The Bastard of Istanbul

THIRTEEN Dried Figs

Through the range of the months of the year, every month knows the particular season it belongs to and behaves accordingly, every month but one: March.

March is most unbalanced in Istanbul, both psychologically and physically. March might decide she belongs to the spring season, warm and fragrant, only to change her mind the very next day, turning into winter, sending chilly winds and sleet all around. Today, March nineteenth, was an unusually sunny Saturday, far above the average temperature for this time of the year. Asya and Armanoush took their sweaters off as they walked the wide, windswept road from Ortakoy toward Taksim Square. Asya was wearing a long batik dress, hand painted in tones of beige and caramel brown. Every step she took, tiers of necklaces and bracelets jingled. Armanoush, in turn, was loyal to her style: a pair of blue jeans and on top of it a loose UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA sweatshirt, pasty pink as a ballet slipper. They were on their way to visit the tattoo parlor.

"I'm so glad you will finally meet Aram." Asya beamed as she shifted her canvas bag from one shoulder to the other. "He is such a nice person.

"I heard you mention his name before, but I have no idea who he is."

"Oh, he is… " Asya paused, searching for the right word in English. Boyfriend sounded too light for the situation, husband was technically wrong, husband-to-be didn't look plausible. Fiance seemed to suit better, but the truth is they had never been formally engaged. "He is Auntie Zeliha's significant other."

Across the road, under an elegantly carved Ottoman archway, they caught a glimpse of two Gypsy boys, one of them plucking cans from garbage bins and then piling them on a dilapidated cart. The other boy sat on the edge of the cart sorting the cans, doing his best imitation of working hard while basking in the sun. That could be such an idyllic life, Asya thought to herself: She would give anything to switch places with that boy on the cart. First, she would go and buy the most lackadaisical horse she could find. Then every day she would ride her horse cart up and down along the steep streets of Istanbul, collecting things. She would wholeheartedly gather the most unattractive artifacts of human life, embracing the debris rotting underneath its polished surface. Asya had a feeling that a garbage collector in Istanbul probably led a far less stressful life than she and her friends at Cafe Kundera did.

If she became a garbage collector, she would wander the city whistling Johnny Cash songs, while a balmy breeze caressed her hair and the sun warmed her bones. Should anyone dare to disturb such blissful harmony, she would scare the hell out of him with the threat of her mammoth Gypsy clan in which probably everyone was convicted of a felony of some sort. Despite the problem of poverty, Asya concluded, as long as it was not wintertime, it must be fun to be a garbage collector. She made a mental note to herself to remember this in case she couldn't come up with a better profession after graduating from college. On that note she started to whistle; only when she reached the end of the couplet did Asya notice that Armanoush was still waiting for a more detailed response to the question she had asked her a few minutes ago.

"Well, yeah, Auntie Zeliha and Aram have been seeing each other for Allah knows how long. He is like my step-dad, I guess, or for the sake of consistency, I should call him step-uncle…. Whatever."

"Why don't they get married?"

"Married?" Asya spat out the word as if it were food between her teeth. They were now passing the can collectors, and upon closer inspection of her role models, Asya realized that they were not boys but girls. This she liked even more. To blur the gender boundaries was one more reason to become a garbage collector. She put a cigarette between her lips, but instead of lighting it, she sucked the end for a moment as if it were one of those cigaretteshaped chocolate sticks wrapped in edible paper. She then revealed aninner thought: "Actually, I am sure Aramm wouldn't mind getting married, but Auntie Zeliha would never have any of that."

"But why not?" Armanoush wanted to know.

The breeze shifted direction just then, and Armanoush caught a pungent whiff of the sea. This city was a jumble of aromas, some of them strong and rancid, others sweet and stimulating. Almost every smell made Armanoush recall some sort of food, so much so that she had started to perceive Istanbul as something edible. She had been here for eight days now and the longer she stayed, the more twisted and multifaceted Istanbul grew to be. Perhaps she was getting used to being a foreigner in this city, if not getting used to the city itself.

"My guess is it's all because of Auntie Zeliha's experience with my dad, whoever that was," Asya continued. "That must be why she is so against marriage. I think she has a trust issue with men."

"Well, I can understand that," Armanoush said.

"But don't you think there is a huge difference between the two sexes when it comes to recovery after an affair? I mean, when women survive an awful marriage or love affair, and all that shit, they generally avoid another relationship for quite some time. With men, however, it is just the opposite; the moment they finish a catastrophe they start looking for another one. Men are incapable of being alone."

