When both the noise and the smoke inside intensified, Armanoush inched closer toward Aram, having finally summoned the courage to ask him the question that had been tugging at the edges of her mind for some time:
"Aram, I understand you like Istanbul, but didn't you ever consider coming to America? I mean, you could come to California, for instance. There's a large Armenian community there, you know…."
Aram stared at her for a full minute, as if taking in every detail, until he slumped back in his chair and gave a puzzling laugh. Armanoush was rather perturbed by this laughter, which she felt somehow shut her out. Not convinced that she had been understood correctly, she leaned forward and tried to offer a better explanation: "If they are oppressing you here, you can always come to America. There are many Armenian communities there who would be more than happy to help you and your family."
Aram did not laugh this time. Instead he gave her a warm smile, warm but somewhat tired.
"Why would I want to do that, dear Armanoush? This city is my city. I was born and raised in Istanbul. My family's history in this city goes back at least five hundred years. Armenian Istanbulites belong to Istanbul, just like the Turkish, Kurdish, Greek, and Jewish Istanbulites do. We have first managed and then badly failed to live together. We cannot fail again."
Just then the waiter materialized again, this time serving fried calamari and fried mussels and fried pastries.
"I know every single street in this town," Aram continued, taking another sip of rake. "And I love strolling these streets in the mornings, in the evenings, and then at night when I am merry and tipsy. I love to have breakfasts with my friends along the Bosphorus on Sundays, I love to walk alone amid the crowds. I am in love with the chaotic beauty of this city, the ferries, the music, the tales, the sadness, the colors, and the black humor…."
They fell into an awkward silence, taking a rare distant glimpse into each other's positions, realizing there could be more than geographical distance between them-he suspecting she was too Americanized, she construing he was too Turkified. The mordant gap between the children of those who had managed to stay and the children of those who had to leave.
"Look, the Armenians in the diaspora have no Turkish friends. Their only acquaintance with the Turks is through the stories they heard from their grandparents or else from one another. And those stories are so terribly heartbreaking. But believe me, just like in every nation, in Turkey too there are good-hearted people and bad people. It is as simple as that. I have Turkish friends who are closer to me than my flesh-and-blood brother. And then there is, of course"-he lifted his glass and signaled toward Auntie Zeliha" this crazy love of mine."
Auntie Zeliha must have sensed her name being mentioned for she gave them a wink, lifted her glass of rake, and toasted: "~erefe!" They all followed suit and clinked their glasses as they echoed: "~erefe!" This word, as it would soon turn out, was some sort of a refrain that was repeated every ten or fifteen minutes. Another hour and seven ~erefes later, Armanoush's eyes were glowing with alcohol. With amusement she watched an albino waiter bring in the hot dishes-broiled striped bass on a bed of green peppers, basil-marinated catfish with creamy spinach, charbroiled salmon with field greens, and stir-fried shrimp — in spicy garlic sauce.
Armanoush giggled tipsily before she turned toward Aram and asked, "Tell us, you must have some tattoos too. Auntie Zeliha must have tattooed you."
"No way," Aram said behind the veil of wispy smoke curling up from his cigar. "She doesn't let me have one."
"Yeah," Asya added. "She won't permit him to have a tattoo."
"Really?" Armanoush said in surprise as she turned to Auntie Zeliha. "I thought you were fond of tattoos."
"I am, indeed," Auntie Zeliha replied. "It is not the tattooing part that I am opposing but the design he asks for."
Aram smiled. "The tattoo that I would like to have is a gorgeous fig tree. But, unlike other trees, this one is upside down. My fig tree has all its roots up in the air. Instead of the earth, it is rooted in the sky. It is displaced but not placeless."
They were all silent for a few seconds, watching the flickering light of the candle at the table.
"It's just that the fig tree. ." Auntie Zeliha lit the last cigarette in her pack and unintentionally blew smoke in the direction of Asya. "The fig tree is an ominous sign. It does not bring good luck. I am fine with Aram's wish to have his roots up in the air, but it is the fig tree that I object to. Should he choose it to be a cherry tree, for instance, or an oak tree, still with its roots up in the air, I'd tattoo him right away!"
It was then that four Gypsy musicians, all dressed in silky white shirts and black trousers, entered the tavern with their instrumentsan ud, a clarinet, a kanun, and a darbuka. There was a general excitement among the customers who, having eaten and drunk their fill, were more than ready to sing.
When the musicians materialized by their side, Armanoush felt a pang of shyness. But to her relief they didn't force her to sing. It turned out that Asya wasn't much of a singer either. They listened to Auntie Zeliha accompany the musicians with a mellow contralto-a voice that sounded nothing like her usual cigarettetainted, husky tone. Armanoush noticed that Asya glanced in her mother's direction with a look of inquisitiveness.
When the leader of the band asked if there was a particular song they would now like to request, Auntie Zeliha elbowed Aram flirtatiously, and exclaimed, "Come on, ask for a song. Sing, my nightingale!"
Blushing, Aram leaned forward, coughed, and then whispered something in the leading musician's ear. Once the band had embarked on the requested melody, much to Armanoush's surprise, Aram started to sing along-not in Turkish, not in English, but in Armenian.
Every morning at dawn Ah… I say to my love, Where are you going?
It flowed slowly, forlornly, while the tempo picked up with a distinctive rise of the clarinet and the hard-to-contain darbuka in the background. Aram's voice soared and then fell in mellow waves. Initially his voice was diffident, yet it became increasingly assertive in its tone.
She's the golden chain Of my memories, She's the pathway to The story of my life.
Armanoush held her breath, failing to understand all the words but feeling mourning deep in her heart. When she raised her head, she was intrigued by Auntie Zeliha's expression. It was a look that embodied the fear of happiness that only those who had unexpectedly, unguardedly fallen in love could wear.
When the song was over and the musicians had moved to the next table, Armanoush thought Auntie Zeliha would give Aram a kiss. But instead she tenderly squeezed Asya's hand, as if acknowledging that her love for a man had allowed her to better comprehend her love for her daughter. "Sweetheart," she murmured, a hint of anguish creeping into her tone. But if Auntie Zeliha was planning to say something to her daughter, she was quick to beat the urge. Instead, she took out a new pack of cigarettes and offered her one.
Seeing her mother have sentiments so near the surface was far more surprising for Asya than being offered a cigarette by her. She lit hers and then her mom's. As the smoke slowly coiled between them, daughter and mother smiled at each other awkwardly. They looked startlingly similar from this angle and light, two faces molded by a past that one knew nothing about and the other chose not to remember.
It was precisely then that Armanoush felt the pulse of the city for the first time since she had arrived in Istanbul. It had just hit her why and how people could fall in love with Istanbul, in spite of all the sorrow it might cause them. It would not be easy to fall out of love with a city this heartbreakingly beautiful.
With this recognition she raised her glass in a toast: "~erefe!"