Whenever I returned from America for summer vacation, my chums Mehmet and Tayfun were always keen to fill me in on the latest bizarre developments, for every time there was a new chief of police, the rules of engagement changed. For example, there was an establishment occupying a seven-story Greek building on Sıraselviler Avenue; for a time the police were raiding it daily, but sealing off only one floor, obliging the girls there to take their admirers to another one that was, nonetheless, adorned with the same furniture and mirrors… In one of the side streets of Nişantaşı there was an old mansion where the bouncers ejected any guest or interested party whom they deemed not rich enough. And then there were the mobile services of Deluxe Şermin, whom I’d seen earlier that evening at the hotel entrance, and who a dozen years ago had been known to cruise around in her finned 1962 Plymouth, making a tour of the Park Hotel, the Divan, and Taksim, stopping occasionally for her two or three girls to be claimed. If you phoned ahead, she would even do “home deliveries.” My friends’ wistful tones suggested that they had found far greater satisfaction in these places, and with these girls, than they ever could in the company of “good” girls atremble with worries about their honor and virginity.
I couldn’t see Füsun at her table, but her mother and father were still sitting there. I ordered another raki and asked Mehmet about the newest establishments. Tayfun boasted that he had all the most up-to-date information on the newest and most luxurious brothels, and then, as if to prove the point, he presented me with a malicious recitation of famous deputies caught during vice raids, married acquaintances who once spotted in the waiting room would gaze abruptly out the window to avoid his eye, and generals well known for their presidential aspirations who had died of heart attacks in the arms of twenty-year-old Circassian girls in beds overlooking the Bosphorus, though the official story would have them dying in bed beside their wives. As a soft, sweet, melody laden with memories played in the background, I could see that Mehmet balked at Tayfun’s venom. I changed the subject, reminding him that Nurcihan had come back to Turkey to marry, adding that she had even told Sibel she liked him.
“She’s dancing with Zaim the Sodaman,” said Mehmet.
“Only to make you jealous,” I said, without once looking at the couple on the dance floor.
After a few moments of coyness, Mehmet admitted that he had found Nurcihan attractive, and that if she “really was serious” then of course he would be glad to sit next to her and whisper sweet nothings, and that if everything worked out, he would be grateful to me for life.
“Then why didn’t you treat her well from the very beginning?”
“I don’t know, I just couldn’t.”
“Come on, let’s go back to the table, before someone takes your place.”
Heading to the table, stopping en route to embrace many guests, I was glancing at the dance floor, scanning it for Nurcihan and Zaim, when I saw Füsun dancing… with Satsat’s young and handsome new clerk Kenan… Their bodies were far too close… An ache spread through my stomach as I returned to my seat.
“What happened?” asked Sibel. “No matter, it’s not going to happen with Nurcihan, she’s just mad about Zaim. Just look at the way they’re dancing. Oh, don’t look so sad. I’m sure you did your best.”
“You’ve got it wrong. Mehmet’s willing.”
“Then why are you looking so grim?”
“I’m not.”
“My darling, it’s very clear that the joy has gone out of you,” said Sibel with a smile. “It’s about time you stopped drinking.”
The orchestra going without pause from one number to the next was now playing a slower, more soulful tune. At the table there was a silence, a very long one, and I could feel jealousy’s venom mixing with my blood. But I did not wish to acknowledge this. Neither Mehmet nor I was looking at the dance floor, but I could tell from the looks on people’s faces that the change in tempo had pushed couples there closer together, to the pleasure of some at the table and the annoyance of others. My brother was talking, and after so many years I can’t remember a thing he said, but I do remember trying to pay close attention. Just then the orchestra began to play a number even more syrupy and romantic than the one before, and now even Berrin and Sibel, oblivious a moment ago, were registering reactions to the sight of the dancing couples as they wrapped their arms around each other even tighter. My heart and mind were in utter disarray.