Armanoush gave a curt nod of acknowledgment, although the pattern did not quite fit her parents' situation. It was her mother who had remarried after her divorce while her father had remained single to this day. Armanoush then asked:

"This Aram….where is he from?"

"He's from around here, just like us." Asya shrugged, but then in a flash she understood what was being asked. Surprised at her own ignorance, she lit the cigarette she had been sucking on and took a puff How could she have failed to make the connection? Aram came from an Armenian family in Istanbul. He was, theoretically, Armenian.

And yet there was a sense in which Aram could not be Armenian or Turk or any other nationality. Aram could only be Aram, entirely sui generis. He was a unique member of a unique species. He was a charmer, a colossal romantic, a political science professor who often confessed to being more inclined to live the life of a fisherman in a seedy village on the Mediterranean. He was a fragile heart, a gullible soul, and a walking slice of chaos; a sanguine utopian and an irresponsible promiser; an outstandingly messy and quick-witted and honorable man. He was one of a kind and consequentially Asya had never associated him with any collective identity. Tempted as she was to say something in this vein, she simply replied: "Actually, he is Armenian."

"I thought so." Armanoush smiled faintly.

Five minutes later they were at the tattoo parlor.

"Welcome!" Auntie Zeliha exclaimed in her slightly husky drawl as she heartily hugged them both. Whatever her perfume was, it was strong-a combination of spice and wood and jasmine. Her dark hair fell on her shoulders in dazzling curls, some of which she had highlighted with a substance so glittery that whenever she made a move under the halogen lights, her hair shimmered. Armanoush looked at her agape, for the first time sympathizing with the fright and admiration that she imagined Asya must have felt toward her mother since she was a child.

Inside it was like a little museum. Across from the entrance there was a huge framed photograph of a woman of uncertain nationality, her back turned toward the viewer to better expose the intricately detailed tattoo on her body. It was an Ottoman miniature. It looked like a scene from a banquet, with an acrobat above the diners walking a tightrope from one shoulder to the other. Such a traditional miniature tattooed on the back of a modern woman was startling. Below was a phrase in English: A TATTOO IS A MESSAGE SENT FROM BEYOND TIME!

There were showcases all over the store in which hundreds of tattoo designs and piercing jewelry were displayed. The tattoo designs were clustered under several titles: "Roses & Thorns," "Bleeding Hearts," "Stabbed Hearts," "The Way of the Shaman," "Creepy Hairy Creatures," "Non-Hairy but Equally Creepy Dragons," "Patriotic Motifs," "Names & Numbers," "Simurg and the Bird Family," and finally "Sufi Symbols."

Armanoush couldn't remember ever seeing so few people in one room making so much noise. Besides Auntie Zeliha, there was an eccentric man with orange hair and a needle in his hand, a teenager and his mother (who couldn't seem to decide whether to stay or leave), and two long haired, long-unshaven men who looked completely out of space and time, like drugged-out rock musicians from the 1970s just now recovering from a bad trip. One of the latter was sitting in a large comfortable chair, noisily chewing bubble gum while chatting with his friend and having a purple mosquito tattooed on his ankle. The man with the needle turned out to be Auntie Zeliha's assistant and a talented artist in his own right. While he worked, Armanoush stared at him, surprised at how much sound a tattoo needle was capable of producing.

"Don't worry. The sound is more dramatic than the pain," Auntie Zeliha remarked, reading her mind. Then she added with a wink, "Besides, that customer is used to it: This must be his twentieth. Tattoo is an addiction sometimes. One is never enough. With every new tattoo you will discover the urge to get another one. I wonder why addiction recovery centers have not included this in their programs yet."

Armanoush was silent for a long moment, studying the outlandish rock musician out of the corner of her eye. If the man felt any pain, he showed no signs of it. "Why would anyone want a purple mosquito tattooed on his ankle?"

Auntie Zeliha chuckled knowingly. "Why? That is one question we never ask here. You see, in this store we refuse to accept the tyranny of normalcy. Whichever design a customer asks for, I am sure there must be a reason, one that even he might not know him

self. I never ask why."

"How about the piercings?"

"The same," Auntie Zeliha said, pointing to her nose piercing and smiling. "You know, this one is nineteen years old. I did it when I was Asya's age."

"Really?"

"Yes, I went to the bathroom, I used a baby carrot, a sterilized needle, ice cubes to anesthetize, and also, lots of rage. I had so much rage against everything but mostly against my own family. I said to myself I am gonna do this and I pierced my nose. My hands shook in my nervousness, so I pierced it wrong the first time and hit the septum. It bled a lot. But then I got the technique and the next time pierced it right on the nostril."

