with them. Listen to me just this once; make an effort. I'm not saying it's easy. All I ask is that you change the position of your lens, look at things from another angle. You haven't lost anything; you can never lose what is already yours. If you can understand the role of the dead in this life, you won't spend another minute in this bed. Don't give up, for if you do, you'll be giving up on me. Live on and I live on.

Istanbul is a city of doors. Not only the doors of mosques and palaces but also the ordinary ones — of people's houses, of small establishments — are intricately carved. Most are wooden, and you need time to appreciate them. On every corner I found new doors that I was drawn to for different reasons: the size of the lock, the complexity of the design, the colour of the wood, its weight, its smell. Sometimes I was surprised by the owners, who came out to ask if I was looking for something. No, I'd say, I'm just admiring your door. Some would smile, others would scowl, and yet others would tell me stories about their doors — how old they were, what this or that design represented, why they were made of such-and-such wood, why they were large or small. Sometimes they would explain these things to me in English, and I thanked them; other times in Turkish, and I thanked them too. What mattered was knowing that the object of my fascination had a meaning. And in that manner I readied myself for Smyrna: familiarising myself with doors so that I wouldn't have any unpleasant surprises when I came face to face with the one that awaited me.

I love to ride my bicycle in the middle of the night after making love. But it has to be one of those old-fashioned bikes with curved handlebars, basket in front. Full skirt, the wind uncovering my thighs. I like to ride fast, through almost-deserted streets, without stopping at red lights. I like to take wide avenues and then narrow streets and alleyways, lose myself along routes I don't know. My smile broad, without a trace of mystery, body still warm, arms and legs wobbly.