English Translation: The Turkish Chronicle: Encounter

Selma looks at the photograph she just found under one of the cushions. Her favorite place is the corner with the red ones. There are many others piled next to it, green, blue, yellow, brown, with vegetable or geometric designs. Many are printed with red tulips against a gold background. From the ceiling hang exactly seventy-seven colored lights. This place has the most colored lights she has ever seen, aside from the busy shops downtown. She stops here after work every day for a cup of fresh mint tea. At this hour, there are only three or four people, watching TV, each smoking shisha from a hookah, also the young couple who are always playing backgammon, and the waiter, who is lazily people-watching. No one's talking. Selma feels more relaxed here than at her own home.

The photograph is a snapshot of a young man riding a green bicycle. The image is faded. It must be quite old. The guy on the bike looks happy. He's laughing. You can see the elongated shadow of a woman in front of him. She must be the one taking the shot. Her shadow stretches like a trail from the laughing man to Selma's hand.

“Oh... How silly of me!” She has accidentally dropped some tea on the picture, and now the image is even more faded. She looks at it remorsefully.

“I'm so sorry.” A fair-skin woman, with short hair, had just entered the tea-house. Her smile resembles an open pomegranate.  She seats down beside her with a surprising gesture of relief.

“Oh, I knew I had left it here!”  She takes the picture that Selma was holding gently, and her smile lights up even more the red cushions’ corner. “ When I was very young, I lived with my father and my brother. My brother was sick. I had to take care of him. My father forced me to do it and my mother was dead. She could not say anything. The day I turned eighteen, I ran away from home. This man,” and she points at the guy riding the green bicycle, “he found me on the street in the middle of the night, half dead of hunger, cold and fear. He took me to his house and let me sleep in his bed, while he slept on the floor. One day he went out and did not return. Later that day a policeman came knocking on the door. I did not open it. I was afraid that my father had finally found me. I fled from that house full of colored lights and books. I ran until I reached the edge of town. I never returned. I never knew what happened to him. I just have this picture. I've been carrying it with me for seven years."

She holds the picture tightly with a happy-girl look. After a long while, she places it on the table and turns to Selma. She covers her hand with hers, warm hands, and looks straight into her eyes. This girl, this girl ... why does she seem so familiar? Why does she feel the heat rising to her cheeks?

 Selma touches her face with her left hand and finds a strand of black long hair that has escaped from under her silk scarf. She tucks it back in but it falls again. She does not move her other hand, still resting, quiet and ashamed, in Nadia's hands.

Translated by Lina Strenio

Sèrie turca: Laberints

Caminen de pressa i sense mirar-se. Ha estat un dia dur. L’Emin agafa la mà de la dona dins de la seva butxaca. La té molt freda i quieta. El que més li agrada d’ella són les seves mans: suaus,  com flocs de neu que es converteixen en carícies humides si els toques.

Arriben a l’hotel i pugen tremolant les escales estretes. A dins fa calor. Massa. Se sent una olor forta i dolça: sempre que ella el ve a visitar, l’Emin emplena de flors l’habitació. I, a vegades, ella s’emborratxa amb el seu perfum. La cara li canvia de cop: les arrugues desapareixen, les galtes s’encenen, els llavis s’obren en un somriure juganer i la seva mirada comença a ballar. Cada vegada que veu aquesta transformació, mai previsible, mai repetible, ell es queda bocabadat. Així es va enamorar d’ella, la primera nit que van passar junts, davant del mar. I cada dia l’Emin espera el meravellós moment, que podria passar per qualsevol motiu inefable, com una flor rara, un núvol daurat o un coixí de seda, en què ella trencarà la màscara de cada dia  i sorgirà com una deessa grega, única i resplendent. El desig que sent per ella no ha disminuït en els set mesos que fa que es coneixen. Ara mateix, encara que tots dos estan espantats i cansats, la llum groga de les tulipes que ella encara aguanta, reflectida en els seus llavis, l'omple de ganes de perdre’s dins de la seva boca, de fondre’s sota la seva calor, de fusionar la por amb la certesa que respira cada porus de la seva pell. Li agafa les tulipes, les deixa a terra i les seves mans busquen els seus pits.

