My inability to remember those lost years in Istanbul frustrates me no end, so you can imagine how much worse that frustration became when the old schoolteacher began telling me stories from my past and calling me “Anouche.”
He showed us around his house, including the room that had once been the classroom where I studied. It’s a little reading room now. He asked what I had become, whether I was married and whether I had any children. I told him about how I make perfumes, and he didn’t seem surprised at all. He even said he remembered that, unlike other small children, who usually taste strange objects, I was more likely to smell them, and that I did so with remarkable care.
When our visit was over, he accompanied us to the gate, and as I passed the old linden tree and brushed against its leaves, I was certain once again that this was not the first time I had been in that place.
Can thinks that I probably went to school there, and that the old teacher just doesn’t remember everything clearly, that perhaps he remembered me and then confused his memories with those of other children. He thinks other details may come back to me, and that I should trust destiny to reveal them. After all, if that konak hadn’t burned down in the night, we would have never walked past the old school. Even though I know he was only trying to calm me down, he’s probably not entirely wrong . . .
So, as you can understand, there are a lot of questions buzzing around in my head. Why did the old man call me Anouche? What violence was he talking about? Why does he think that my parents died separately when I know they died together? He seemed so sure of himself, so sad to see that I didn’t understand.
I apologize for writing to you in such a state, but I can’t get over it.
Tomorrow, I’ll go back to Cihangir. After all, I know the essentials. I lived here for two years, and for one reason or another, my parents sent me to a local school in üsküdar, on the other side of the Bosporus, perhaps in the company of a nanny named Mrs. Yilmaz.
I hope that all is well in London, that you keep making progress on your painting, and that you continue to be satisfied with your new studio. To make your work easier, you should know that the house where I live has four floors and is pale pink with white shutters.
Yours truly,
Alice
P.S. Excuse me for mixing you up with Anton—my mind was elsewhere when I wrote my last letter. Anton is an old friend I sometimes write to as well. Speaking of friends, did you enjoy your trip to the movies with Carol?
Dear Alice,
(Although, I must admit, Anouche is a very pretty name.)
I’m sure that the old teacher must have just confused you with another girl who went to his school. You shouldn’t torture yourself with the memories of a man who may not have all his wits about him.
The good news is that you found the school you attended during the two years you spent as a child in Istanbul. Even in difficult times, your parents saw to it that you got an education, and that’s the important part.
I’ve given it a great deal of thought, and I believe there’s a logical explanation for everything: during the war, and while they were in such a delicate situation (particularly considering the medical aid they were giving the people in Beyo?lu, which wasn’t without its dangers), it seems likely that your parents preferred you go to school in a different neighborhood. And if they were both working at the university, it seems logical that they needed a nanny’s help, which also explains why Mr. Zemirli didn’t remember you. When he came to get his medicine, you must have been at school or in the care of Mrs. Yilmaz. With the mystery solved, you can return to your work, which I hope is advancing by leaps and bounds.
My own work is moving forward, not as quickly as I would like, but I think I’m doing fairly well. At least that’s what I tell myself when I leave your flat every evening. I think otherwise when I return the next morning. What can I say? It’s not easy being a painter—ours is a business of illusion and disillusion. One day you think you’ve mastered your subject, but the damned brushes often seem to have a mind of their own. They’re not the only ones . . .
Your letters seem to indicate that you miss rainy old London less and less. I’ve taken to daydreaming about the excellent raki we drank together. Some evenings I imagine what it would be like to return to Istanbul and have dinner with you in Mama Can’s restaurant. I’d like to come and visit, even just for a day, but unfortunately it’s impossible as long as my work keeps me here.
Your ever-devoted Daldry.
P.S. Did you ever make it to that picnic on the Princes’ Islands? Do they deserve their name? Did you meet a prince?
My dearest Daldry,
You’ll probably lecture me for taking so long to reply, but please don’t take it personally. I’ve been working constantly for the past three weeks.
Things are coming along nicely, with both my Turkish and my perfume. The master perfumer in Cihangir and I are on the verge of a breakthrough. For the first time yesterday, we managed to create an interesting accord. The arrival of spring has helped a great deal. If only you could see how much Istanbul has changed over the past few months. Can took me out to the countryside last weekend, and I discovered some wonderful fragrances. The whole area surrounding the city is blanketed in roses, and I think I’ve probably seen a hundred different varieties. The peach and apricot trees are also blooming, and the redbuds that line the shores of the Bosporus are covered in little purple blossoms.
Can says it will soon be the season for mimosa, lavender, and all sorts of other fragrant flowers. Turkey really is a perfume maker’s paradise. I’m tremendously lucky to be here. You asked about the Princes’ Islands—they’re very beautiful and lush with vegetation, but üsküdar Hill isn’t too bad these days either. At the end of my shift, Can and I often go for a late dinner in one of the many little cafés tucked away in the neighborhood’s hidden gardens.
In a month the weather is supposed to heat up considerably, and we’ll be able to go to the beach and go swimming. I can’t help it: we’re still in the middle of spring and I’m already impatient for summer to arrive.
I’ll never know how to thank you for encouraging me to discover Istanbul. I love the hours I spend with the perfume maker in Cihangir, and my work in Mama Can’s restaurant. She’s so affectionate that she feels like family to me now. The warm evenings when I walk home from work are a pure delight.
I would like very much for you to come and visit, even for a short while, just to show you all of the beautiful things I’ve discovered since you left.
It’s late now. The city is falling asleep, and I’m going to do the same.
I’ll write you again as soon as possible.
Your friend,
Alice
P.S. Tell Carol that I miss her and that I’d be very happy if she found the time to write.
13
Alice posted her letter on her way to work the following evening. When she got to the restaurant, she could hear Can and his aunt having a loud argument that ended abruptly as soon as she came in. Alice noticed Mama Can frown at Can, warning him to keep quiet.
“What’s going on?” she asked innocently, putting on her apron and tying the strings behind her back.
“Nothing,” said Can. His face said otherwise.
“You were arguing. You both sounded angry.”
“An aunt should be able to contradict her nephew without him rolling his eyes and showing her disrespect,” said Mama Can. She sounded furious.
Can left without saying goodbye, slamming the door behind him as he went.
“Goodness. It must have been serious,” said Alice, going over to the huge stove, where Mama Can’s husband was already hard at work.
He turned to her with a spoon and had her taste his stew. She said it was delicious. He wiped his hands on his apron and went out of the back door to smoke a cigarette without saying a word. He seemed angry with Mama Can too.
“What on earth is going on?” asked Alice.
“The two of them are ganging up on me,” complained Mama Can.