That the hole happened to be filled with glass delivered our most deep-seated wish. The barber, that son of a bitch, had turned our fantasy into reality, though in our heart of hearts we never would’ve wanted for it to come true. Those shards of glass cut a life short, relieving us of that cross we bore, the cross of Yani’s good luck, only to burden us with something much heavier. A can of regret, a can of worms.
While Anfi was splitting the froth between our cups, I thought about how I hadn’t been wrong in imagining that Yani’s death would profoundly alter the future of his close circle. I checked my watch. Five after 9. I was sure Avram and Kevork would agree. Together we had learned just what it meant to pass the days without Yani. Everything had a different tone now: daylight, colors, the sweetness of little white lies, the thrill of mischief, the marvel of jokes, heads sent spinning by movie reels... The change was potent and palpable. It couldn’t all be due to feelings of guilt alone.
“Would you like some liqueur?”
“What kind?”
“Tart cherry. I made it.”
“Sounds good.”
Anfi put two slim glasses on the same tray she had set the cups on before, took an unmarked bottle from a lower cabinet, and filled one of the glasses to the brim with a cherry-colored liquid. Then she stooped and took another bottle, presumably of the same. There were three clean glasses on a dish rack to the left of the sink. The liquor was being downed fast around here, I thought.
I took the tray from her and proceeded to the living room. We sat down. Anfi raised her glass, and I responded in kind. “Here’s to the good old days.”
When I saw her drain her glass in a single gulp, I followed suit. I have a sensitive palate. Whenever I go out with friends, I’m always prompted to be the first to try the wine. I noted some subtle flavor in addition to the cherries, alcohol, and sugar. It wasn’t bad. A kind of spice, perhaps.
Anfi looked into my eyes, smiling. “For a moment there you looked so much like your father. A taller version of him, of course. He had a temper, but he also had a heart of gold. During the riots of September 6 and 7, for two days he stood guard in front of the passageway where our store was and wouldn’t let anybody through. He took off time from work to do that. And he sent a friend to mind the pharmacy, God bless him. You wouldn’t remember. You were four years old then.”
“My father used to talk about those things when he was drunk sometimes. Yani stayed at our place for two days. I still remember, because we gave him my bed.”
“So you remember that too. And then... well, our stores were still standing at the end of it all. We picked up where we had left off.”
The way she paused and sighed at that moment clearly indicated, to me, that they in fact had not picked up where they had left off.
“Fifty years, just like that... Good thing you were late. It gave me some time to think... No, not to think, but to see things anew. Come with me.”
When she stood up I automatically followed. My head was feeling a bit heavier. I remembered that liqueur often had high alcohol content. I didn’t exactly have a good tolerance for alcohol, and to top it all off, I was drinking on an empty stomach. I looked at the cups of coffee, which we hadn’t even touched.
“Let me show you.”
It was an intensely emotional moment. At first I figured she meant the photographs. We went into the hall, and I thought I had assumed correctly. We were going to Yani’s room. She opened the door, the first to the left. The curtains were drawn and it was dark inside. She turned the light on. It took me a few seconds to grasp what I was seeing. The icy fingers of terror began stroking my neck. My instincts told me to run. But I couldn’t.
Clearly, we would not be able to address the matter of this Yani Museum, in nearly pristine condition after some forty years. Two adult males were stretched on Yani’s bed, faceup. The redhead’s eyes were slightly open. He had a black jacket and a burgundy shirt on. Avram, totally bald now, had closed his eyes tight, as if cringing from a blow. His goatee was matted with dried vomit. His right pant leg was rolled up to the knee. The feet of both men were extending out of the bed by ten inches or so; both had their shoes on.
“They arrived at 2 o’clock sharp. We talked. I served liqueur to them too. Enough Seconal and risperidone per person. It was a painless journey to the other side. I got rid of the pharmacy eleven years ago, but my apprentices, bless them all, never fail to show the proper respect.”
“The second bottle.”
She nodded. “Do you still remember Nejat?”
“Nejat with the pencil mustache.”
“Good memory! He never married. I turned my pharmacy over to him. After my first brain hemorrhage. It happened two more times after that, but I survived. Seeing these days was in my stars.”
“But Anfi, why?”
“It’s rather difficult to explain, that whole process. The pressure of those moments when the darkness within strains to get out. And does. One might say... Now, how are you feeling?”
My knees couldn’t carry me anymore. The nausea I’d been feeling since I laid eyes on the bodies was beginning to subside, but I was about to collapse.
“Come and sit. There are some things I want to tell you before the last page is turned.”
She took my arm. For the first time I sensed her body odor overpowering the lilac scent she was wearing. Those two yards to the chair felt like an eternity. I put up no resistance. Though she tried to hold me up, I collapsed onto the chair in a heap. My head snapped back, but fortunately did not hit the wall too hard. Pain was a volatile liquid, evaporating fast.
“You really have gotten heavy. You are okay, aren’t you?”
Her face was very close to mine. Breaking free from the fear that I was about to slide into the dark hole of my demise, I nodded. She smiled, her eyes full of compassion. Of all the women in my life, nearly every one that I had picked myself resembled Anfi, in one way or another. I thought about telling her. But I couldn’t.
“Why? Why all this...?”
She eyed the two on the bed, sighed, and sat down at the foot. The bed gave a jolt, and the bodies moved, as if to make room for her.
“Kevork came. Two months ago, I told you. His only daughter had died of liver cancer. His wife had become an alcoholic. He was very sad. He told me, ‘It’s like we’re all cursed or something. We have to put an end to it.’ He was a little tipsy, he’d been drinking vodka that day, but he was still making sense.”
“It was an accident, Anfi.”
“The only two people left from that photograph. They are in this room.”
“There is a whole world out there beyond this room.”
“That’s right. If you’d made it this afternoon like the others, there would be three of you lying on this bed now. But since you were late, I had time to weigh the consequences of my actions... and... I changed plans. You remember the gardens, and the meze sellers in this neighborhood, don’t you? I was a baby during the fire of 1929. My father’s two shoe shops burned down in that fire. I’m told my mother used to pray every day at Hagia Dimitri Church over in Feriköy. I once took you and Yani there on Christmas. You were five. You kept insisting that you light each and every candle. You threw a tantrum. I didn’t know what to do. Everything changes so fast and...”
Barely conscious, I struggled to make connections between all the things she was saying.
“When Yani passed away, I soon lost my ability to deal with all the changes happening around me, the way everything was becoming so dirty, so vulgar. It even kept me from properly mourning the death of my husband. He was an only child. His death marked the death of this home. Your mother used to say, ‘The childless home neither laughs nor cries.’ That’s true. I could no longer feel, not like I used to.