Yes, much better to stay away from it.
Orhan tries hard not to look at his father who sits in the opposite corner, in Dede’s favorite chair. He balances a cane on his knees, fingering a set of worry beads hanging from his left hand. It is the middle of August and Mustafa Türko?lu is, as always, dressed to rural standards, beige skullcap, oxford shirt, sweater vest, and a dark gray wool sports jacket paired with baggy ?alvar pants. Orhan can’t remember a time when his father wasn’t dressed this way. The sweltering heat of the Anatolian sun seeps through the window, threatening to suck the oxygen from Orhan’s lungs, but his father sits unfazed. Nothing, not even the death of his father, much less a little heat, can produce the slightest change in the man.
Mustafa does not acknowledge Orhan’s presence. His eyes, hard little marbles of contempt, stare straight ahead. It is probably the position he’s assumed all day, throughout the long funeral service and the endless cries of hired wailers, the procession of handshakes and sorrowful faces. As the funeral guests leave, he regresses to his belligerent old self. All those years in exile it was his Dede, who had sustained him, who’d written long letters and accepted phone calls. How ironic to be left with this one, this angry little man whose perpetually sunburned skin had hardened like his heart.
Dede’s attorney clears his throat. He must have a fine mahogany desk back in Istanbul, but today Mr. Yilmaz has been relegated to a straight-backed wooden chair so small that the man’s knees practically touch his chest. It is a testament to his father’s remarkable powers of subjugation.
“Shall I begin?” the attorney asks.
Orhan’s father gives the man a nod.
“Upon my death,” the attorney reads, “I give and bequeath the apartment building in Nishantashi to my son Mustafa, with the provision that he provide for our beloved Fatma Cinoglu throughout her life.”
Auntie Fatma does not respond to the mentioning of her name. Head bent, she continues her merciless impaling of squash.
“The total of my estate, including the textile factories in Ankara and Izmir, as well as any and all properties and assets belonging to Tarik Inc., shall be entrusted to my grandson, Orhan Türko?lu.”
The words wash over Orhan like a bucket of warm water. Orhan feels himself floating in their warmth, the tension in his muscles relaxing. Except for the sound of Auntie Fatma’s scraping, the world and all its noises drown in the syllables pouring from the attorney’s lips. So this is what approval feels like. The company is now entirely his. It is not what he expected. Since Turkey’s inheritance laws are still heavily influenced by Sharia Islamic law, it may not even hold up in court, but it is what his grandfather wanted.
Mustafa leans forward in Dede’s chair. Embracing the cane with both arms, he looks like a man drowning. His lips are pressed together, as if holding his breath. Dede’s words carry a lifetime of a father’s disapproval for his son, and for a split second Orhan feels sorry for his father.
“Lastly, I bequeath the family home located in the village of Karod to . . .” The attorney pauses, looking around the room at each person before he proceeds. “To one Ms. Seda Melkonian.”
Who?
“The bastard,” Orhan’s father says. “Son of a whore!”
Orhan isn’t sure whose mother is being cursed here—his own, the attorney’s, or Dede’s. Maybe all mothers everywhere.
“Who?” Orhan hears himself say.
“You listen to me, you piece of shit.” Mustafa turns to the lawyer, spit flying out of his mustache. “I’m going to ram that will so far up your ass, you’ll be able to gargle with it!”
Orhan feels he may be sick. He needs to take control of this situation, to compose himself and concentrate. How could Dede turn his aunt and father out of the only home they’ve ever known? Orhan stands and looks around the room dumbfounded.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” he says.
“Who is this Seda Melkomam?” Mustafa asks.
“Seda Melkonian,” the attorney corrects him.
“Do you know her, Mr. Big City Attorney? Huh? Did some she-devil seduce that simpleton in his old age? Trick him into giving her my house?” his father shouts.
“No, Mr. Türko?lu,” the attorney says, “I do not know her, but I do have an address. Your father’s will clearly states that this house now belongs to Ms. Melkonian.”
“No one is kicking me out of my home,” Mustafa says.
“This can’t be,” Orhan says, pushing past a horrific mental image of his father and aunt moving into his flat in Istanbul. “This house has been in my family for a hundred years. My father was born in this house,” he says. “My aunt has lived here for over seventy years. Where would they go?”