Ella el mira i el deixa fer. Encara no està bé del tot. Ha tingut ganes de vomitar després de veure l’home que s’ha tirat des de dalt de la torre de Gàlata. Tots els records foscos li han saltat a damunt, esparracant-li la capa fràgil de tranquil·litat que havia portat aquells tres dies. Els sentiments de culpabilitat que tant s’ha esforçat a oblidar –el marit treballant, els nens  cridant, la feina avorrida, tot abandonat per estar amb ell a Istanbul- han sortit de cop, com un animal ferit. Ell la porta cap al llit i ella es deixa fer. Només sent el fred. Després d’una estona que a ella li sembla molt llarga, li diu a cau d’orella que està cansada. Sap que ell necessita estar físicament a prop, sobretot ara, que té tanta por. No està enfadada, però no pot seguir fora del seu cos. Ha de tornar. Té fred.

La llum bruta del matí li toca les parpelles al mateix instant que les obre, espantada per la veu del muetzí. Quina hora deu ser? Ha de marxar ja? On és l’Emin? No se sent ningú al pis. S’aixeca d’un salt. Mira al bany. Mira per la finestra. És molt aviat, encara no passa ningú pel carrer. Només les siluetes del minarets, com fantasmes vigilant. On és? Les llàgrimes li surten bullint, les cames li fallen i es deixa caure a terra. Al costat de les tulipes grogues ja pansides. Es tapa el cap amb els braços. S’ha acabat.

Al cap de dues hores agafa un taxi. El seu telèfon s’ha quedat a l’hotel. El seu compte a l'skype està tancat. No té cap possibilitat de saber on és o de comunicar-se amb ell. Des que es van conèixer sabia que aquest dia arribaria. L’Emin era palestí i s’amagava de la policia jueva. No podia tornar a Palestina. A ella la va conèixer a Roma, el primer lloc on es va refugiar. Després, quan ja eren amants, ella el va anar seguint per tot arreu. Sempre amb por. Sempre amb passió.

No té res d’ell: cap fill, cap adreça, cap anell. No té cap telèfon per trucar la seva mare i plorar juntes. No té res. Només els records. Només la ferida oberta de no saber si és viu o mort, de si el torturen en una presó abjecta o ha marxat perquè ella no li havia donat el que necessitava o s'ha enyorat tant dels seus que no ha pogut resistir més. El que més mal fa és no saber per què, ni on, ni com. Desaparegut com un somni. Sense deixar cap porta oberta. Els minarets grisos no li fan gens de cas a la dona del taxi que va cap a l’aeroport.

Sèrie turca: Trobada

La Selma es mira la fotografia que ha trobat sota el coixí. El racó dels coixins vermells és el seu preferit. Al costat n’hi ha molts d’altres, verds, blaus, grocs, marrons. Amb dibuixos vegetals o geomètrics. Sobretot tulipes vermelles sobre fons daurat. Del sostre pengen exactament setanta-set llums de colors. És el lloc amb més llums de colors que ha vist mai, a part de les botigues atapeïdes del centre. Cada tarda, quan surt de la feina, s’hi para a prendre un te de menta fresca. A aquesta hora només hi ha tres o quatre homes mirant la tele, cadascú amb el seu narguil, una parella jove que sempre juga al backgammon i el cambrer que mira la gent que passa. Ningú no parla. Aquí la Selma està millor que a casa seva.

La fotografia és d’un noi jove enfilat en una bicicleta verda. Els colors estan gastats. Deu tenir força anys. Se’l veu content, el noi de la bicicleta. Riu. Davant seu s’allarga l’ombra d’una dona. Deu ser la que fa la fotografia. L’ombra sembla un camí entre el noi que riu i la mà de la Selma.

     -  Uf, què?....Quin ensurt!- S’han vessat unes gotes de te sobre la fotografia i ara es veu encara més descolorida. Se la mira amb pena.

      -  Ho sento.- La noia que està davant seu  té la pell molt blanca i els cabells curts. Un somriure com un tros de magrana oberta. S’asseu al seu costat i es tira enrere, amb un gest sorprenent d’alleujament. – Uf, ja sabia que me l’havia deixada aquí!

