The Bastard of Istanbul (48 page)

Family stories intermingle in such ways that what happened generations ago can have an impact on seemingly irrelevant developments of the present day. The past is anything but bygone. If Levent Kazancı hadn’t grown up to be such a bitter and abusive man, would his only son, Mustafa, have ended up being a different person? If generations ago in 1915 Shushan hadn’t been left an orphan, would Asya today still be a bastard?

Life is coincidence, though sometimes it takes a
djinni
to fathom that.

Late in the afternoon, Auntie Zeliha stepped outside into the garden. Not wanting to enter the house, Aram had been waiting there for hours, having long since finished smoking all his cigars.

“I brought you tea,” she said. The spring breeze caressed their faces, carrying from far and wide the sundry smells of the sea, growing grass, and the yet-to-blossom almond flowers of Istanbul.

“Thank you, my love,” Aram replied. “What a lovely tea glass.”

“Do you like it?” Auntie Zeliha rotated the tea glass in her hand as her face brightened with recognition. “This is so bizarre. You know what I’ve realized just now? I bought this set twenty years ago. So strange!”

“What is so strange?” Aram asked, feeling at that moment a drop of rain.

“Nothing,” Auntie Zeliha said, her voice lowering. “It’s just that I never believed they could survive this long. I always feared they would break so easily, but I guess they live to tell the tale, after all. Even tea glasses do!”

In a few minutes, Sultan the Fifth slowly padded out of the house, his stomach full, his eyes drowsy. He drew a circle around them before curling up next to Auntie Zeliha. For a while he seemed immersed in meticulously licking a claw, but then he stopped, looking around in alarm to ascertain what might possibly have disturbed the serenity. In lieu of an answer, a lukewarm drop fell on his nose. Then followed another drop, this time on his head. The cat rose slowly with deep discontent, and stretched his limbs before heading back into the house. Another drop. He quickened his pace.

Maybe he didn’t know the rules. He just didn’t know that whatever falls from the sky shall not be cursed.

And that includes the rain.

This novel was written while commuting between Arizona, New York, and Istanbul. My gratitude goes to numerous Armenian and Turkish families who have welcomed me, hosted me in their houses, cooked for me, and shared their personal stories with me, despite the difficulty of remembering a painful past. I am particularly indebted to Armenian and Turkish grandmothers, who have an almost natural ability to transcend the very boundaries that nationalists on each side take for granted.

Much gratitude to Marly Rusoff and Michael Radulescu, my literary agents and dear friends, for their matchless support, work, and amity. Thank you to Paul Slovak for his editorial guidance, faith, and encouragement. Thanks to Muge Gocek, Anne Betteridge, Andrew Wedel, and Diane Higgins for their generous contribution.

Between the Turkish edition and the English edition of this novel in 2006, I was put on trial for “denigrating Turkishness” under Article 301 of the Turkish Penal Code. The charges that were brought against me were due to the words that some of the Armenian characters spoke in the novel; I could have been given up to a three-year prison sentence, but the charges were eventually dropped. During this time, I have been fortunate enough to receive enormous support from so many people, friends, and strangers alike, of such different nationalities and religions. I owe them more than I can say.

And finally, as ever, I thank Eyup, for his patience and love . . . for just being himself. . . .