On our way back in the car we were in the habit of singing all together, and it was always Tarık Bey who got us started. First he would hum an old tune, and as he tried to remember the words, he’d ask for the radio to be turned on, and as I searched for a familiar song he would begin to sing some old melody that had drifted over to us from the Mücevher Gazino that evening. Sometimes, as I was searching for a station, we would hear voices from distant countries speaking in strange tongues, and for a moment we would be silent. “Radio Moscow,” Tarık Bey would say then, in an enigmatic tone. Then as it came back to him, he would sing the first words of a song, and before long Aunt Nesibe and Füsun would join him. As we sped under the dark shadows and great plane trees of the Bosphorus road, I listened to the concert in the backseat, and, turning around, I would try to harmonize as they sang “Old Friends” by Gültekin Çeki, though-to my embarrassment-some of the words eluded me.
Whenever we were singing together in the car, or laughing and dining together in a Bosphorus restaurant, the happiest among us was in fact Füsun, and yet whenever a chance presented itself she still yearned to see her film friends from the Pelür. For this reason I would continue to depend first on persuading Aunt Nesibe. For her part she never wanted to miss an opportunity to throw Füsun and me together. Another ploy was to entice Feridun, once even including Yani, a cameraman friend that Feridun was loath to leave behind. Feridun was using the Lemon Film facilities to make a few commercials with Yani, and I didn’t object, thinking it prudent to let them make a little money, though I did sometimes ask myself how I would manage to see Füsun if one day Feridun actually made a lot of money, and moved out of his in-laws’ house, and went off with his wife to live elsewhere. Sometimes I would realize with shame that this consideration underpinned my desire to get along with Feridun.
Aunt Nesibe and Tarık Bey did not come with us to Tarabya that night, so there was no listening to the singers in the gazino next door, and no singing on the way home. Füsun sat next to her husband, not me, and immersed herself in film world gossip.
It was the memory of that miserable evening that prompted me, on another occasion, when I was leaving the Pelür with Füsun and Feridun, to tell a friend of Feridun’s that there was no room in the car, as we would be picking up Füsun’s parents for dinner. I may have phrased it a bit brusquely. The man had a large, handsome forehead; I saw surprise, even fury, in his dark green eyes, but I swept him from my mind. Afterward, having arrived in Çukurcuma, I was able to bring Aunt Nesibe and Tarık Bey around to the idea, with a few words and a little help from Füsun, and then off we went to the Huzur Restaurant in Tarabya.
We had been sitting there eating and drinking for some time, I remember, when I realized there was not peace at that table, for Füsun’s tense demeanor had set the tone for the evening, which would bring me no pleasure. I had just turned around to see whether there might be any tombala men to amuse us, or hawkers of fresh shelled walnuts, when I saw the man with the dark green eyes sitting two tables away. He was with a friend, watching us as he drank. Feridun noticed that I’d seen them.
“Your friend must have jumped into a car and followed us,” I said.
“Tahir Tan is not my friend,” said Feridun.
“Isn’t he the man who asked to come with us as we were leaving the Pelür?”
“Yes, but he’s not my friend. He poses for Turkish photoromans, and he plays in blood-and-thunder films. I don’t like him.”
“Why has he followed us?”
For a moment no one spoke. Füsun, sitting next to Feridun, had heard what we’d said and was growing uneasy. Tarık Bey was lost to the music, but Aunt Nesibe had been listening to us, too. Just then I guessed from Feridun’s and Füsun’s expressions that the man was approaching us, so I turned around.
“Do excuse me, Kemal Bey,” Tahir Tan said to me. “I did not mean to disturb you. I wish to speak to Füsun’s mother and father.”
He assumed the demeanor of a handsome, well-mannered youth who has seen a girl he likes at an officer’s wedding, and who has come to ask her parents for permission before inviting her to dance, following the advice given in newspaper etiquette columns.
“Excuse me, sir, there is something I want to discuss with you,” he said as he approached Tarık Bey. “There’s a film that Füsun…”
“Tarık, look, the man is trying to tell you something,” said Aunt Nesibe.
“I’m addressing you, too, madam. You’re Füsun’s mother, are you not? And you, sir, are her father. Do you know about this? Sir, there are two important producers, Muzaffer Bey and Hayal Hayati-both prominent figures in the Turkish film industry-who have offered your daughter important roles. But we have been given to understand that you would not give your consent because the films included kissing scenes.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Feridun said coldly.
As always in Tarabya, the noise level was very high. Tarık Bey had either not heard, or else-like so many Turkish fathers who find themselves in this situation-acted as if he hadn’t.
“Nothing like what?” Tahir Tan said, his voice rough now.
It was clear to all of us that he’d had a lot to drink and was spoiling for a fight.
“Tahir Bey,” Feridun said carefully, “we’re out for a family dinner this evening, and we have no desire to discuss film business.”
“But I do… Füsun Hanım, why are you so afraid? Can’t you just say you want a role in this film?”
Füsun looked away. She was smoking calmly and taking her time. I stood up. Feridun did likewise. We both stepped into the space between the man and the table. At the tables surrounding ours, heads began to turn in our direction. We must have assumed the fighting cock stance that Turkish men assume before a fight. No one wanted to miss the drama; all around us, curious, bored drunks settled in for a good show. Tahir’s friend rose from their table to approach us.
An elderly waiter who’d seen many years of bar brawls intervened. “Come on now, gentlemen, let’s not all crowd in here. Please move back.” He added, “We’ve all had a lot to drink, and tempers will flare. Kemal Bey, we’re bringing out your fried mussels and salted fish.”
Lest they misunderstand, let me inform visitors who come to our museum centuries hence-those happy generations of the future-that in those days Turkish men seized even the tiniest excuse to come to blows wheresoever they found themselves-be it a coffeehouse, a hospital queue, a traffic jam, or a football match, and that huge dishonor attached even to the appearance of shrinking away from a confrontation. Avoiding a fight or cowering was regarded as dishonor without degree.
Tahir’s friend came from behind and put his hand on Tahir’s shoulder; he took him away, making as if he wanted them to “be the ones who kept their dignity.” And Feridun took me by the shoulder, as if to say, “What’s the use, anyway?” and he sat me down. I was very grateful to him for doing this.