Agafa la fotografia que la Selma aguanta amb delicadesa i el seu somriure encara il·lumina més el racó dels coixins vermells.
-  Abans, fa molt de temps, jo vivia amb el pare i el germà. El meu germà estava malalt. Jo l’havia de cuidar. El pare m’hi obligava i la mare estava morta. No podia dir res. El dia que vaig fer divuit anys vaig fugir de casa. Aquest noi –i li ensenya el noi de la bicicleta verda- em va trobar al carrer a mitja nit, morta de gana, de fred i de por. Em va portar a casa seva i em va deixar dormir al seu llit mentre ell dormia a terra. Un dia no hi va tornar. Un policia va venir més tard a trucar a la porta. No vaig obrir. Tenia por que el meu pare m’hagués trobat a la fi. Vaig fugir d’aquella casa plena de llums de colors i de llibres. Vaig córrer fins que vaig sortir de la ciutat. Mai més no hi he tornat. Mai més no he sabut què li havia passat. Només tinc aquesta fotografia. Fa set anys que la porto a sobre.

La té ben agafada i se la mira amb cara de nena feliç. Al cap d’uns minuts llargs, la posa sobre la taula i es gira cap a la Selma. Li agafa una mà entre les seves. Té les mans calentes. La mira directament als ulls. Aquesta noia, aquesta noia...per què li sembla tan coneguda? Per què aquesta escalfor pujant-li a les galtes?

La Selma es toca la cara amb la mà esquerra i troba un floc de cabells llargs i negres que se li ha escapat de sota el mocador de seda. Se’l posa bé però torna a caure. No gosa moure l’altra mà que segueix - quieta i avergonyida- dins de les mans de la Nàdia.

English Translation: The Turkish Chronicle: The Arrival

The woman steps outside the door visibly anxious. She carries a small suitcase and holds a mobile phone in her hand. She looks at it in earnest. Maybe she called the wrong number. Maybe her plane arrived too early. She looks around her. A couple is helping an old woman with a humped back and dressed in black from head to toe. The three of them are walking very slowly. A few taxi drivers are talking to each other without paying any attention to her.

She should call again. She knows that yesterday, while they were arguing, she said she would not be coming to Istanbul. But in the end, they had made up. Or so she thought.

She's already been waiting for ten minutes. Should she let go of the suitcase? It hardly weighs anything. She had planned on staying just three days. She gives the phone another look. Maybe something happened. Maybe the taxi or the bus got into an accident. She imagines him hurt, trying to find the phone. In the midst of people that do not understand him. She feels tears coming to her eyes. No, she cannot cry now. Now is not the time.

Fifteen minutes. Maybe she should try calling again. What if someone else answers? Perhaps he asked her to come only to take revenge. To laugh at her. To abandon her in front of everyone. Perhaps he's a bad person. She closes her eyes and considers going back into the airport to rest a while.

Twenty-five minutes. She switches her suitcase to her other hand. She holds on tight to her mobile phone. A group of Japanese tourists pass by like a flock of happy sparrows. Her nails hurt her. Her head spins. She made a mistake. He is not the man she thought he was.

And suddenly, like a summer shower, the heat makes her legs give way, her eyes blur, her hands loosen and she lets the suitcase fall to the ground. He steps out of the taxi with his tie askew and a huge bouquet  of yellow tulips.

