Orhan Pamuk - A Strangeness in My Mind

Ten days after the launch of Brothers-in-Law, Ferhat started renting an apartment in Çukurcuma, with central heating, and we finally moved out of the Ghaazi Quarter. All around us were junk shops, furniture repairmen, hospitals, and pharmacies. From the window I could see part of Sıraselviler Street and the crowds flowing to and from Taksim. In the afternoons, when I got bored at home, I headed over to Brothers-in-Law. Rayiha always left at five to make sure the girls weren’t home alone after dark and to start making dinner, so I, too, would leave to avoid being alone with Mevlut. The few times I did stay in the shop after Rayiha had left, Mevlut always stood with his back to me, only looking in the mirror every now and then. So I looked in the other mirror on our side of the shop and never said a word to him at all. Ferhat would drop in later, knowing he’d find me there; he’d eventually gotten used to the idea of my being in the shop. It was fun being there with Ferhat, running around trying to keep up with orders. It was the first time the two of us had ever worked together. Ferhat would comment on every single person who came in for a glass of boza, like the idiot over there who blew over the top of his glass thinking boza was a hot drink. Or that other guy who was the sales manager at a shoe shop on the main street; Ferhat himself had installed its meter. One customer got a free refill just because he seemed to enjoy the first glass so much, and then Ferhat got him talking about his days in military service.

—

Within two months, they’d all realized that Brothers-in-Law wouldn’t turn much of a profit, but no one said a thing. At best, they might sell three times as much boza as Mevlut had been able to on the street on a cold winter night back when business was good. But Mevlut and Rayiha’s share of the net proceeds would barely cover half a month’s living expenses for a childless couple — and even that was only due to operating rent-free and without having to budget for bribes to city hall and the tax office, thanks to Ferhat’s contacts. Yet in such a lively neighborhood — just one street down from İstiklal Avenue — they could have sold anything else they put on the counter.

Mevlut never lost hope. Many people seeing the sign on the door stepped in to have a glass, most of them warmly telling Mevlut what a good idea this shop was. He could happily talk to any customer — mothers bringing their children in for a first taste of boza, drunks, proselytizing know-it-alls, and oddballs skeptical of anything and everything.

“Boza is meant to be had at night, boza seller, what are you doing here so early in the day?” “Do you make this at home?” “You charge too much, your glasses are too small, and there should be more roasted chickpeas in this.” (Mevlut soon learned that if people had spared him their criticism when he’d been just a poor street vendor, they certainly weren’t holding back now that he had his own shop.) “Hats off to you, you’re doing the nation proud.” “Boza seller, I’ve just had half a bottle of Club Rakı, now tell me, what happens if I drink this, and what happens if I don’t?” “Excuse me, am I supposed to drink boza before dinner, or is it meant for after a meal, like a dessert?” “Did you know, brother, that the word boza comes from the English word ‘booze’?” “Do you deliver?” “Aren’t you that yogurt seller’s son, Mustafa Efendi? I remember when you used to work with your father. Well done!” “We used to have a boza seller in our neighborhood, but he’s stopped coming by.” “But if you start selling boza in shops, what will happen to the boza sellers on the street?” “Boza seller, give us a shout of ‘Boo-zaa’ so that the kids can see and learn.”

When he was in a good mood, Mevlut could never disappoint his curious clientele, especially when they brought their children along; “Boo-zaa,” he’d call, smiling. Customers who told him “You are doing something very important here” and launched into lectures on the value of tradition and the Ottoman era mostly never came back. Mevlut could scarcely believe the sheer number of suspicious people who wanted to see for themselves that the glasses had been cleaned properly or who asked aggressively whether the boza was made using only natural ingredients. What didn’t surprise him was the people who’d never had boza before who said “eughh” right after their first sip, or who complained that it was too sour or too sweet and didn’t finish their glass. “The boza I buy at night from my street vendor is more authentic,” some would say with great disdain. There were also those who said, “I thought this was meant to be a hot drink,” and left their glass untouched.

A month after they’d opened, Ferhat started coming by to help out every other evening. His father’s village had been among those evacuated during the army’s assault on Kurdish guerrillas in the east, and his paternal grandmother, who spoke no Turkish, had come to Istanbul. Ferhat recounted his efforts to communicate with her in his broken Kurdish. The Kurds who’d moved to Istanbul after their villages were burned by the Turkish army had been settling in certain streets and setting up local gangs. It was rumored that the new mayor from the religious party was going to shut down the restaurants and bars that served alcohol and put tables out on the pavement. As summer approached, Mevlut and Ferhat began to sell ice cream, too.

—

Rayiha.We brought a mirror of our own to the shop, just like Ferhat and Samiha. On some afternoons, I noticed that Mevlut wasn’t really looking out at the street but at our mirror next to the shopwindow. I became suspicious. I waited until he left one day, and I sat in the spot where he usually did, and looking in the mirror, I could see Samiha’s face and her eyes right behind me. I had a vision of the two of them looking at each other through the mirror, hiding their glances from me, and I became jealous.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. There’s no need for Samiha even to come to the shop in the afternoon when I’m there with Mevlut. Ferhat’s pockets are bulging with all the cash he takes from the people who don’t pay their electric bills, so why is Samiha so interested in working when they don’t even need the money anymore? Late in the afternoon, when it’s time for me to go home to the girls, Samiha leaves with me, but sometimes she’s too busy with something: four times now she’s stayed behind in the shop after I’ve left, alone with Mevlut.

The one thing that keeps Samiha busier than the shop, though, is their new house in Cihangir. I thought I’d take the girls over there for a visit one evening. She wasn’t home, so we went to the shop — I couldn’t help myself. Mevlut was there, but Samiha wasn’t. “What are you doing here so late?” he said. “How many times do I have to tell you not to bring the children here?” This wasn’t the kind, sweet Mevlut I used to know; this was the voice of a mean man. I was so hurt that I didn’t go to the shop at all for three days. Of course this meant that Samiha couldn’t go either, and soon she came to visit me. “What’s wrong? I was worried!” she said. She seemed sincere. “I’m sick,” I said, ashamed of my jealousy. “No, you’re not. Ferhat is mean to me, too, you know,” she said — not because she was trying to get me to talk, but because my smart little sister had figured out a long time ago that, for girls like us, the worst trouble always started with our husbands. I wish we didn’t have this shop now; I wish it could just be me and Mevlut alone again.

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