If he is not a photographer or a businessman, then what is he? If he is not Kemal’s grandson, then who is he? Mustafa’s son. But then who is Mustafa? Fatma’s son. And who is Fatma? Someone who loves. That is it. He is someone who was, is, loved.
And if he is Turkish, what does that mean? Is he the prodigal son of a democratic republic or a descendant of genocide perpetrators? Maybe he is all of those things and none of them.
He steps onto the garden path, with its carved explanation of history inscribed in stone. He follows the timeline from Byzantium to 1915 and on to the present. There is only one version of events, and there it is beneath his feet. If only someone could do the same for him. Carve who he is in words and numbers that quantify and make sense: a singular interpretation of Orhan Türko?lu.
But he is not singular. No one is. Not him, not Dede, not Seda. And if they are not singular, how can history be? Orhan reaches into his satchel for the legal papers when he realizes he must have forgotten them in Seda’s room the night before. He makes his way to her door but finds it locked. He knocks gently, then with more purpose, but no one answers.
Orhan heads toward the dining room, hoping to find Betty or maybe even Seda, but when he swings the door open, he’s confronted with the somber reality of the art exhibit. The room is dark, except for the light projected on the black-and-white photographs that pop against the white walls. Men and women stand with their backs to the massive images. From the backs of their heads, Orhan can tell that they’ve all made an extra effort. The men have removed their newsboy caps and combed their sparse hair to one side. The women have had their short bobs teased so that rows of fluffy helmets line the room.
Orhan steps inside and presses himself against the back wall, still close enough to the door to make a stealth exit. The bronze bust from the reception area has been moved to the front of the room and placed next to a podium where a gray-haired man is talking into a microphone.
“And so I humbly call on President Bush to honor the proud history of the United States as a champion of human rights throughout the world by recognizing the memory of the 1.5 million who perished in the Armenian genocide,” he says.
“The governor,” someone whispers. He turns to see Ani holding her clipboard.
“You came,” she says. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
Orhan nods and is about to respond when a microphoned voice interrupts.
“Thank you, Governor,” says a woman with a heavy accent. “Our first speaker is Mrs. Varti Vartanian, originally from Kharpert. As you all know, this testimony is being recorded for posterity and will be collected into an oral history, so please keep your questions and comments for the very end.”
Mrs. Vartanian’s bent back miraculously straightens when she stands before the microphone. Even then, her white froth of hair clears the podium by only a foot. She begins her story in Armenian, her arthritic hands gesticulating left and right. Orhan can’t understand a single word of her tale, but the tragedy enters the room, fully formed. Palpable.
That is when he hears it. A single understandable word floats among the undecipherable syllables. It is uttered in Turkish. “O?lum.” My son. Then, “?ocuk.” The child. These are her memories, her burden to carry. But somehow he feels a degree of ownership for this story, and all the other stories that will and will not be shared in this room.
Mrs. Vartanian ends her story, dabbing at her eyes with a small handkerchief. Her back gradually curves again; her head hangs like a lantern from her neck. An orderly shows up at her side and leads her by the elbow away from the podium. The speaker with the accent announces the name of the next witness, but Orhan keeps his attention on Mrs. Vartanian. She looks spent and exhausted from telling her story. Leaning on the orderly, she makes her way down toward the back of the room.
She stops a few steps shy of the exit. Her doll is propped in a chair only inches from where Orhan is standing. She turns her neck and her eyes rest upon the doll next to Orhan. Her gaze climbs up slowly to his face.
“He doesn’t belong to you,” she whispers, her voice filled with anger.
“I know,” says Orhan, handing her the doll. Mrs. Vartanian lays her cheek on top of the plastic face and inhales.
Without thinking, Orhan lifts his camera and takes a photo of her cradling the child. The act of pressing his eye to the hole and seeing the world framed, a neat little border around its perimeters, gives him an immeasurable sense of comfort.
His next shot is of Ani, who stands only a foot away. She looks his camera in the eye, an expression of defiance on her face.
He clicks the shutter, letting the aperture swallow her image up. He lowers his lens and stares back at her.
“You were right,” he says.
“About?” she asks.
“These stories. They define me just as much as they define you.”
She exhales.
“Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“For looking at these photos, listening to these stories. Sometimes it feels like we’re just talking to ourselves when who we really want to talk to is you.”