It was an aging unknown, a friend of Papatya’s mother’s, who had dubbed the songs for Papatya in the film. Now, thanks to the success of Broken Lives, Papatya was going to make a record in which she sang the songs herself. That October evening we agreed that Lemon Films should back this venture, too, and also get started on a sequel to Broken Lives. Actually, the decision to do the sequel was not ours; it was what the cinemas and distributors of Anatolia called for unanimously, and so insistently that any refusal by Feridun would have been seen as “spitting in the face of success,” to use another expression of the day. Whatever her intentions, by the end of the film Papatya’s character had, like all girls, good or evil, who had lost their virginity, died without realizing her dream of a happy family life. We decided that the best solution was to reveal that Papatya had not really died at all, that having been wounded, she had feigned her death to keep herself safe from other evil men. The sequel’s first scene would be in the hospital.

It was three days later that Milliyet ran an interview with Papatya in which she announced that shooting was soon to begin. By now there was an interview with her in the papers every day. When Broken Lives had first opened, the papers had dropped hints that Papatya and Tahir Tan were having a secret affair in reality, but the life had gone out of this rumor, and now Papatya was denying it. When we spoke on the phone at around this time, Feridun informed me that all the most famous actors now wanted to play opposite Papatya, and that, anyway, Tahir Tan wasn’t suited for the part. For in her latest interviews Papatya had begun revealing that, though she had kissed men, she’d of course never been truly intimate with one. Her fondest and truly most indelible memory remained her first kiss, this with her teenaged sweetheart on a summer’s day, in a vineyard buzzing with bees. Sadly, the youth had been martyred while fighting against the Greeks in Cyprus. And after that Papatya had considered intimacy with any man inconceivable, concluding that only another lieutenant might be able to mend her heart. Feridun allowed that he didn’t approve of such lies, but Papatya insisted that she’d only told them to help get the sequel past the censors. Feridun made little effort to conceal his relationship with Papatya from me; it was in keeping with his nature as one who picked no fights and had no quarrels, only carrying on, forever the naïf, never bitter or less than sincere-and for this I genuinely envied him.

“Broken Lives,” Papatya’s first single, came out the first week of January 1982, and though it was not as big a hit as the film, it was much beloved. Posters appeared on the city’s walls, so many of which had been whitewashed after the coup, and advertisements, however small, in the papers. But because the censorship board of Turkey ’s only television channel (actually, it had a more elegant name: the Inspectorate of Music) found the song lacking in moral fiber, Papatya’s voice was on neither television nor radio. The record, nevertheless, afforded her another round of interviews, and spurious stories about beatings and other controversies that she fabricated for these occasions made her more famous still. Papatya began to take part in cultural discussions along the lines of “Should a modern Turkish Kemalist girl think first about her job or her husband?;” posing in front of her bedroom mirror (having bought a traditionally Turkish furniture set, adorned with a few pop features), she would frolic with her teddy bear while musing on what a shame it was that she had yet to meet the man of her dreams; making spinach pastry with her mother in the kitchen, in which there was an enameled pot identical to one at Füsun’s, she played the honest housewife to prove that she was far more respectable than Lerzan, the angry, wounded heroine of Broken Lives. Her honor had not been stained, and she was perfectly happy, though, she allowed, “Certainly there is something of Lerzan in all of us,” hoping to have it both ways. Feridun expressed pride that Papatya was such a professional, never taking the interviews and articles about her to heart. So many of the harebrained stars and starlets at the Pelür had reacted amateurishly, worrying that the lies propagated about them might damage their public image, but Papatya took control of the matter, telling her own lies from the start.

71 You Hardly Ever Come Here Anymore, Kemal Bey

WHEN MELTEM, now struggling to compete with Coca-Cola and other foreign brands, decided to use Papatya in its early summer advertising campaign, directed by Feridun, I had a final falling-out with my old circle of friends, for whom, though we had grown estranged, I felt no rancor-and it broke my heart.

Zaim was, of course, aware that Papatya was contracted by Lemon Films, and so, planning to discuss this matter amicably, we met for a long lunch at Fuaye.

“Coca-Cola is extending credit to distributors, and giving them huge Plexiglas shop signs for free, as well as calendars, and promotional gifts, and we just can’t compete,” said Zaim. “The young are like butterflies: Once they’ve seen Maradona [the greatest footballer of his day] holding a Coca-Cola, they couldn’t care less about a Turkish-made drink, even though it’s cheaper and healthier.”

“Don’t take offense, but on those very rare occasions when I have a soda, I drink Coca-Cola, too.”

“So do I,” said Zaim. “It doesn’t matter what we drink… Papatya will help us increase sales in the provinces. But what sort of woman is she?… Can we trust her?”

“I don’t know. She is an ambitious girl who comes from nothing. Her mother is a former nightclub singer… There’s no sign of a father. What are you worried about?”

“We’re investing so much in this. If she went off and did a belly dance in a porn film afterward, or if-I don’t know-she got caught with a married man… the provinces wouldn’t be able to take it. I hear she’s involved with your Füsun’s husband.”

I didn’t like the way he said “your Füsun,” and neither did I care for his knowing expression, which I read to imply unspoken awareness of my intimacy with the people in question. Somewhat spitefully I said, “So do they really like Meltem better in the provinces?” Zaim, who had pretension to modern and European sophistication, bristled at the fact that, despite his Western ad campaign with Inge, his product’s cachet with the rich and the urban had proved ephemeral.

“Yes, we’re more popular in the provinces,” admitted Zaim. “Because people in the provinces haven’t corrupted their palates yet, because they’re pure Turks, that’s why! But don’t get hostile and tetchy with me… I understand perfectly your feelings for Füsun. In this age of ours, your love is perfectly respectable-whatever anyone might say.”

“Who’s saying what?”

“No one’s saying a thing,” said Zaim cautiously.

This meant “Society has written you off.” The thought caused us both disquiet. I loved Zaim both because he could be counted on to tell me the truth and because he didn’t want to hurt me.

And Zaim saw affection in my eyes. With a friendly and encouraging smile, he raised his eyebrows and asked, “So what’s going on?”

“Things are going well,” I said. “I’m going to marry Füsun. I’m going to reenter society and bring her with me… Assuming, of course, I can see past those disgusting gossips.”

“Just forget them, my friend,” said Zaim. “And very soon the whole thing will be forgotten. You look so well, and it’s clear you’re in good spirits. When I heard the Feridun story, I knew at once that Füsun would come to her senses.”

“Where did you hear the Feridun story?”

“Just forget that, too,” said Zaim.

“Sooo, what about you? Is there marriage on the horizon?” I asked, reluctantly changing the subject. “Is there someone new in your life?”