At first this bizarre crowd and the life that came with it rather bored me; the people seemed like traditional meddah, or fugitives from improvisatory performances of ortaoyunu or shadow-puppet theater. It filled me with terror just to enter such a world, seeing as I suffered from a diagnosed medical condition and from the assorted inscrutable personality quirks that came with it. But by the third day people were asking earnestly after the Blessed One, going almost so far as to ask whether the clock was a bachelor or enjoyed conjugal life. My memories of Abdüsselam Bey, Seyit Lutfullah, and Nuri Efendi were refreshed the moment I walked in—they had all lived in this neighborhood, and almost all the coffeehouse regulars had known the latter two personally.
That Lutfullah had entrusted me with the treasure of the emperor Andronikos—that it was now entirely in my possession—had not escaped their attention. In fact my reputation in the coffeehouse preceded me, although I had never wished for or sought such recognition. Certainly no other community would have welcomed me with the same warmth. The week following my arrival with Dr. Ramiz, everyone heatedly discussed—in my presence—just which group I should be assigned to. My reserved demeanor, my preoccupation with my personal affairs, and the seriousness with which I approached these deliberations seemed to place me with the world regulators. But following Emine’s death, any balance in my life became seriously disrupted, and my standing in this esteemed company suffered. So slowly but surely I was relegated to the Eastern Plebeians. And they were right to place me there!
After assigning me to the appropriate class, they began thinking about a suitable nickname. This wasn’t so easy; it was a matter that required not a few discussions. Eventually they decided on the Fatherless Waif, because of my illness—that is to say, my father complex. But there were many other stories swirling around. Nasit Bey’s sudden demise revived the story of my aunt who had come back from the dead. And then there was her commitment to a dervish lodge to purge the pain of losing her husband; her subsequent attachment to the sheikh, renowned among the ladies of the day; and her wealth, which made her the prized disciple of the entire lodge—all of which served to enhance the notoriety of her later misadventures. As if refusing to believe she might be overlooked by coffeehouse society, she took to writing rapturous odes to God. And the truth was that every chance encounter in my life only enhanced her notoriety. In the second week after I began frequenting the coffeehouse, a certain honest and warmhearted man who worked in the bedesten, an inspector of the covered market’s scales, took a keen interest in Aristidi Efendi’s quest to make gold. The man never left my side, and, forever clutching a manuscript he’d purchased from the secondhand book market, he pestered me tirelessly with questions about the secrets of the art. Inevitably the Sehzadebası Diamond became the principal topic of discussion on almost any given day. No sooner had the coffeehouse proprietor taken his first sip of strong, unsweetened coffee than he began to recount a dream he’d never actually had, embellishing the tale with elaborate descriptions of the diamond: “Last night in the dream world, may the Great Almighty deem it good fortune, the diamond was yet again presented to me on a golden platter.” On the second telling the dream was slightly altered, with the diamond being brought to him by a banu, which is to say, a lady, and then the third time, the banu became a cadu, a witch or a ghost—in other words, my aunt.
Slowly I grew accustomed to my new life. How carefree and comfortable! The relaxed atmosphere allowed you to leave everything behind, beginning with your own person. No sooner had I left work than I’d dash off to the coffeehouse, and once inside I would become someone else, far from the worries of the day amid the banter and jesting. I would think back on my life of just half an hour earlier, or ponder my future, as if it belonged to someone else. I even had a different name: I was the Fatherless Waif.
The doctor whiled away his hours at one of the tables, amusing himself by opening and closing his briefcase, or trimming his nails, or complaining that the country was falling prey to indolence, or expounding on psychoanalysis, or simply listening to the chatter around him. He was intensely attentive to everything going on in the coffeehouse and was only too delighted if one side of an idea allowed him to generate useful social commentary while the other gave him an opportunity to invoke Jung or Freud. When I asked him if these strange conversations ever frustrated him, he said:
“Are you crazy? Could there be any more interesting case studies than these? In fact it was this very coffeehouse that led me to cherish my profession so dearly. Where else could I find people like these? Even as an organic whole this community is terribly important! There could be no better place for the practice of social psychoanalysis. Look how the past carries on in the present and how the serious and the absurd are held fast. They each live in entirely separate, imaginary worlds. Yet they dream as a collective society.”
