Orhan Pamuk - A Strangeness in My Mind

He worried that his wife might realize he was thinking of her sister, so he improvised a few comments on the language of the heart and the role of INTENTIONS and accidents of fate — of KISMET — in our lives. When Samiha read about the “mysterious looks” and “captivating eyes,” Mevlut would sometimes remember how these words had inspired the patterns Rayiha had embroidered on the curtains she’d prepared for bridal trousseaus. Samiha knew about Mevlut’s conversations with the late Holy Guide, and sometimes she would argue that her first meeting with Mevlut had been a matter not just of fate but of intent, too. This was a story Samiha often told when they played their game of the letters. As twilight began to fall on that day of the Feast of the Sacrifice, Samiha developed a convincing new finale.

According to Samiha, the first time they had ever met was not during Korkut’s wedding in the summer of 1978 but a whole six years before, in the summer of 1972, after Mevlut had failed English in his last year of middle school (Mevlut had never told Samiha about Miss Nazlı) and been forced to take a makeup exam. That summer, Mevlut had walked from Cennetpınar to Gümüşdere and back every day in order to be tutored in English by the son of a man who’d emigrated to Germany with his family. As the two boys — Mevlut and the man’s son — sat reading English textbooks under the plane tree on those summer afternoons, Rayiha and Samiha watched them from afar: it was strange to see anyone reading in the village. Samiha had already discovered, back then, that her older sister was interested in Mevlut, the boy who read under the plane tree. Many years later, when she found out from Vediha that Mevlut had been writing love letters addressed to her sister, she did not tell Rayiha that they were really all about Samiha’s own eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell Rayiha the truth?” asked Mevlut guardedly.

Every time he heard Samiha say that she had known from the start how Mevlut had actually been writing his letters to her, it made him uncomfortable. The reason was that he believed Samiha might be telling the truth. If so, it would imply that even if Mevlut had put her name on the top instead of Rayiha’s, Samiha would still never have replied, because she hadn’t reciprocated his feelings at all. Especially in those moments when she sensed that her husband didn’t love her as much as he’d loved Rayiha, Samiha would recite this version, so painful for Mevlut to hear. It was as if to say: “You might love me less now, but back then, I was the one who loved you less.” They were quiet for a long time.

“Why didn’t I tell her?” said Samiha finally. “Only because I genuinely wanted my sister to marry you and be happy, as did everyone else.”

“Then you did the right thing,” said Mevlut. “Rayiha was happy with me.”

The conversation had taken a troubling turn, and husband and wife stopped talking, though neither of them left the table. From where they sat, they could see and hear cars coming in and out of the parking lot as darkness fell, and children playing football in the empty corner near the metal dumpsters.

“It’ll be better in Çukurcuma,” said Samiha.

“I hope so,” said Mevlut.

They had decided to leave Block D and Kültepe and move into one of the apartments in Çukurcuma that Samiha had inherited from Ferhat, but they hadn’t told anyone about it yet. For years, the rent they’d earned from those apartments had gone into paying off the flat in which they currently lived. As soon as those debts were cleared, and they had both become joint owners of the place, Samiha had expressed the wish to leave Block D. Mevlut knew that what bothered her wasn’t so much the feel and the dreariness of the apartment itself; her real motivation for moving was to get farther away from the Aktaş family.

Mevlut had worked out that it wouldn’t be too difficult going to live in Çukurcuma. Getting from Taksim to Mecidiyeköy was easy now thanks to the new subway system. He could also sell quite a lot of boza in Cihangir in the evenings. People who lived in the old buildings of those neighborhoods would still listen for and hail a boza seller walking past.

It was completely dark outside when Mevlut recognized the headlamps of Süleyman’s car entering the parking lot. Wordlessly, they sat and watched Melahat, the two sons, and Süleyman talking and then arguing as they got out of the car with their bags and walked into the building.

“Mevlut and Samiha aren’t home,” said Süleyman, looking at the darkened window as they entered.

“They’ll be back, don’t worry,” said Melahat.

Süleyman had invited the whole family upstairs for dinner. Samiha hadn’t wanted to go at first, but Mevlut had persuaded his wife to come: “We’re going to leave this place soon anyway, let’s not hurt anyone’s feelings.” He was taking more care with each passing day that his wife do nothing that might sour his relations with the Aktaş family, Fevziye, and Mr. Sadullah. The older he got, the more afraid he was of being alone in the city.

Mevlut had been in Istanbul for forty-three years. For the first thirty-five, every year that went by seemed to strengthen his bond with the city. Lately, however, he’d begun to feel increasingly alienated from it. Was it because of that unstoppable, swelling flood, the millions of new people coming to Istanbul and bringing new houses, skyscrapers, and shopping malls with them? He began to see buildings that had been under construction when he’d first arrived in 1969 already being demolished, and not just ramshackle houses in poor neighborhoods, but even proper buildings in Taksim and Şişli that had stood for over forty years. It was as if the people who lived in these old buildings had run out of the time they’d been allotted in the city. As those old people disappeared along with the buildings they’d made, new people moved into new buildings — taller, more terrifying, and more concrete than ever before. Whenever he looked at these new thirty- and forty-story towers, Mevlut felt that he had nothing to do with any of the new people who lived in them.

At the same time, he liked looking at them, the tall buildings that had mushroomed all over the city, not just on the outlying hills. When he saw a new tower for the first time, he didn’t automatically recoil in disgust, like his wealthy customers who sneered at anything modern, but he was filled with an appreciative fascination. What might the world look like from the top of such a tall building? That was another reason that Mevlut wanted to go to Süleyman’s dinner as soon as possible: so he could enjoy the magnificent view from that apartment for a little longer.

But owing to Samiha’s stubbornness, they arrived at the top floor later than everyone else. Mevlut got a seat facing not the view but only a glass-paned cabinet that a van had delivered to Melahat three months ago. The children had already eaten and left. Apart from Korkut and Vediha, and Süleyman and Melahat, the only other person at the table was Abdurrahman Efendi, who wasn’t saying a word. Aunt Safiye hadn’t come, blaming Uncle Hasan’s illness. Korkut and Süleyman had taken their father to a number of specialists trying to figure out what was wrong with him, and he kept having more tests. By now, Uncle Hasan was sick of doctors; he didn’t want to be examined or even to get out of bed or leave his room. He detested the twelve-story building he lived in; he’d never wanted it to be built in the first place, so when he did get to go outside, he didn’t want to go to any hospitals, only to his grocery store, which he thought and worried about constantly. Mevlut had worked out that the empty land behind the store, which still looked exactly as it had forty years ago, could be used to build an eight-story block with five apartments on each floor. (Uncle Hasan had fenced that land off himself forty-five years ago.)