"Really?" Armanoush said again, only this time she sounded perplexed at the turn the conversation was taking.

"Yup!" Auntie Zeliha patted her nose with pride. "I screwed a ring there and just walked out of the bathroom like that. Back then I used to enjoy driving my mom crazy."

Hearing these last words from where she stood, Asya gave her mother an amused glance.

"But what I am trying to say is, I pierced my nose because it was forbidden. You know what I mean? It was out of the question for a Turkish girl from a traditional family to have a piercing, so I went ahead and did it on my own. But times have changed now. That's what we're here for. In this store we. give advice to our customers, and sometimes we even refuse some people, but we never judge them. We never ask why. That is one thing I learned early in life. If you judge people, they'll go and do it anyway."

Just then the teenager slid his gaze from the showcases toward Auntie Zeliha and asked, "Can you make this dragon's tail longer so that it can cover my whole arm? I want it to extend from my elbow to my wrist-you know, as if it were crawling down my arm.

Before Auntie Zeliha could answer that, however, it was the mother who piped in. "Are you crazy? No way! We had agreed to have something small and simple, like a bird or a ladybug. Never did I give you permission for dragons' tails…."

For two hours Asya and Armanoush watched the action in the parlor as customers came and went. Five high school students came in saying they each wanted to have an eyebrow pierced, but as soon as the sterilized needle went through the eyebrow of the first, the others changed their minds. Then a soccer fan walked in who wanted to have the emblem of his favorite team on his chest. After that came an ultranationalist who asked to have the Turkish flag on his fingertip so that when he wagged his finger at other people he would be waving the flag. And finally, there was an impressive blond transvestite singer who wanted to have the name of her lover tattooed on the knuckles of her hands.

Then a middle-aged man came in who looked abnormally normal among the usual clientele in the tattoo parlor. It was Aram Martirossian.

Aram was a tall, slightly stout, good-looking man who had a kind but weary face, dark beard, rather hoary hair, and deep dimples that materialized each time he broke into a smile. His eyes glittered with intellect behind his thick-rimmed glasses. From the way he looked at Auntie Zeliha, one could instantly see love. Love and respect and synchronization. When he talked she completed his gestures, when she gestured he completed her words. They were two complicated individuals who seemed to have achieved a miraculous harmony together.

When she started to converse with him, Armanoush switched to her English-as-a-second-language English, the way she did each time she met someone new in Istanbul. Thus she introduced herself as unhurriedly as possible in a slow-moving, rhythmic, almost childlike English. She was surprised to hear Aram's English flow fluently, with a subtle British accent.

"Your English is so good!" Armanoush couldn't help but remark. "How did you pick up a British accent, may I ask?"

"Thank you," Aram said. "I went to college in London, both undergrad and grad. But we can speak Armenian if you'd like."

"I can't." Armanoush shook her head. "As a child I learned some from my grandma but because my parents were separated, I didn't stay in one place for too long and there were always disruptions. Then every summer when I was between ten and thirteen, I went to an Armenian youth camp. That was fun and my Armenian improved there, but afterward, it deteriorated again."

"I learned Armenian from my grandmother too." Aram smiled. "To tell the truth, both Mom and Grandma thought I should be raised bilingual, except they disagreed about what the second language had to be. Mom thought it would be better for me to speak Turkish at school and English at home, since when I grew up, I was destined to leave this country anyway. But Grandma proved resolute. She wanted Turkish at school, Armenian at home."

Armanoush was intrigued by Aram's aura, but she was even more fascinated by his humbleness. They talked about Armenian grandmothers for a while-those in the diaspora, those in Turkey, and those in Armenia.

At six thirty p.m. Auntie Zeliha handed the store over to her assistant and the four of them headed to a tavern nearby.

"Before you leave Istanbul, Aram and Auntie Zeliha want to take us to a tavern so that you can see a typical evening of drinking," Asya had explained to Armanoush.

On the way, as they passed through a poorly lit street, they came across an apartment building from whose windows transvestite prostitutes eyed the passersby. The two on the first floor were so close that Armanoush was able to glimpse the details of their heavily made-up faces. One of them, a hefty woman with thick lips and hair as glowing red as fireworks in the dark, laughingly said something in Turkish.

"What did she say?" Armanoush asked Asya.

"She said my bracelets are gorgeous and far too many for me!"

