Orhan Pamuk - A Strangeness in My Mind

Even though no alcohol was consumed, not even secretly, there seemed to be a state of collective intoxication by the end of these dumpling dinners and picnics, with men and women dancing together to their favorite Beyşehir folk songs. According to Süleyman, this was why Korkut didn’t let Vediha attend these events. But of course if she couldn’t come, neither could her inseparable companion in Duttepe, Samiha.

Certain issues had slowly begun to divide the migrants’ association into supporters of the secular Republican People’s Party on the one hand and the more conservative members on the other. These issues included how much women and families should be encouraged to participate in association activities; which folksinger to book for events; what to do about unemployed men playing cards in the clubhouse; whether or not to organize evening Koran readings; and the merits of offering scholarships to bright village kids admitted to college. This political back-and-forth would sometimes continue even after the adjournment of a club meeting, the end of a football match, or a day trip, and the men who relished these debates would end up going for a few drinks at a bar near the clubhouse. One night, Süleyman emerged from a group leaving the clubhouse, and putting his arm around Mevlut’s shoulders, he said, “Let’s go with them.”

Mevlut realized that the bar they went to was the same place where Süleyman had gone for a drink with Crooked-Necked Abdurrahman many years ago while deep in the throes of unrequited passion. They ate white cheese, melon, and panfried liver, drank rakı, and began to discuss the association’s activities as well as what all their acquaintances from the village were up to. (So-and-so had shut himself away in the house; another thought of nothing but gambling; and a third was running himself ragged going from hospital to hospital trying to care for his disabled son.)

The conversation soon moved on to politics. These rakı lovers might start accusing Mevlut of secretly being an Islamist sympathizer, but in truth they were equally likely to throw in some snide accusation: “We haven’t seen you at Friday prayers in a long time.” Mevlut would not engage with any of it. When Süleyman gleefully announced that “members of parliament and candidates standing for election will be visiting the clubhouse,” Mevlut was excited but, unlike the others, didn’t ask who these prospective visitors were or what party they belonged to. Somehow the discussion turned to whether all these Islamists were going to take over the country soon or whether there was nothing to worry about. There were even a few who claimed that the army would arrange a coup and bring this government down. It was all just like those debates that were constantly shown on TV.

By the end of the meal, Mevlut’s mind had already begun to drift. Süleyman, who’d been sitting across from him, moved to the empty chair at Mevlut’s side and started telling him about his sons, talking so softly that no one around them could hear. His elder son Hasan, who was six years old, had just begun primary school. His other son, Kâzım, was four, and since his brother had already taught him how to read at home, he was now reading the Lucky Luke comics. Süleyman’s secretive manner, excluding everyone else at the table, made Mevlut uncomfortable. He may have been whispering only in the interest of shielding his family bliss from jealous attention, but there were still many who hadn’t yet made their minds up about the truth surrounding Ferhat’s death. It may have been five years ago already, but Mevlut knew that — even in his own heart — the matter still hadn’t been laid to rest. If they saw the two cousins whispering like this, people might think Mevlut had conspired with Süleyman.

“There’s something important I need to talk to you about. But you’re not allowed to interrupt me,” said Süleyman.

“All right.”

“I’ve seen loads of women lose their husbands early on to street fights or car accidents and go on to marry again so they wouldn’t be alone. If these women have no children, and if they’re still young and attractive, they’ll have plenty of suitors, too. Now there’s this woman I know — I think you know her name — who’s just like that: beautiful and smart and young. She knows how to stand up for herself, too, and she has real character. There’s already someone she’s been thinking about, and she only has eyes for him.”

Mevlut liked the idea that Samiha was waiting for him — at least in Süleyman’s version of the story. There was no one else left at the dinner table now. Mevlut ordered another glass of rakı .

“The man this woman has in mind is a young widower, too, having lost his wife to an unfortunate accident,” Süleyman continued. “He is honest, trustworthy, sweet-faced, and even tempered.” Mevlut was enjoying this praise. “He’s got two daughters from his first marriage, but he’s all alone now because they’ve both married and left the nest.”

Mevlut wasn’t sure when he was supposed to interrupt and say, I get it, you’re talking about me and Samiha! so Süleyman kept taking advantage of his indecision. “In fact, the man had once been in love with the woman. He’d written love letters to her for years…”

“So why didn’t they get married?” asked Mevlut.

“It doesn’t matter now…There was a misunderstanding. But now, twenty years later, they would make a great match.”

“Then why aren’t they getting married now ?” said Mevlut, refusing to budge.

“That’s exactly what everyone else has been wondering…They’ve known each other for years now; he wrote the girl all those love letters…”

“I’ll tell you what really happened, and then you’ll know why they’re not getting married,” said Mevlut. “The man didn’t write all those letters to the woman you’re talking about but to her elder sister. He ran away with her, they got married, and they were happy.”

“Come on, Mevlut, do you have to be that way?”

“What way?”

“Our whole family and all of Duttepe, too, know by now that you meant those letters for Samiha, not Rayiha.”

“Pah!” said Mevlut, almost as if he meant to spit. “You’ve been spreading those lies for years trying to make trouble between me and Ferhat, and you made Rayiha unhappy. She believed you, the poor thing…”

“So what’s the truth, then?”

“The truth is…” For a moment, Mevlut was back in 1978, at Korkut’s wedding. “The truth is: I saw this girl at the wedding. I fell in love with her eyes. I wrote her letters for three years. Every time I wrote to her, I put her name right at the top of the letter.”

“Yes, you saw the girl with the beautiful eyes…But back then you didn’t even know her name,” said Süleyman, getting irritated. “So I gave you the wrong name.”

“But you’re my cousin, you’re my friend…Why would you do such a horrible thing to me?”

“I never thought of it as a horrible thing. When we were young, didn’t we play pranks on each other all the time?”

“So it was just a prank, then…”

“No,” said Süleyman. “I’ll be honest: I also believed that Rayiha was a better match for you, and that she would make you happier.”

“They won’t let anyone marry the third daughter until the second one’s settled,” said Mevlut. “You wanted Samiha yourself.”

“Fine, I tricked you,” said Süleyman. “I’m sorry. But it’s been twenty years now, and I’m trying to make amends, my dear Mevlut.”

“Why would I believe you, though?”

“Come on,” said Süleyman, sounding like a man wronged. “No joke this time, and definitely no lies.”

“But why would I trust you?”