If she became a garbage collector, she would wander the city whistling Johnny Cash songs, while a balmy breeze caressed her hair and the sun warmed her bones. Should anyone dare to disturb such blissful harmony, she would scare the hell out of him with the threat of her mammoth Gypsy clan in which probably everyone was convicted of a felony of some sort. Despite the problem of poverty, Asya concluded, as long as it was not wintertime, it must be fun to be a garbage collector. She made a mental note to herself to remember this in case she couldn't come up with a better profession after graduating from college. On that note she started to whistle; only when she reached the end of the couplet did Asya notice that Armanoush was still waiting for a more detailed response to the question she had asked her a few minutes ago.
"Well, yeah, Auntie Zeliha and Aram have been seeing each other for Allah knows how long. He is like my step-dad, I guess, or for the sake of consistency, I should call him step-uncle…. Whatever."
"Why don't they get married?"
"Married?" Asya spat out the word as if it were food between her teeth. They were now passing the can collectors, and upon closer inspection of her role models, Asya realized that they were not boys but girls. This she liked even more. To blur the gender boundaries was one more reason to become a garbage collector. She put a cigarette between her lips, but instead of lighting it, she sucked the end for a moment as if it were one of those cigaretteshaped chocolate sticks wrapped in edible paper. She then revealed aninner thought: "Actually, I am sure Aramm wouldn't mind getting married, but Auntie Zeliha would never have any of that."
"But why not?" Armanoush wanted to know.
The breeze shifted direction just then, and Armanoush caught a pungent whiff of the sea. This city was a jumble of aromas, some of them strong and rancid, others sweet and stimulating. Almost every smell made Armanoush recall some sort of food, so much so that she had started to perceive Istanbul as something edible. She had been here for eight days now and the longer she stayed, the more twisted and multifaceted Istanbul grew to be. Perhaps she was getting used to being a foreigner in this city, if not getting used to the city itself.
"My guess is it's all because of Auntie Zeliha's experience with my dad, whoever that was," Asya continued. "That must be why she is so against marriage. I think she has a trust issue with men."
"Well, I can understand that," Armanoush said.
"But don't you think there is a huge difference between the two sexes when it comes to recovery after an affair? I mean, when women survive an awful marriage or love affair, and all that shit, they generally avoid another relationship for quite some time. With men, however, it is just the opposite; the moment they finish a catastrophe they start looking for another one. Men are incapable of being alone."
Armanoush gave a curt nod of acknowledgment, although the pattern did not quite fit her parents' situation. It was her mother who had remarried after her divorce while her father had remained single to this day. Armanoush then asked:
"This Aram….where is he from?"
"He's from around here, just like us." Asya shrugged, but then in a flash she understood what was being asked. Surprised at her own ignorance, she lit the cigarette she had been sucking on and took a puff How could she have failed to make the connection? Aram came from an Armenian family in Istanbul. He was, theoretically, Armenian.
And yet there was a sense in which Aram could not be Armenian or Turk or any other nationality. Aram could only be Aram, entirely sui generis. He was a unique member of a unique species. He was a charmer, a colossal romantic, a political science professor who often confessed to being more inclined to live the life of a fisherman in a seedy village on the Mediterranean. He was a fragile heart, a gullible soul, and a walking slice of chaos; a sanguine utopian and an irresponsible promiser; an outstandingly messy and quick-witted and honorable man. He was one of a kind and consequentially Asya had never associated him with any collective identity. Tempted as she was to say something in this vein, she simply replied: "Actually, he is Armenian."
"I thought so." Armanoush smiled faintly.
Five minutes later they were at the tattoo parlor.
"Welcome!" Auntie Zeliha exclaimed in her slightly husky drawl as she heartily hugged them both. Whatever her perfume was, it was strong-a combination of spice and wood and jasmine. Her dark hair fell on her shoulders in dazzling curls, some of which she had highlighted with a substance so glittery that whenever she made a move under the halogen lights, her hair shimmered. Armanoush looked at her agape, for the first time sympathizing with the fright and admiration that she imagined Asya must have felt toward her mother since she was a child.
Inside it was like a little museum. Across from the entrance there was a huge framed photograph of a woman of uncertain nationality, her back turned toward the viewer to better expose the intricately detailed tattoo on her body. It was an Ottoman miniature. It looked like a scene from a banquet, with an acrobat above the diners walking a tightrope from one shoulder to the other. Such a traditional miniature tattooed on the back of a modern woman was startling. Below was a phrase in English: A TATTOO IS A MESSAGE SENT FROM BEYOND TIME!
There were showcases all over the store in which hundreds of tattoo designs and piercing jewelry were displayed. The tattoo designs were clustered under several titles: "Roses & Thorns," "Bleeding Hearts," "Stabbed Hearts," "The Way of the Shaman," "Creepy Hairy Creatures," "Non-Hairy but Equally Creepy Dragons," "Patriotic Motifs," "Names & Numbers," "Simurg and the Bird Family," and finally "Sufi Symbols."
Armanoush couldn't remember ever seeing so few people in one room making so much noise. Besides Auntie Zeliha, there was an eccentric man with orange hair and a needle in his hand, a teenager and his mother (who couldn't seem to decide whether to stay or leave), and two long haired, long-unshaven men who looked completely out of space and time, like drugged-out rock musicians from the 1970s just now recovering from a bad trip. One of the latter was sitting in a large comfortable chair, noisily chewing bubble gum while chatting with his friend and having a purple mosquito tattooed on his ankle. The man with the needle turned out to be Auntie Zeliha's assistant and a talented artist in his own right. While he worked, Armanoush stared at him, surprised at how much sound a tattoo needle was capable of producing.
"Don't worry. The sound is more dramatic than the pain," Auntie Zeliha remarked, reading her mind. Then she added with a wink, "Besides, that customer is used to it: This must be his twentieth. Tattoo is an addiction sometimes. One is never enough. With every new tattoo you will discover the urge to get another one. I wonder why addiction recovery centers have not included this in their programs yet."
Armanoush was silent for a long moment, studying the outlandish rock musician out of the corner of her eye. If the man felt any pain, he showed no signs of it. "Why would anyone want a purple mosquito tattooed on his ankle?"
Auntie Zeliha chuckled knowingly. "Why? That is one question we never ask here. You see, in this store we refuse to accept the tyranny of normalcy. Whichever design a customer asks for, I am sure there must be a reason, one that even he might not know him