To Armanoush's surprise, Asya took off one of her beaded bracelets and gave it to the red-haired transvestite. The latter joyously accepted the gift, put it on, and with perfectly manicured, crimsonnailed fingers raised a can of Diet Coke, as if offering a toast to Asya.

Watching the scene with marveling eyes, Armanoush wondered what Jean Genet would make of it. That Cherry-Vanilla Diet Coke, bead bracelets, the tart odor of semen, and childish joy could all coexist on a seamy street in Istanbul?

The tavern was a stylish but convivial place near the Flower Passage. As soon as they sat, two waiters appeared with a cart of metes.

"Armanoush, why don't you surprise us again with your culinary vocabulary?" Auntie Zeliha requested.

"Well, let's see, there is yalanci sarma, tourshi, pathan, topik, enginar…" Armanoush started naming the dishes the waiters were leaving on the table.

Customers kept arriving in couples or groups, and in no more than twenty minutes the tavern was full. Amid all these equally unfamiliar faces and sounds and smells, Armanoush lost her sense of place. She felt like she could be in Europe or in the Middle East or in Russia. Auntie Zeliha and Aram drank rake, Asya and Armanoush had white wine. Auntie Zeliha smoked cigarettes, Aram puffed on cigars, while Asya, apparently avoiding the use of tobacco in front of her mother, chewed the insides of her mouth instead.

"You're not smoking this evening," Armanoush said to Asya, sitting next to her.

"Yeah, tell me about it." Asya sighed. Then she dropped her voice to a whisper. "Hush! Auntie Zeliha doesn't know that I smoke."

Armanoush was surprised that Asya rebelliously, almost sadistically, took pleasure in infuriating her mother at every opportunity, but when it came to smoking cigarettes in front of her, she was a docile daughter.

During the following hour they chatted idly while waiters brought one dish after another. First they served the metes-the cold dishes-followed by lukewarm dishes, the hot dishes, and desserts and coffee. This must be the style here, Armanoush figured out,

instead of choosing from a menu, the whole menu comes to you.

When both the noise and the smoke inside intensified, Armanoush inched closer toward Aram, having finally summoned the courage to ask him the question that had been tugging at the edges of her mind for some time:

"Aram, I understand you like Istanbul, but didn't you ever consider coming to America? I mean, you could come to California, for instance. There's a large Armenian community there, you know…."

Aram stared at her for a full minute, as if taking in every detail, until he slumped back in his chair and gave a puzzling laugh. Armanoush was rather perturbed by this laughter, which she felt somehow shut her out. Not convinced that she had been understood correctly, she leaned forward and tried to offer a better explanation: "If they are oppressing you here, you can always come to America. There are many Armenian communities there who would be more than happy to help you and your family."

Aram did not laugh this time. Instead he gave her a warm smile, warm but somewhat tired.

"Why would I want to do that, dear Armanoush? This city is my city. I was born and raised in Istanbul. My family's history in this city goes back at least five hundred years. Armenian Istanbulites belong to Istanbul, just like the Turkish, Kurdish, Greek, and Jewish Istanbulites do. We have first managed and then badly failed to live together. We cannot fail again."

Just then the waiter materialized again, this time serving fried calamari and fried mussels and fried pastries.

"I know every single street in this town," Aram continued, taking another sip of rake. "And I love strolling these streets in the mornings, in the evenings, and then at night when I am merry and tipsy. I love to have breakfasts with my friends along the Bosphorus on Sundays, I love to walk alone amid the crowds. I am in love with the chaotic beauty of this city, the ferries, the music, the tales, the sadness, the colors, and the black humor…."

They fell into an awkward silence, taking a rare distant glimpse into each other's positions, realizing there could be more than geographical distance between them-he suspecting she was too Americanized, she construing he was too Turkified. The mordant gap between the children of those who had managed to stay and the children of those who had to leave.

"Look, the Armenians in the diaspora have no Turkish friends. Their only acquaintance with the Turks is through the stories they heard from their grandparents or else from one another. And those stories are so terribly heartbreaking. But believe me, just like in every nation, in Turkey too there are good-hearted people and bad people. It is as simple as that. I have Turkish friends who are closer to me than my flesh-and-blood brother. And then there is, of course"-he lifted his glass and signaled toward Auntie Zeliha" this crazy love of mine."

