Orhan Pamuk - The Museum Of Innocence

When a waiter finally appeared, I ordered a large bottle of Yeni Rakı.

“Why don’t you have a drink tonight, too, Çetin Efendi, so that we can make a toast,” I said. “You won’t be driving me home after supper.”

“God bless you, Çetin Bey, you’ve spent enough time waiting,” said Aunt Nesibe, full of appreciation. And then, still holding his attention, she looked at me and said, “If you have patience, and put yourself in God’s hands, there is no heart you cannot win, no fortress you cannot capture-isn’t that so?”

When the raki arrived, I poured out a generous amount for Füsun-as I’d done for the others-adoring the way she smoked when she was nervous, staring at the tip of her cigarette. We’d all, Aunt Nesibe included, taken our raki on the rocks, and as the liquid clouded, we drank it in like some potion. After a while I relaxed.

The world was a beautiful place, in truth. It was as if I were noticing this for the first time, though I had already known that I would be caressing Füsun’s fine body, her long arms, and her beautiful breasts for the rest of my life, that resting my head against her neck and breathing in her scent I would sleep in peace for years to come.

I did as I’d done as a child, first concentrating to put out of my mind whatever the cause of my happiness, so that I might then look around me with fresh eyes and see the beauty of everything anew: on the wall a fetchingly elegant photograph of Atatürk in a frock coat, beside it a panorama of the Swiss Alps, a prospect of the Bosphorus Bridge, and-a souvenir of nine years ago-an image of Inge posing sweetly with a bottle of Meltem. I saw a clock showing the time to be twenty past nine, and a sign on the wall behind the reception desk warning that “couples will be asked to present a marriage certificate.”

“Withering Slopes is on tonight. Should we tell them to find the channel?”

“There’s still time, Mother,” said Füsun.

A foreign couple in their thirties came into the dining room. Everyone turned around to look at them, and they greeted us politely. They were French. In those days very few tourists from the West came to Turkey, but those who did came mostly by car.

When the time came, the hotel owner sat down in front of the television with his wife, who was wearing a headscarf, and his two grown daughters-one of whom I’d seen earlier in the kitchen-whose heads were not covered; with their backs to their guests, they settled in to watch the latest episode in silence.

“Kemal Bey, you won’t be able to see from there,” said Aunt Nesibe. “Why don’t you come sit next to us?” whereupon I wedged my chair into the narrow space between Füsun and her.

Withering Slopes was set in the Istanbul hills, but I cannot say that I took much of it in, with Füsun pressing against me with her bare arm! My left arm, especially my forearm, pressed against her, was aflame. My eyes were on the screen, but it was as if my soul had entered Füsun’s.

A third eye, an inner one, feasted on Füsun’s neck, and her beautiful breasts, and the strawberry nipples at the tips of those breasts, and the whiteness of her stomach. Füsun kept pressing against me, and she slowly increased the pressure, so that the Batanay Sunflower Oil ashtray into which she stubbed out her cigarette, even the lipstick-stained cigarette ends, escaped my notice.

When the episode had ended, the television was switched off for the night. The hotel owner’s elder daughter turned on the radio and found some sweet, light music that the French couple appreciated. Returning my chair to its rightful place, I very nearly tripped, having drunk so much. Füsun had had three glasses, by the report of my third eye, which kept count.

“We forgot to make a toast,” said Çetin Efendi.

“Yes, let’s make a toast,” I said. “In fact, the time has come for us to have a small ceremony. Çetin Efendi, you are now going to officiate.”

With a flourish, I produced the engagement rings I had bought a week earlier at the Covered Bazaar, and took them out of their boxes.

“This is the right way to do things, sir,” said Çetin Efendi, warming at once to the situation. “You can’t get married without first getting engaged. Let’s see now, could you present to me your hands?”

Füsun had already offered hers, smiling excitedly.

“There’s no turning back after this,” said Çetin Efendi. “But then there will be no need. You are going to be very happy, I’m sure of it… Now, give me your other hand, Kemal Bey.”

He slipped the rings on us, without delay, and we heard clapping: the French couple, who had been watching us, and a few other sleepy guests who joined in. Füsun was smiling prettily, looking at the ring on her hand with the delight of someone choosing rings at the jeweler’s.

“Does it fit, darling?” I asked.

“It fits,” she said, making no effort to hide her utter satisfaction.

“It looks lovely on you.”

“Yes.”

“Dance, dance!” said the French couple.

“Yes, let’s see you dance,” said Aunt Nesibe.

The sweet music wafting from the radio was good for dancing. But was I able to stand?

We both got up at the same time, and I took Füsun by the waist, enfolding her in my arms, feeling under my fingers her hips, her ribs, her spine.

Füsun, less tipsy than I was, took the dance seriously, holding on to me with genuine emotion. I wanted to whisper into her ear, telling her how much I loved her, but I was suddenly struck shy.

Actually, we were both rather drunk, but something kept us from letting ourselves go. A little later, when we sat down, the French couple clapped again.

“I’d better be getting to bed,” said Çetin Efendi. “We have a long ride ahead of us. I should look the engine over in the morning before we go. We’re setting off early, aren’t we?”

If Çetin hadn’t jumped up so abruptly, Aunt Nesibe might have lingered too.

“Çetin Efendi, could you give me the keys to the car?” I asked.

“Kemal Bey, we’ve all had a lot to drink tonight, so please, I beg you, don’t even touch that steering wheel.”

“I’ve left one of my bags in the trunk, and it has my book in it.”

As I took the key from his extended hand, Çetin Bey pulled himself up straight, and then he bowed down in the exaggerated gesture of respect he had once reserved for my father.

“Mother, how am I going to get into the room without waking you?” Füsun asked.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked,” said Aunt Nesibe.

“Or I can come up with you now and take the key.”

“There’s no hurry. The key will be in the lock on the inside of the door,” said Aunt Nesibe, “but I won’t turn it. Come up whenever it suits you.”

When Aunt Nesibe and Çetin Efendi had left, we were at once more relaxed and more agitated. Füsun was acting like a bride on her first night with a man, and she kept averting her eyes. But I sensed an emotion other than the accustomed bashfulness. I wanted to touch her. I reached out to light her cigarette.

“Were you going to go up to your room to read your book?” asked Füsun, as she started to get up.

“No, darling, I thought we could go for a spin in the car. The night is so beautiful.”

“We’ve both had a lot to drink, Kemal. It’s out of the question.”

“But we could be together.”

“Just go upstairs and go to bed.”

“Are you afraid I’ll wreck the car?”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Then let’s go; we can take a side road and get lost in those hills and forests.”

“No, go upstairs and get to bed. I’m getting up now.”

“Do you mean to leave me alone at the table on the night of our engagement?”