my worthless opinion . . .’
‘Oh, Christ!’ Zelfa cried out in English. ‘Not those bloody Ottoman niceties again!’
Polite conversation in Ottoman court circles involved a process of constant self-abasement. Obvious arrogance was considered a sin and so a system of exaggerated self-deprecation evolved as each party in a conversation attempted to create a mismatch between themselves and the person being spoken to. This human ‘doormat’ phenomenon could only be brought to a close by one or other of the communicants reminding the assembled company that they were all, whatever their status, equal under God.
‘Zelfa . . .’
‘Look, do you want a divorce or don’t you?’ she interrupted, this time in Turkish. ‘Because if you don’t and you intend to fight me on this, then I think I deserve to know.’
His face wore an expression that had nothing to do with any sort of compassion. ‘No, I don’t want to divorce you,’ he said.
Zelfa, furious, slipped back into English once again. ‘Fucking great!’
‘I don’t want to lose my son,’ Mehmet said. ‘I know I am not the best man or the best father in the world, but I do love Yusuf. Even a stopped clock shows the correct time twice a day.’
Zelfa leaned across the table and pointed with one long, red-tipped finger into Mehmet’s face. ‘If you try to take my son away from me I will rip your head off and spit down your neck!’
‘I’m not trying to take him away from you!’ Mehmet said. ‘And besides, you were the one who took him off to Dublin when all of this business began.’
‘You mean when you fucked that tart!’
‘I only did it because you were so cold at that time!’ He stood up and walked round the table to stand in front of her. ‘It was you I really wanted, it was you I thought about as she . . .’
‘Bollocks!’ She rose to her feet too, literally in order to stand up to him. ‘You wanted a shag and anything female would have done!’
He reached one hand out towards her.
‘Don’t you dare raise a hand to me!’ she said.
‘I’m not,’ he said, then suddenly he pulled her towards him. For just a moment she stared, half angrily and half fearfully, into his eyes.
‘I’m doing this,’ he said, and then he leaned down and kissed her full on the lips.
‘Even in the 1950s we had people visit the chimneys from abroad. Some of them – Americans, I think they were – were black. People stared, amazed,’ the old woman said as she leaned forward in order to let İkmen light her cigarette. ‘But then in the 1970s we had a lot of foreigners passing through.’
‘Yes, I appreciate that now,’ he said.
Shortly after he had arrived at the Kahraman house, İkmen had been invited to join Nazlı and her ludicrously young husband for iftar. It had only been macaroni with cheese and tomato sauce and so it hadn’t been too difficult to eat even for one as disinclined towards food as Çetin İkmen. But now that iftar was over and everyone could smoke he was much more at his ease even if this very lined and rather forbidding woman was more than a little disconcerting. Nazlı Kahraman, with her thick, weighty headscarf, her impossibly high-heeled shoes, ‘from İstanbul’, and her pale eyes of stone was not someone İkmen liked to think of as the wife of a young boy. Every time she looked at Erkan, İkmen felt a distinct shudder pass along his spine. For someone who had been a virgin for seventy years, Nazlı Kahraman had taken her revenge upon life in a most brutal manner.
‘But I don’t remember any Alison,’ Nazlı Kahraman continued. ‘Although there was a Susan, and an English girl called Maud is still in the village. She married that stupid Kerem who used to run the Fresco Motel. He’s dead now, but she still runs the place with his sister, Arın.’ She leaned in towards him, conspiratorially. ‘They have three Eastern European women in there, you know. Three!’
‘Oh.’
The subtext behind this
‘Oh, Christ!’ Zelfa cried out in English. ‘Not those bloody Ottoman niceties again!’
Polite conversation in Ottoman court circles involved a process of constant self-abasement. Obvious arrogance was considered a sin and so a system of exaggerated self-deprecation evolved as each party in a conversation attempted to create a mismatch between themselves and the person being spoken to. This human ‘doormat’ phenomenon could only be brought to a close by one or other of the communicants reminding the assembled company that they were all, whatever their status, equal under God.
‘Zelfa . . .’
‘Look, do you want a divorce or don’t you?’ she interrupted, this time in Turkish. ‘Because if you don’t and you intend to fight me on this, then I think I deserve to know.’
His face wore an expression that had nothing to do with any sort of compassion. ‘No, I don’t want to divorce you,’ he said.
Zelfa, furious, slipped back into English once again. ‘Fucking great!’
‘I don’t want to lose my son,’ Mehmet said. ‘I know I am not the best man or the best father in the world, but I do love Yusuf. Even a stopped clock shows the correct time twice a day.’
Zelfa leaned across the table and pointed with one long, red-tipped finger into Mehmet’s face. ‘If you try to take my son away from me I will rip your head off and spit down your neck!’
‘I’m not trying to take him away from you!’ Mehmet said. ‘And besides, you were the one who took him off to Dublin when all of this business began.’
‘You mean when you fucked that tart!’
‘I only did it because you were so cold at that time!’ He stood up and walked round the table to stand in front of her. ‘It was you I really wanted, it was you I thought about as she . . .’
‘Bollocks!’ She rose to her feet too, literally in order to stand up to him. ‘You wanted a shag and anything female would have done!’
He reached one hand out towards her.
‘Don’t you dare raise a hand to me!’ she said.
‘I’m not,’ he said, then suddenly he pulled her towards him. For just a moment she stared, half angrily and half fearfully, into his eyes.
‘I’m doing this,’ he said, and then he leaned down and kissed her full on the lips.
‘Even in the 1950s we had people visit the chimneys from abroad. Some of them – Americans, I think they were – were black. People stared, amazed,’ the old woman said as she leaned forward in order to let İkmen light her cigarette. ‘But then in the 1970s we had a lot of foreigners passing through.’
‘Yes, I appreciate that now,’ he said.
Shortly after he had arrived at the Kahraman house, İkmen had been invited to join Nazlı and her ludicrously young husband for iftar. It had only been macaroni with cheese and tomato sauce and so it hadn’t been too difficult to eat even for one as disinclined towards food as Çetin İkmen. But now that iftar was over and everyone could smoke he was much more at his ease even if this very lined and rather forbidding woman was more than a little disconcerting. Nazlı Kahraman, with her thick, weighty headscarf, her impossibly high-heeled shoes, ‘from İstanbul’, and her pale eyes of stone was not someone İkmen liked to think of as the wife of a young boy. Every time she looked at Erkan, İkmen felt a distinct shudder pass along his spine. For someone who had been a virgin for seventy years, Nazlı Kahraman had taken her revenge upon life in a most brutal manner.
‘But I don’t remember any Alison,’ Nazlı Kahraman continued. ‘Although there was a Susan, and an English girl called Maud is still in the village. She married that stupid Kerem who used to run the Fresco Motel. He’s dead now, but she still runs the place with his sister, Arın.’ She leaned in towards him, conspiratorially. ‘They have three Eastern European women in there, you know. Three!’
‘Oh.’
The subtext behind this
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