Translated by Lina Strenio

English Translation: The Book of Love

 For Bel Olid

Mother, its me. Open your eyes, please. There are so many things I want to tell you. Do you remember that morning when we went together to the beach of Saint Pol? The day we had a sand storm so strong as we had never seen before. Three or four other walkers, lost like us, trying to avoid the waves... the sand that filled our eyes, nose, mouth... and the child who seemed ready to fly!... Do you remember? Today I went to see that beach again, Mother. I took with me your last book and sat at a cafe, facing the sea. It was a nice day. Just a few people. Sunny. I opened your book by the middle, as you taught me: "Read a passage, any one, wherever you happen to open the book, and see if it speaks to you." Lola's name jumped off the page. Then I opened the book to the first page. "If the passage in the middle of the page speaks to you, then go to the first page. And if this page also speaks to you, if it makes you curious, then buy the book," you used to say. I still remember... I still remember Lola: small and always disheveled. I could never have imagined her young, very young. And now, look at her, she comes up on the first page. The girl with the flame-red hair, always with a book. Reserved and insignificant to others. With her faded jeans and black T-shirts. Her intense eyes always hidden under bangs perpetually too long. I spent all morning reading your book on the beach of Saint Pol, Mother. I shuddered at the lovemaking the two of you shared the first night you spent together. Your passion still burns the page. I was moved by Lola's surprised silence when you--so determined, so strong, so...so...so you!--told her that you had decided to have a child. "You know what, Lola-Lolita, my love, my princess, my slave, my friend. You know what, I will have the child with you, yes, with you, because you will be the mother of my son. You and me, Lolita, we will have a son, and we will be happy and live together forever, until the end of the world!" ...I got angry at grandmother when she stopped talking to you. I laughed with you when you saw me for the first time, so tiny, so blue, fresh out of your wonderful womb. I relived your youth with you this morning, Mother ....

And you see, I arrived too late.

            You still have things to tell me, Mother. There are things I still want to hear. Open your eyes, Mother. Tell me more about you. Open your eyes, please.

You can always die tomorrow, Mother.

Translated by Lina Strenio

English Translation: The Cat

I don't like cats. I've never liked them.  I've always thought them cold and selfish.

Yesterday, I was cleaning the garden and, all of a sudden, under a bunch of weeds, emerges the head of a black cat. I yell at it, trying to scare it away. It looks at me with intense yellow eyes. It doesn't move. I continue screaming and gesturing to make it leave. It doesn't move. Not an inch. I don’t understand anything. Isn't it afraid? It continues looking at me. With those eyes, incredibly wide-open. I feel their penetrating force and a chill runs from my head to my toes. Then, suddenly, something moves under it. It's the tiny head of a cat. Its eyes are still shut. It moves slowly, like in slow motion, seeking its mother's warmth. A second later, another tiny head. This one is white. Its eyes also closed. The mother continues looking at me. I now understand. Those eyes express the greatest fear I have ever seen. I feel ashamed of myself.  I hide her again behind the plants. I go home. Today I learned something new.

Translated by Lina Strenio

Sèrie turca: Miralls

Cada vespre, quan la Nàdia surt cap a l’escola i el pare, cansat, s’asseu davant de la tele amb el te de poma i el börek de formatge, l’Amin sap que té com a mínim una hora per a ell sol. Una hora per ser lliure. Sense fer veure que és un bon noi, que creu el pare i la germana que li fa de mare. Els ulls blaus, normalment apagats, de cop s’il·luminen. Una hora de vida.

Normalment va al costat del mar, allà on surten els barcos petits que porten els turistes a passejar de nit. Li agrada quedar-se quiet i mirar les gavines negres solcant el cel amb reflexos d’or vell. A l’altra banda del Bòsfor, com sortits d’un conte, els minarets de Topkapi broden filigranes en el capvespre. Ningú no el mira, ningú no li diu res. No ha d’escoltar els planys de la germana, ni els grunyits del pare, ni els crits dels nens que se li acosten per molestar-lo cada vegada que surt de casa. Ningú no el mira amb cara de llàstima o de fàstic. Aquí només hi ha la mar i el cel.

L’última setmana també hi ha hagut una intrusa. Una dona jove, rossa i amb ulleres grosses que li tapen mitja cara. Venia i s’asseia al seu costat, sense dir res. Treia un cigarret i se’l fumava a poc a poc, sense mirar-lo. Semblava trista. Semblava guapa.

Avui fa tard. L’Amin sap que algun dia la dona deixarà de venir. No sap si serà pitjor o millor. Potser avui ja no vindrà.

Quan arriba, veu que la seva cara, el poc que deixen veure les ulleres, sembla contenta. Els llavis, una mica oberts, semblen més plens que els altres dies. Quan marxa, la segueix. No ho ha fet mai. Però avui no vol tornar a casa. Necessita aire. Vol sortir, donar un cop de puny i trencar el mirall. Ell no és cap mongòlic, ell no és cap vegetal, ell és un home. A casa seva està atrapat. Per més que cridi, ningú no li fa cas. Ningú no el sent.