Auntie Zeliha must have sensed her name being mentioned for she gave them a wink, lifted her glass of rake, and toasted: "~erefe!" They all followed suit and clinked their glasses as they echoed: "~erefe!" This word, as it would soon turn out, was some sort of a refrain that was repeated every ten or fifteen minutes. Another hour and seven ~erefes later, Armanoush's eyes were glowing with alcohol. With amusement she watched an albino waiter bring in the hot dishes-broiled striped bass on a bed of green peppers, basil-marinated catfish with creamy spinach, charbroiled salmon with field greens, and stir-fried shrimp — in spicy garlic sauce.

Armanoush giggled tipsily before she turned toward Aram and asked, "Tell us, you must have some tattoos too. Auntie Zeliha must have tattooed you."

"No way," Aram said behind the veil of wispy smoke curling up from his cigar. "She doesn't let me have one."

"Yeah," Asya added. "She won't permit him to have a tattoo."

"Really?" Armanoush said in surprise as she turned to Auntie Zeliha. "I thought you were fond of tattoos."

"I am, indeed," Auntie Zeliha replied. "It is not the tattooing part that I am opposing but the design he asks for."

Aram smiled. "The tattoo that I would like to have is a gorgeous fig tree. But, unlike other trees, this one is upside down. My fig tree has all its roots up in the air. Instead of the earth, it is rooted in the sky. It is displaced but not placeless."

They were all silent for a few seconds, watching the flickering light of the candle at the table.

"It's just that the fig tree. ." Auntie Zeliha lit the last cigarette in her pack and unintentionally blew smoke in the direction of Asya. "The fig tree is an ominous sign. It does not bring good luck. I am fine with Aram's wish to have his roots up in the air, but it is the fig tree that I object to. Should he choose it to be a cherry tree, for instance, or an oak tree, still with its roots up in the air, I'd tattoo him right away!"

It was then that four Gypsy musicians, all dressed in silky white shirts and black trousers, entered the tavern with their instrumentsan ud, a clarinet, a kanun, and a darbuka. There was a general excitement among the customers who, having eaten and drunk their fill, were more than ready to sing.

When the musicians materialized by their side, Armanoush felt a pang of shyness. But to her relief they didn't force her to sing. It turned out that Asya wasn't much of a singer either. They listened to Auntie Zeliha accompany the musicians with a mellow contralto-a voice that sounded nothing like her usual cigarettetainted, husky tone. Armanoush noticed that Asya glanced in her mother's direction with a look of inquisitiveness.

When the leader of the band asked if there was a particular song they would now like to request, Auntie Zeliha elbowed Aram flirtatiously, and exclaimed, "Come on, ask for a song. Sing, my nightingale!"

Blushing, Aram leaned forward, coughed, and then whispered something in the leading musician's ear. Once the band had embarked on the requested melody, much to Armanoush's surprise, Aram started to sing along-not in Turkish, not in English, but in Armenian.

Every morning at dawn Ah… I say to my love, Where are you going?

It flowed slowly, forlornly, while the tempo picked up with a distinctive rise of the clarinet and the hard-to-contain darbuka in the background. Aram's voice soared and then fell in mellow waves. Initially his voice was diffident, yet it became increasingly assertive in its tone.

She's the golden chain Of my memories, She's the pathway to The story of my life.

Armanoush held her breath, failing to understand all the words but feeling mourning deep in her heart. When she raised her head, she was intrigued by Auntie Zeliha's expression. It was a look that embodied the fear of happiness that only those who had unexpectedly, unguardedly fallen in love could wear.

When the song was over and the musicians had moved to the next table, Armanoush thought Auntie Zeliha would give Aram a kiss. But instead she tenderly squeezed Asya's hand, as if acknowledging that her love for a man had allowed her to better comprehend her love for her daughter. "Sweetheart," she murmured, a hint of anguish creeping into her tone. But if Auntie Zeliha was planning to say something to her daughter, she was quick to beat the urge. Instead, she took out a new pack of cigarettes and offered her one.

Seeing her mother have sentiments so near the surface was far more surprising for Asya than being offered a cigarette by her. She lit hers and then her mom's. As the smoke slowly coiled between them, daughter and mother smiled at each other awkwardly. They looked startlingly similar from this angle and light, two faces molded by a past that one knew nothing about and the other chose not to remember.

It was precisely then that Armanoush felt the pulse of the city for the first time since she had arrived in Istanbul. It had just hit her why and how people could fall in love with Istanbul, in spite of all the sorrow it might cause them. It would not be easy to fall out of love with a city this heartbreakingly beautiful.

With this recognition she raised her glass in a toast: "~erefe!"