“What were you saying?” I asked Sibel.
“What? I wasn’t saying anything. Are you all right?”
“Shall we send the Silver Leaves a note, requesting a short break?”
“Why? Oh, for goodness’ sake, let the guests dance,” said Sibel. “Look, even the shy ones are dancing with the girls they’ve had their eyes on all evening. Believe me, half of them will end up marrying these same girls.”
I did not look. Neither did I let my eyes meet Mehmet’s.
“Look, here they come,” said Sibel.
For a moment I thought it was Füsun approaching with Kenan, and my heart began to race. But it was Nurcihan and Zaim who were returning to the table. My heart was still beating madly. I jumped up and took Zaim by the arm.
“Come, let me introduce you to a special drink at the bar,” I said, and I took him over there. As we made our way through the crowd, again through a gauntlet of hugs and kisses, Zaim exchanged a few pleasantries with two girls who’d shown interest in him. Seeing how hopelessly one of them gazed at him (she had long black hair and the Ottoman hooked nose) I remembered hearing gossip about her falling desperately in love a few summers earlier, and attempting suicide.
“All the girls adore you,” I said when we sat down. “What’s your secret?”
“Believe me, I don’t do anything special.”
“Did nothing special happen even with the German model?”
Zaim flashed a coy, cool smile. “I’m not at all happy about my reputation,” he said. “If I ever found someone as wonderful as Sibel, I’d really want to get married, too. I have to congratulate you-I mean it. Sibel is a fabulous girl. And I can see in your eyes how happy you are.”
“Actually I’m not so happy right now. This is what I wanted to talk to you about. I need some help.”
“I’d do anything for you, you know that,” he said, looking deep into my eyes. “Trust me, and tell me right away.”
As the bartender was preparing our rakıs, I looked over at the dance floor. Had Füsun, swaying with the sentimental swill, let her head fall onto Kenan’s shoulder? That part of the floor was too dark for me to see, and every attempt to catch sight of her refreshed my pain.
“There’s a girl who’s a distant relation of my mother’s,” I said. “Her name’s Füsun.”
“The one who was in the beauty contest? She’s dancing over there.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s too beautiful,” said Zaim. “I see her whenever I walk past that boutique in Nişantaşı. Like everyone else, I slow down when I’m passing and look inside. She has the sort of beauty you just can’t get out of your head. Everyone knows who she is.”
Worrying that Zaim might now say something that would make it awkward for both of us, I said, “She’s my lover.” I saw a ripple of jealousy cross my friend’s face. “Just to see her dancing with someone else causes me pain right now. I might even say I am madly in love with her. I’m trying to think of a way out. I wouldn’t want something like this to go on for too long.”
“Yes, the girl is wonderful, but the situation couldn’t be worse,” said Zaim. “And you’re right, you can’t let something like this go on for too long.”
I didn’t ask him why. Nor did I ask myself whether it was in fact jealousy or contempt I saw in my friend’s face. But it was clear that I couldn’t tell him right away what I wanted him to do. I felt a need to tell him first about the depth and sincerity of this thing between Füsun and me; I wanted him to respect it. But as I began to reveal how I felt for Füsun, it was clear to me that my drunkenness would allow me to express only the most ordinary parts of the story, and that if I attempted emotional candor he would think me feeble and laughable, and even, despite his own dalliances, hold it against me. I suppose that in the end what I really wanted from my friend was his recognition, not of how sincere I was, but how lucky, and how happy. So it seems all these years later, but at the time, I myself could not acknowledge these things at all, and so, while we both watched Füsun dancing, and my head was spinning with drink, I told Zaim my story. I told him that I was the first man Füsun had ever slept with, describing the bliss we had discovered making love, and of our lovers’ quarrels and a string of other strange particulars that happened to pop into my head at that moment. “In short,” I said, suddenly inspired, “what I want more than anything else in life right now is to hold on to this girl until I die.”