Orhan Pamuk - The Museum Of Innocence

“Come, let me introduce you to a special drink at the bar,” I said, and I took him over there. As we made our way through the crowd, again through a gauntlet of hugs and kisses, Zaim exchanged a few pleasantries with two girls who’d shown interest in him. Seeing how hopelessly one of them gazed at him (she had long black hair and the Ottoman hooked nose) I remembered hearing gossip about her falling desperately in love a few summers earlier, and attempting suicide.

“All the girls adore you,” I said when we sat down. “What’s your secret?”

“Believe me, I don’t do anything special.”

“Did nothing special happen even with the German model?”

Zaim flashed a coy, cool smile. “I’m not at all happy about my reputation,” he said. “If I ever found someone as wonderful as Sibel, I’d really want to get married, too. I have to congratulate you-I mean it. Sibel is a fabulous girl. And I can see in your eyes how happy you are.”

“Actually I’m not so happy right now. This is what I wanted to talk to you about. I need some help.”

“I’d do anything for you, you know that,” he said, looking deep into my eyes. “Trust me, and tell me right away.”

As the bartender was preparing our rakıs , I looked over at the dance floor. Had Füsun, swaying with the sentimental swill, let her head fall onto Kenan’s shoulder? That part of the floor was too dark for me to see, and every attempt to catch sight of her refreshed my pain.

“There’s a girl who’s a distant relation of my mother’s,” I said. “Her name’s Füsun.”

“The one who was in the beauty contest? She’s dancing over there.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s too beautiful,” said Zaim. “I see her whenever I walk past that boutique in Nişantaşı. Like everyone else, I slow down when I’m passing and look inside. She has the sort of beauty you just can’t get out of your head. Everyone knows who she is.”

Worrying that Zaim might now say something that would make it awkward for both of us, I said, “She’s my lover.” I saw a ripple of jealousy cross my friend’s face. “Just to see her dancing with someone else causes me pain right now. I might even say I am madly in love with her. I’m trying to think of a way out. I wouldn’t want something like this to go on for too long.”

“Yes, the girl is wonderful, but the situation couldn’t be worse,” said Zaim. “And you’re right, you can’t let something like this go on for too long.”

I didn’t ask him why. Nor did I ask myself whether it was in fact jealousy or contempt I saw in my friend’s face. But it was clear that I couldn’t tell him right away what I wanted him to do. I felt a need to tell him first about the depth and sincerity of this thing between Füsun and me; I wanted him to respect it. But as I began to reveal how I felt for Füsun, it was clear to me that my drunkenness would allow me to express only the most ordinary parts of the story, and that if I attempted emotional candor he would think me feeble and laughable, and even, despite his own dalliances, hold it against me. I suppose that in the end what I really wanted from my friend was his recognition, not of how sincere I was, but how lucky, and how happy. So it seems all these years later, but at the time, I myself could not acknowledge these things at all, and so, while we both watched Füsun dancing, and my head was spinning with drink, I told Zaim my story. I told him that I was the first man Füsun had ever slept with, describing the bliss we had discovered making love, and of our lovers’ quarrels and a string of other strange particulars that happened to pop into my head at that moment. “In short,” I said, suddenly inspired, “what I want more than anything else in life right now is to hold on to this girl until I die.”

“I understand.”

When I perceived in him a manly sympathy, free of reproach for my selfishness or moral judgment of my happiness, I relaxed.

“What’s upsetting me right now is that she’s dancing with Kenan, the young clerk at Satsat. She’s putting his job in jeopardy just to make me jealous… Of course, I’m also worried that she’ll actually fall for him. For truth be told, Kenan would be an ideal husband for her.”

“I understand,” said Zaim.

“In a short while I am going to invite Kenan to my father’s table. What I would like you to do is to go straight over to Füsun and keep her busy, shadow her every move, like a good football defender, so that I don’t die of jealousy tonight-and so that I can get to the end of this evening without succumbing to fantasies of firing Kenan. Füsun and her parents will be leaving soon, as she is taking the university entrance exam tomorrow. And anyway, this impossible love affair of ours must end very soon.”

“I can’t be sure your girl will take much interest in me tonight,” said Zaim. “There’s another matter, too.”

“What?”

“I can see Sibel is trying to keep me away from Nurcihan,” said Zaim. “She wants to get something going between her and Mehmet. But I think Nurcihan likes me. And I like her, a lot. So I’d like you to help me with this a little. I know Mehmet is our friend, but let us compete on a level field.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I couldn’t get very far this evening, not with Sibel and Mehmet working against me, and now if I have to defend this girl of yours from the clerk, that will cut into the time I can spend with Nurcihan. So you have to make it up to me. Promise me now that you will bring Nurcihan with you to the picnic at the Meltem factory.”

“I promise.”

“Why does Sibel want to keep me away from Nurcihan anyway?”

“Well, you do make an impression, with your German models, and your dancers… Sibel doesn’t like those things. She wants to marry her friend off to someone she trusts.”

“Please tell Sibel that I’m not a bad person.”

“I tell her all the time,” I said as I stood up. There was a silence. “I appreciate the sacrifices you’re making for me,” I said. “But when you are minding Füsun, be careful, don’t let yourself fall for her. Because she’s very sweet.”

Zaim’s expression, so full of understanding, liberated me from feeling shame for my jealousy. It brought me peace, if only short-lived.

Back at my parents’ table I told my father, who had drunk himself into a stupor, that I wanted to introduce a very clever and industrious young clerk named Kenan, who was sitting at the Satsat table. So as not to inflame the other ambitious Satsat employees, I jotted down a note in my father’s name and gave it to Mehmet Ali, a waiter who’d known us since the time the hotel had first opened, instructing him to pass it to Kenan at the next pause in the music. At that moment, my mother reached out and tried to grab my father’s raki , saying, “You’ve had enough,” and in the tussle, spilled some on his tie. They were serving ice cream in glasses when the Silver Leaves took a break. In those days, we would all enjoy a cigarette before each new course. The bread crumbs, the tumblers smeared with lipstick, the stained napkins, overflowing ashtrays, lighters, dirty plates, and crumpled cigarette packets all fired painful sensations in my muddled mind that the evening’s end was fast approaching. At one point, a little boy, perhaps six or seven years old, climbed onto my lap, and Sibel seized the excuse to come over to sit beside me and play with him. The sight of this moved my mother to remark, “What a lovely way you have with him.” People were still dancing. A few moments later my young, handsome, dapper clerk had joined the table and as the former foreign minister rose to his feet, a courtly Kenan told him and my father what an honor it was to meet them both. After the former foreign minister had lumbered off, I explained how Kenan Bey had given considerable thought to Satsat’s potential expansion into the provinces, and that he was particularly knowledgeable about Izmir. I praised him at length so that everyone at the table could hear. My father then began to ask him the same questions he asked all the new clerks. “What foreign languages do you speak, my child? Do you read books, do you have any hobbies, are you married?” “He’s not married,” my mother said. “Just a moment ago he was dancing very nicely with Nesibe’s daughter, Füsun.” “She’s blossomed into quite a beauty,” said my father. “Don’t let this father and son wear you down with business talk, Kenan Bey,” said my mother. “You must want to get back to your friends.” “Not at all, madam! The honor of meeting Mümtaz Bey-meeting all of you-is much more important.” “Such a courteous, refined young man,” my mother whispered, though loud enough for Kenan to hear. “Shall I invite him over one evening?”