Tears… Silences… Because memories of Füsun were too painful for either of us to bear, I would be quick about the requisite preliminaries before going up to her room. Once a fortnight I would walk down to Çukurcuma from Beyoğlu, and as Aunt Nesibe ate supper we would watch television in silence, and after paying some attention to Lemon, who was slowly growing older and more quiescent, I would go look through Füsun’s bird pictures, one by one, after which review, announcing the need to wash my hands, I would head upstairs, my heart beating ever faster as I entered Füsun’s room and opened up her drawers and cupboards to go through her things.
All the presents I’d brought her over the years-the combs and brushes and little mirrors, and butterfly brooches and earrings-she had arranged in the drawers of the little cabinets. There were things I had forgotten ever having given her-socks for the tombala sack, the wooden buttons I had thought I was buying for her mother, hair clips, as well as the toy Mustang Turgay had given her, and the love letters I had sent via Ceyda-to find these artifacts weighed on me so that I could never linger more than half an hour among these drawers and cupboards that still bore her scent. Sometimes I would sit on the bed and relax with a cigarette, sometimes, to stem my tears, I would stand at the window, or on one of the balconies on which she had painted her birds, before picking up a sock or a comb or two to take away with me.
By this time I had realized that I would have to find a place to gather together all the objects that connected me to Füsun, from the first things collected on impulse to the items now retrieved so deliberatively from her room-perhaps the entire contents of the house-but I had no idea where such a place could be. It was only after I had begun my travels, visting the world’s smaller museums one by one, that I could at last answer this question, and understand its full significance.
One snowy evening during the winter of 1986, when we had finished our supper, I was sifting through the butterfly brooches, earrings, and pins that I’d bought for Füsun over all those years, though to no avail, when I happened on a box at the back of a drawer, and within it I found the pair of butterfly-shaped earrings, each bearing the initial F, that she had been wearing at the time of the accident, despite having insisted for years that she’d lost one of them. I took the earrings and went downstairs.
“Aunt Nesibe, these seem to have been put into Füsun’s jewelry box very recently,” I said.
“Kemal, my boy, whatever Füsun was wearing that day-her red dress, her shoes, everything-I hid from you, because I didn’t want to add to your grief. Then I said to myself that I’d better put them where they belonged, and here you have noticed at once.”
“Was she wearing both the earrings?”
“Before she went to your room that evening, my darling girl was still planning to come sleep in our room. I was just pretending to be asleep, when suddenly she pulled these earrings from her handbag and put them on. When she left the room, I said nothing. I wanted you to be happy at long last.”
I had never told Aunt Nesibe that Füsun had told me her mother had locked the door.
How could I have failed to notice the earrings as we were making love? Then another question occurred to me.
“Aunt Nesibe, years ago I told you that I’d left one of these earrings by the mirror in the bathroom, the very first time I visited this house. I even asked you, ‘Have you seen them?’”
“I have no idea, my son. Don’t delve into these things and make me cry. I do remember that she wanted to surprise you by putting on a certain pair of earrings in Paris -she had said something like that, but I never knew which earrings she meant. Ah, she so wanted to see Paris, my dear Füsun.”
Aunt Nesibe began to cry, for which, afterward, she apologized.
The next day I booked a room at the Hôtel du Nord. In the evening I told my mother that I was leaving for Paris, that a trip would do me good.
“Oh, I’m so glad,” said my mother. “And you can do some good for the business, for Satsat. Your brother shouldn’t take over everything.”
81 The Museum of Innocence
I HAD NOT said, This trip to Paris is not on business, Mother. For if she’d asked my reason, I could not have offered her a proper answer, having concealed the purpose even from myself. As I left for the airport, I considered my journey in some sense the atonement I had obsessively sought for my sins, among them, my having failed to notice Füsun’s earring.
But as soon as I had boarded the plane, I realized that I had set out on this voyage both to forget and to dream. Every corner of Istanbul was teeming with reminders of her. The moment we were airborne, I noticed that outside Istanbul, I was able to think about Füsun and our story more profoundly. In Istanbul I’d always seen Füsun through the prism of my obsession; but in the plane I could see my obsession, and Füsun, from the outside.
I felt such consolation, the same deep understanding, as I wandered idly around museums. I do not mean the Louvre or the Beaubourg, or the other crowded, ostentatious ones of that ilk; I am speaking now of the many empty museums I found in Paris, the collections that no one ever visits. There was the Musée Édith Piaf, founded by a great admirer, where by appointment I viewed hairbrushes, combs, and teddy bears; and the Musée de la Préfecture de Police, where I spent an entire day; and the Musée Jacquemart-André, where other objects were arranged alongside paintings in a most original way-I saw empty chairs, chandeliers, and haunting unfurnished spaces there. Whenever wandering alone through museums like this, I felt myself uplifted. I would find a room at the back, far from the gaze of the guards who paid close attention to my every step; as the sound of traffic and construction and the urban din filtered in from outside, it was as if I had entered a separate realm that coexisted with the city’s crowded streets but was not of them; and in the eerie timelessness of this other universe, I would find solace.
Sometimes, thus consoled, I would imagine it possible for me to frame my collection with a story, and I would dream happily of a museum where I could display my life-the life that first my mother, and then Osman, and finally everyone else thought I had wasted-where I could tell my story through the things that Füsun had left behind, as a lesson to us all.
On visiting the Musée Nissim de Camondo, whose founder I knew to have come from one of Istanbul’s most prominent Jewish families, I was emboldened to believe that in the Keskins’ set of plates, forks, knives, and my seven-year collection of saltshakers, I, too, could have something worthy of proud display, and the notion set me free. The Musée de la Poste made me realize I could display the letters I had written to her, and the Micromusée du Service des Objets Trouvés legitimated the inclusion of a wide range of things, so long as they reminded me of Füsun, for example, Tarık Bey’s false teeth, empty medicine boxes, and receipts. It took me an hour in a taxi to reach the Musée Maurice Ravel, formerly the famous composer’s house, and when I saw his toothbrush, coffee cups, china figurines, various dolls, toys, and an iron cage that immediately called to mind Lemon, with an iron nightingale singing within it, I very nearly wept. To stroll through these Paris museums was to be released from the shame of my collection at the Merhamet Apartments. No longer an oddball embarrassed by the things he had hoarded, I was gradually awakening to the pride of a collector.
I did not, however, invoke such concepts at that time, gauging my spiritual alteration instead by the simple awareness that I felt happy the moment I entered one of these places, and began to dream of telling my story through objects. One evening while drinking alone in the bar of the Hôtel du Nord, gazing at the strangers around me, I caught myself asking the questions that occur to every Turk who goes abroad (if he has some education and a bit of money): What did these Europeans think about me? What did they think about us all?