La noia rossa es para davant de la torre. És hora de tancar i només queden un parell de turistes despistats. El vigilant el deixa passar sense pagar, deu pensar que van junts. Pugen a l’ascensor. Va molt ràpid. Sembla que vola. Ella sembla guapa. Somriu. Potser li somriu a ell.

Quan surten a la terrassa, l’aire fresc el colpeja amb força. Lluny, petits, els minarets de Topkapi. I ell a dalt de tot. Sent el seu cor bategant amb força. Se sent feliç. És lliure.

La noia encén un cigarret mentre es recolza a la barana. A l’altre costat un home abraça per darrere una dona amb els braços plens de tulipes grogues. Miren els llums que comencen a parpellejar dins de l’aigua. Se sent el frec de les ales de les gavines. Quan l’Amin s’enfila a la barana i es deixa caure amb els braços oberts, ningú no crida. 

English Translation: The Turkish Chronicle - The Dream

Thanks to Lina Strenio

He looks at her surreptitiously while drinking his coffee--cold, as always--slowly. Every morning the same ritual: take the child to school, make the bed, tea for her, coffee for him, the little table by the window, just as she wanted it, bread with butter. Today she has her eyes encircled by blue shadows. The corners of her lips are slightly turned down, but this is normal for her: even when she laughs wholeheartedly it looks like she's laughing sadly, because of the natural shape of her mouth. Her hair covers her face. She hasn't combed it yet. She'll do it later, when she goes to work. She doesn't speak. Perhaps she's tired. Perhaps she didn't sleep well. He went to bed late, and she pretended to be asleep.  

The woman is young and her hair is long and black. She looks pensively out the window. And sips her tea. Cold again. She doesn't bring it up or reproach him. She doesn't want him more withdrawn. Everything she says, he takes it the wrong way. She doesn't feel like arguing today. She's tired. She slept little and badly. Like almost always. She stares outside and sees the Bosporus, looming in the horizon, gray and silent, a lonely minaret slicing it in two. It's been so long since they strolled by the sea. She's tried to tell him she needs tenderness like she needs oxygen. She does not know how to be without tenderness. Without giving and receiving. Feelings. Sensations. Gazes. Embraces. Words. She needs all of that. She doesn’t have enough with forcing him to escape with her a couple days a month, to express his love. She doesn't understand him. Some days she asks herself who is this man, this man she lives with. Yes, he loves her and she knows it. Her life is full: the hotel is working, their child is healthy and smart, their parents are still strong and fit, their new apartment is beautiful. Everyone envies her. She looks at him from under her bangs. What is he thinking about? How can she get inside him?  Know what he is really thinking? Know what he really wants? . . . Does he know it himself? Does he know why for so many nights they have been sleeping in the same bed but dreaming their own dreams? What could he be thinking?...The tea is cold, and she feels her hands freezing on the white porcelain cup.

"I had a bad dream last night," he starts to say in a low voice, unsure, not knowing if she wants to hear it. "I don't remember all the details. I don't know if it was us or another couple. She had short hair. It was my birthday. We had argued. I don't know why. I was tired. The night before had ended late. We were still in college. I left the room slamming the door. I couldn't bear to see your eyes full of tears. Not that day. It was my birthday. I wanted to be happy. I didn't want to think about the money that was running out or the scholarship that hadn't arrived or your mother who was not answering the phone. That day I didn't want to think about anything. I just wanted to see your face happy. But I left. I grabbed my bicycle, the green one I had for so many years. I wanted to leave. Far from you. Desperate I could not make you happy...And, I don't know how, that taxi ran over me. I remember the face of the man, getting out of the car. Looking from one side to the other like a crazy person. He had his hand on his head, as if it was hurt. White hair. A gray mustache covered his large mouth. He seemed lost. I wanted to help him but couldn't move. It seemed like I was nailed to the ground. I wanted to yell at him, I was upset, but I couldn't open my mouth. Every time everything was moving more rapidly around me. I woke up with a dry mouth and clenched fists. Covered in sweat and shaking. Everything seemed so real. You were still sleeping. It didn't look like you. I sprang out of bed, afraid to infect you with the fear."