71 You Hardly Ever Come Here Anymore, Kemal Bey
WHEN MELTEM, now struggling to compete with Coca-Cola and other foreign brands, decided to use Papatya in its early summer advertising campaign, directed by Feridun, I had a final falling-out with my old circle of friends, for whom, though we had grown estranged, I felt no rancor-and it broke my heart.
Zaim was, of course, aware that Papatya was contracted by Lemon Films, and so, planning to discuss this matter amicably, we met for a long lunch at Fuaye.
“Coca-Cola is extending credit to distributors, and giving them huge Plexiglas shop signs for free, as well as calendars, and promotional gifts, and we just can’t compete,” said Zaim. “The young are like butterflies: Once they’ve seen Maradona [the greatest footballer of his day] holding a Coca-Cola, they couldn’t care less about a Turkish-made drink, even though it’s cheaper and healthier.”
“Don’t take offense, but on those very rare occasions when I have a soda, I drink Coca-Cola, too.”
“So do I,” said Zaim. “It doesn’t matter what we drink… Papatya will help us increase sales in the provinces. But what sort of woman is she?… Can we trust her?”
“I don’t know. She is an ambitious girl who comes from nothing. Her mother is a former nightclub singer… There’s no sign of a father. What are you worried about?”
“We’re investing so much in this. If she went off and did a belly dance in a porn film afterward, or if-I don’t know-she got caught with a married man… the provinces wouldn’t be able to take it. I hear she’s involved with your Füsun’s husband.”
I didn’t like the way he said “your Füsun,” and neither did I care for his knowing expression, which I read to imply unspoken awareness of my intimacy with the people in question. Somewhat spitefully I said, “So do they really like Meltem better in the provinces?” Zaim, who had pretension to modern and European sophistication, bristled at the fact that, despite his Western ad campaign with Inge, his product’s cachet with the rich and the urban had proved ephemeral.
“Yes, we’re more popular in the provinces,” admitted Zaim. “Because people in the provinces haven’t corrupted their palates yet, because they’re pure Turks, that’s why! But don’t get hostile and tetchy with me… I understand perfectly your feelings for Füsun. In this age of ours, your love is perfectly respectable-whatever anyone might say.”
“Who’s saying what?”
“No one’s saying a thing,” said Zaim cautiously.
This meant “Society has written you off.” The thought caused us both disquiet. I loved Zaim both because he could be counted on to tell me the truth and because he didn’t want to hurt me.
And Zaim saw affection in my eyes. With a friendly and encouraging smile, he raised his eyebrows and asked, “So what’s going on?”
“Things are going well,” I said. “I’m going to marry Füsun. I’m going to reenter society and bring her with me… Assuming, of course, I can see past those disgusting gossips.”
“Just forget them, my friend,” said Zaim. “And very soon the whole thing will be forgotten. You look so well, and it’s clear you’re in good spirits. When I heard the Feridun story, I knew at once that Füsun would come to her senses.”
“Where did you hear the Feridun story?”
“Just forget that, too,” said Zaim.
“Sooo, what about you? Is there marriage on the horizon?” I asked, reluctantly changing the subject. “Is there someone new in your life?”
“Hilmi the Bastard’s just walked in with his wife, Neslihan,” Zaim said, looking at the door.
“Oooooh… hey, look who’s here!” Hilmi said, approaching our table. Neslihan was very fashionably turned out, and that suited Hilmi the Bastard well, for he had no confidence in the tailors and seamstresses of Beyoğlu, and wore only Italian clothes, which he selected with much consideration. It was pleasing to see a pair so well dressed, so affluent, but I knew I would not be able to join in their general disdain of all things and persons not up to their standards. As I shook hands, there was a moment when I thought I saw fear in Neslihan’s eyes, and so I remained reserved in their presence, a stance that suddenly seemed all-important. I couldn’t believe that a moment ago, speaking to Zaim, I had used that peculiar word “society,” an expression lifted from the magazines and celebrity pages my mother perused-and having declared a hope to return to it once I had redeemed myself, I now felt ashamed, and longed to return to Çukurcuma and the world I’d shared with Füsun.
Fuaye was as crowded as ever, and as I surveyed the vases of cyclamen, the plain walls, and the modish lamps like so many pleasant memories, the place looked time-worn, as if it had aged ungracefully. Would I be able to sit here with Füsun one day with an untroubled heart, sustained purely by the happiness of being alive and together? I let myself believe so.
“Is something on your mind? You have that faraway look. You’ve floated off into your daydreams,” said Zaim.
“I was thinking about your dilemma concerning Papatya.”
“Remember this summer she’ll be the face of Meltem-this woman has to appear at all our parties and so on. So what do you think?”
“What are you asking?”
“Will she be presentable? Will she know how to act?”
“Why wouldn’t she? She’s an actress, a star, in fact.”
“Well, that’s what I mean… You know how those Turkish film types carry on, the poor ones who play rich people. We can’t have that sort of thing, can we?”
Zaim owed his turn of phrase to his well-mannered mother, but what he meant was “we won’t.” Papatya was not the first person to stir up such concerns, which beset him whenever it was a matter of anyone he viewed as lower class. Put off though I was by his bigotry, I nevertheless saw nothing to be gained by showing my friend anger or disappointment as we sat there at Fuaye.
I asked Sadi, the headwaiter at the restaurant for many years, which fish he was recommending.
“You hardly ever come here anymore, Kemal Bey,” he said. “Your lady mother doesn’t come here, either.”
I explained that after my father died, my mother had lost interest in going out.
“Why don’t you bring the lady here yourself. Please, Kemal Bey-we could cheer her up. When the Karahans’ father died, they brought their widowed mother out to eat three times a week, and we put her at the table next to the window, where the lady would eat her steak and enjoy watching the passersby in the street.”
“Did you know that the lady in question came out of the last sultan’s harem?” said Zaim. “She’s Circassian, green-eyed, and still beautiful even in her seventies. What sort of fish have you got for us?”
Sometimes Sadi would affect an undecided air and recite the names one by one: “Whiting, bream, red mullet, swordfish, sole,” he would say, raising his eyebrows in approval or frowning to indicate the freshness or quality of each. Other times he’d cut it short: “I’m going to give you fried sea bass today, Zaim Bey.”
“What will you serve with it?”
“Mashed potatoes, arugula, whatever you like.”
“And to start?”
“We have this year’s salted bonito.”
“Bring red onions with it,” said Zaim without raising his eyes from the menu, and then turning it over to the beverage list. “God bless, you have Pepsi, Ankara soda, and even Elvan, but still no Meltem!” he blurted.