A young girl, flanked on both sides by older women, one of whom he remembers as the village marriage broker, silently offers Orhan a tray of baklava.
“Ma?allah,” says the marriage broker, scanning her eyes along the length of his body. “We heard you came by private car.” She nods in solemn approval. The girl standing to her left keeps her eyes glued to the plastic tray of sweets, and the broker gives him a conspiratorial smile. Orhan lifts his hand in protest, sure that the gesture is universal enough to decline both the baklava and the girl.
Six years ago, when Orhan first returned from Germany, these same “aunties” shunned him like a leper. The word communist was thrown at his back and sometimes to his face. Now they parade their single daughters in front of him, fantasizing about becoming the mother-in-law of the prodigal grandson and successful businessman. It was the combination of their scorn and his father’s that made him settle in Istanbul, where no one knew a thing about his past. To his city friends, Orhan’s stay in Germany was not a forced and shameful exile but an acceptable part of a rich man’s education.
The girl still stands before him, awkwardly holding the tray of baklava in her calloused hands. They look so much older than the rest of her. These girls are a completely different species from the gazelles that make up the social elite of Istanbul, a modern crowd of which Orhan’s ex-girlfriend, Hülya, is a member. Perhaps, with his inheritance only moments away, Orhan could pursue Hülya, with her excellent lineage and perfect tan, in the manner she was accustomed to and win her back. Though by the standards of Turkish inheritance law, the majority of Dede’s wealth will no doubt go to his useless father, Orhan is sure to receive something. Hülya could move into his apartment, its ancient walls covered in what her posh friends perceived as high art. He would have to buy a large china cabinet for all her cherished relics of the West, a collector’s plate with Lady Diana’s face lodged at its center, her collection of Duran Duran albums displayed prominently on the shelf. All the symptoms of Western capitalism without the pesky virtues like freedom of expression and minority rights.
Orhan gulps down the remainder of his tea, sets the tiny cup on the girl’s baklava tray, and moves to the sitting room, where it is less crowded. The room has only three occupants, his aunt, father, and a man in a modern suit whom he recognizes as Dede’s lawyer. They sit in an uncomfortable silence that goes undisturbed by his arrival at the door. Auntie Fatma sits at the back wall, in her usual garb—a long-sleeved peasant dress of dark rayon challis fabric over baggy ?alvar trousers—doing her best to remain invisible. Orhan is surprised by the black cotton head scarf that covers her head and frames her prunelike face. Though it is customary for village women of a certain age to cover their heads, his aunt has never been one to follow convention.
She balances a large aluminum tray on her knees, as she guts the insides of a dozen tiny squash. Her hands work at a frenzied pace, but Orhan suspects she will be listening carefully to every word spoken. He bends down and gives her a quick peck on the cheek. Seeing him, her face cracks into a smile, revealing a mouth full of gold teeth. Orhan takes the seat closest to her in silence. Light bounces from Auntie Fatma’s tray to her golden mouth and back again. The smell of garlic and red pepper paste lingers in the air. She scoops handfuls of ground beef and rice into the hollows of each vegetable, her legs spread apart to steady the tray. The yellow and green squash glow like tiny gems in a jewelry box. Orhan’s hand instinctively reaches toward the middle of his chest where his camera used to hang, before remembering he hasn’t got one. It’s a reflex that almost never happens in Istanbul, where he now lives. His body still remembers that long-lost object like the severed limb of an amputee.
His Leica is probably still somewhere in the house. Orhan hasn’t seen it since his arrest a half-dozen years ago, and he doesn’t want to. She is a skilled lover. If he got close to her again, pressed a firm finger on her shutter release button, she would open her aperture just enough to let the light penetrate and then shut it again. She would release that familiar and intoxicating sound, somewhere between a clap and a moan, and wait for him to wind her up again. The act would be blissful no doubt, but it would end badly. It always did. The last time he took a photograph in Karod, the country was coping with the military coup of 1980. Orhan was only nineteen when he took that final photograph. It was the sharp contrast of colors and textures that interested him. So focused on the abstractions that he failed to see the world around them. The Leica did that. It stole all his perspective.