On another occasion he said:
“Where else could I find such an enlightened crowd? Each individual has his own specialty. They’re all immersed in national affairs and follow new developments closely. There’s no newspaper that could cover as many stories as this one coffeehouse. You’ll see when I publish my memoirs—you’ll read just what I learned from these people, listening from one day to the next.”
What the doctor meant by “national affairs” and “enlightened” conversation was in reality nothing more than ordinary gossip. But of course the scholar’s perspicacious eye transformed its very nature.
Later I brought Dr. Ramiz’s ideas to bear on Lazybones Asaf Bey, whom I strongly encouraged to work at the institute with Halit Ayarcı—later you will see how Lazybones was appointed head of our Termination Department—and my good benefactor said:
“To my mind, it must have something to do with an inability to adapt to professional life. This is what happens to a life if it doesn’t create a trajectory of its own. When I listen to you talk about this coffeehouse, I imagine all its patrons—most of whom are already known to me—living in some kind of limbo. You might see them as the ones who have been locked out. They lead indolent lives, half the time taking the world seriously, half the time dismissing it as a joke, simply because their failure to adjust to the modern age has so confused them! Surely this has something to do with their ties to some distant past or another!”
“But they all have jobs,” I’d object, to which he’d say:
“Well, there’s work and there’s work. First of all, work requires a certain mentality and a certain conception of time. I’m astonished that you believe a genuine business life was even possible in our country before the establishment of our institute. Work exists only within a defined order. And you, with all your experience, and who lent such moral support to the institute at its inception, how could you consider this work?”
Was there or was there not a valid work ethic in our country before the establishment of our institute? I couldn’t give you a definitive answer. I have changed so much since embarking on these memoirs that I am no longer in a position to claim that I view the institute—currently being dismantled—with the same eyes as I once did. It seems to me now that it was more effective in providing jobs for a number of people in our country who happened to be unemployed than it was in constructing a valid work ethic. In so saying, I am not denying the substantial benefits it offered society; I am merely noting that the passage of time has slowly allowed us to see our work from a different perspective. Perhaps this is because I am no longer dependent on the institute for money or well-being. Naturally when our personal interests aren’t at stake, we begin to see things in a new and more realistic light; indeed we come to see them in a truer light, to judge them in the round. Perhaps this is why I had such a heated argument with my son Ahmet the other day. His scathing criticism of the institute may have put these ideas in my head; when he heard I was composing my memoirs, he changed his family name posthaste, fearing that one day the book might actually be published.
Although I cannot sa
y I ever fully accepted Halit Ayarcı’s many ideas about work, I can concede that his diagnosis of the people at the coffeehouse was quite astute. For indeed here life was suspended. And the people inside never considered unlocking the door and stepping out; they stood forever with one foot on the threshold. The tiniest disturbance could serve as an excuse to escape, or to maintain a sense of freedom. But what were they running away from, and why? Did they not have the power to resist? Or were they truly estranged from the world around them, detached from life itself? No, the coffeehouse offered something more along the lines of a sedative, something akin to opium.
But without a doubt, personal interests were always the first priority in the coffeehouse, and when personal interests came to the fore, all the rules changed. There were daily scuffles over money, endless calculations and clandestine conversations that could last for weeks. We didn’t need to witness such things to understand what was going on. We could get a clear idea of the situation just by talking for half an hour to the owner, or to a party who was directly involved, or to someone who knew the truth behind the affair. These schemes, conspiracies, and misunderstandings most often finished in ferocious quarrels that cast even our most mild-mannered friends in a different light. Thus illuminated, they reminded us that they were people obsessed with the petty calculations of their personal accounts, who could follow the journey of a ten-lira bill with peevishly rapt attention—supremely avaricious and terminally conniving.
Among the patrons were two friends as inseparable as newborn twins, who always ate and drank together; but one day they would come to blows over a money matter, and suddenly all pretense of brotherhood and equality would vanish as one became the master and the other his slave: this unfortunate shift in the balance of power would last for days, even months. Sometimes it would happen without so much as a dispute. One of the two would have a windfall, and the new dynamic would drop into place without fanfare. Or some other grueling episode would effect a new balance. But then something unexpected would again disrupt the new order.
Once we watched as the two regulars tucked themselves away in a corner of the coffeehouse where they remained for days. The second time we saw them, they were with a shabbily dressed man. And on the third day a rather smartly dressed, well-heeled gentleman joined the party, and from that day on these four were inseparable. They convened in the coffeehouse several times a day for private discussions, or one would drop in to leave a message for another. Then each began carrying a briefcase. This all started toward the end of winter. With the arrival of spring, the shabbily dressed man appeared in flashy new attire. He was now a suave and sophisticated Efendi, his gaze perspicacious and his smile firm and steady. This man who just a few months before had slipped almost like a ghost through the crowd now paraded about the coffeehouse, greeting everyone left and right as if he were selling radios or refrigerators. It was around then that he took to coming and going in a private car. He spoke of his “chauffeur,” or rather “our chauffeur,” sometimes softly and with deference, and sometimes with impatient rage, depending on the occasion, but never without reminding us of his social class and its attendant privileges or drawing our attention to the status that only vast expense and a great many cylinders and miles per hour could confer.
Every age, every way of life, has its own disposition, its turn of mind and hard, undeniable truths. An example, without a doubt, is the word “chauffeur,” a word that speaks of refinement, superiority, society, civilization. Have you ever noticed how the first syllable is like a kiss while the second seems to retract what those pursed lips have left hovering in the air? It is one of the most prized acquisitions in the Turkish language. Say it with whatever accent you like: its meaning remains unmistakable.
By the beginning of summer these three had finally disappeared. And then the rumors began to circulate: it seems that with the aid of a crafty lawyer well versed in financial affairs, these friends of ours had managed to attach themselves to a highly complicated inheritance case initiated by a poor fellow who considered himself the rightful heir. Now they were falling over themselves trying to entertain this man, who had, thanks to their efforts, come into a splendid fortune.
After we learned all this, there was no end to the daily updates, sometimes brief and sometimes elaborate and detailed; from the gravity of our tone, one might have thought we were sending out bulletins on the movements of a star and its orbiting satellites. It was as if all the beaches and secret pleasure spots of Istanbul had been shifted to our very neighborhood, or even our very midst, unveiling secrets through glass doors or windows with their toile curtains drawn. And we would hear of innocent young girls, beautiful girls, the kind known by sobriquets taken from the poetic and imaginary lexicon of the previous generation, to aid their ascent into the middle class; these fair creatures emerged from our lukewarm cordials and lemonades before removing their clothes before our very eyes. Every new day brought cruder and lewder tales of summer revelry; they continued until the autumn rains.
With our flannel vests stuck to our sweat-drenched backs, we rubbed this way and that against our chairs to soothe our summer rashes, but once inside these stories we bathed in cool, moonlit waters, made love in dimly lit beach cabins, and locked horns like billy goats among the trees on windswept hilltops. Then there were the stories of the bars in Beyoglu: now we were treated to half-naked women driven out of all parts of Europe by a succession of financial crises, peeling off their bathing suits and underclothes to the heartrending wail of a saxophone solo and dolling themselves up in jewels and fur coats—which is to say that they put them on after stripping themselves of all other attire for our benefit.
There was one night when Emine relinquished all concern for frugality, agreeing to step out for an evening of entertainment without first considering the state of Ahmet’s shoes or Zehra’s blouse, and it was then that we heard of the fair-skinned blondes and brunettes about whom, Emine exclaimed, in her eternal naïveté, “Good gracious! They’re angels, not humans.” Like pureblood Arab mares they pranced into the little domain of our coffeehouse, dancing the fox-trot or writhing their way through a tango, their loosened hair thrashing against their hips, and cried out in breathless triumph as we uncorked imaginary bottles of champagne in our minds, thus drowning out the slap of backgammon pieces in the background.
By midwinter these extravagant parties came to an abrupt end. And the camera swiveled back to our coffeehouse. One night the four men met in the coffeehouse. They looked exhausted and rather agitated. First they had a hushed discussion in a corner; title deeds and receipts were pulled out from dossiers and promptly returned. Then, without warning, their voices rose and words like “disgrace,” “cretin,” and “trickster” cracked in the air like a coachman’s whip. Fists were shaken menacingly and threats delivered: “I’m going to show you, yes I will!” Then all at once they were on top of one another. Eventually the heir and his two friends drove the lawyer right out of the coffeehouse. Pompous and supercilious, the lawyer had shown little interest in making our acquaintance when he first came onto the scene; now he could drag himself out of the mud without our help. As he wiped the blood off his cheek, he cursed like the unsavory brute he was. His spectacles had been smashed in the scuffle, so I had to pick up his hat myself and stuff it back onto his head.