The Gaze (3 page)

‘Ah, don’t say that. I’m sure she’s a well-behaved child,’ she says. Then, as if she’s laughing to herself, she adds: ‘I wish I knew this beautiful girl’s name. Go on, tell me, what’s your name?’

The bug-eyed child forgot me right away. She turned and concentrated on listening to the schoolgirl. Now, with her lips tight and her eyebrows raised to give her an even more sour expression, she stubbornly refuses to give her name. The child’s unexpected resistance goads the schoolgirl into action. She has to find a way to make her talk.

‘All right then, let me ask something else. Come on, tell me, do you know how to count?’

The bug-eyed child nodded her head emphatically. But she still doesn’t open her mouth.

‘No, nooo!’ says the schoolgirl. ‘If you knew you’d have counted aloud. You’re such a big girl and you still don’t know how to count. What a shame!’

There’s a sudden silence in the minibus. All of us passengers are captivated by the schoolgirl’s insistence. The housewives in the back stop their gossip, the irritable estate agent stops making calls; the driver closes the window and turns off the radio; sounds from outside are muffled, and even the rain falls more quietly.

‘Yes!’ chimes the child’s voice. ‘I know!’

‘No! You don’t know.’

‘I do too know, I do too know.’

The bug-eyed child starts stamping her feet. As she stamps her feet, her pudding-white socks, the teddy-bear ribbons in her hair, her thick strawberry-jam coloured shoes, and her skinny legs, covered with new and old wounds from unhealed mosquito bites, swing back and forth before my eyes.

‘She knows, she knows,’ says the driver, who’d been watching through the rear-view mirror.

‘If that’s so, let’s hear her count,’ says the schoolgirl archly.

As is my habit when travelling on buses, I begin looking for something I can stare at vacantly for the rest of this difficult trip. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. Hanging from the rear-view mirror, there’s a toy doll wearing only a tasselled skirt and a straw hat, with silky blond hair down to her toes, trying to cover her full breasts with one hand and holding a basket of fruit in the other. When the driver hits the brakes, a light flashes on and off in the doll’s left eye. At the same moment, the bug-eyed child begins to count.

‘One. Two, three…’

Then suddenly she falls quiet. All of us hold ‘four’ on the tips of our tongues. The driver and the young man sitting in the single seat next to him, me, the child’s mother and the schoolgirl, the housewives in the back and the ill-tempered estate agent, all of us wait with tense smiles. Even the man in the very back corner next to the window, exuding the smells of flowers and perfume, has formed his lips as if he’s about to say ‘four’, and has stayed that way. As if by doing that, the numbers would follow by chance, and he would get to his important appointment more quickly. A while later, the ugly, bug-eyed child, casting a coy glance around, certain now that she has the attention of everyone on the minibus, leans delightedly against her mother and continues counting.

‘One, twoo, threee, one, twoo, three, one, two, three…’

My brain is throbbing. The numbers demons, with lamps on their waists and brooms in their hands, their tongues cut off and their eyes poked out with hot irons, banging on the door as they jump up and down tak tak donk donk there’s no one here, they don’t hear my voice. Hunched over, I look out the window, dreaming that I don’t see what I see. Meanwhile, the child is counting faster, losing her shyness and becoming more bold. She’s enjoying holding everyone captive.

‘onetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothree’

I want to get off. To get off and catch another minibus. No, another minibus won’t do. A bus won’t do either, or a taxi. I can’t tolerate any of them now. No matter how much my body objects, it’s surely best to proceed on foot. And before I start walking I can stand and have a bite to eat. A nice sausage sandwich with ketchup and potato salad would be good for my nerves. Perhaps a lemonade to go with it. I could escape this minibus at a convenient spot. It’s still not too late to get off. But then the man will get confused. The person who paid two fares for one and a half places will become the person who paid two fares for nothing. On top of that, if I get off the minibus, the mother will definitely move her ugly, bug-eyed child to my place. I change my mind.

I’m hungry. But traffic is heavy, the rain is falling faster, and there’s a long way to go. I’m hungry. But the child is ugly, and bug-eyed, and the numbers are awful. I am hungry. But I shouldn’t overreact. This trip will last long enough to count to three; just from one to three.

‘One, twooo, three, one, twoo, three, one, two, three, onetwothree, onetwothreeonetwothree…’

After the evening call to prayer, the westward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent at the top of the hill would open for the women.

Indeed that was when threes and fives and tens of women would start entering the westward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent at the top of the hill. Bringing their noisy commotion with them. Part of the huge tent had been assigned to the women. Carrying swollen bundles and with their fussing children beside them, they crossed the threshold pushing one another and grasping their long woollen coats. Hundreds of women of every temperament and nature would come here. It didn’t matter what nationality they were, what language they spoke or what religion they professed. It was enough that they were women; and, also, that they came together. This was the condition that Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi had placed: No woman was to arrive at the tent alone.

Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi knew that the westward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent was open to the bright side of the moon.

And he would tell this strange story about her. What the bright side of the moon feared most was not being loved, and also being alone when she wept. She combed her hair with a silver comb. The inlaid teeth of the comb collected the shiny strands of her hair with great care. Later she would secretly leave every single strand on another person’s shoulder. She believed that she would be unforgettable in the eyes of whomever the hair was with. She was not far wrong either; those who carried the strands of her hair, not understanding at all why their hearts were so distressed, would stare absentmindedly at the dome of the sky, unaware that their worries and their pupils were growing together. They felt deeply that what they sought was there, but they couldn’t translate their feelings. Indeed some of them found themselves so caught up in the celestial passion within them that they could no longer eat or drink. Fortunately, the bright side of the moon soon tired of her playmates. She would erase new relationships in two breaths, swallow all affection in a single gulp, devastate every friendship she formed. No one was strange enough, no story was sufficiently poetic. Yet she still couldn’t give up on people. Because she was afraid, so afraid, of being alone, and of crying by herself.

Once, leaning into a well and looking at herself in the water in a copper bucket, she said, with deep admiration, ‘How beautiful I am. In that case, why am I unable to be as happy as an ugly person?’ The well grumbled, the water became cloudy. ‘How radiant I am,’ she said abstractedly. ‘In that case, why can’t I be free of the darkness in my heart?’ The copper bucket cracked, and water trickled out of each of the separate cracks.

Since that day, the bright side of the moon has avoided wells. When unanswerable questions come to mind, she powders herself with the silver powder compact that she is never without. She always wanted to be unique, peerless and unrivalled. She could not stand a female who shone more than she did, if one day she should meet someone like this, there is nothing she wouldn’t do to get rid of her.

Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi didn’t tell this story without reason. Because he knew well that women were each other’s enemies above all. Whenever women came together in the same place, they’d first start examining each other from head to toe, trying to discover each other’s troubles, then move on to asking after each other’s health. As the conversation deepened, wherever there was a rip or a stain, a dark room or a garbage heap, they’d discover them one by one and file them away secretly. Their friendships were like sleeping cats, keeping one eye on each other, and pricking up their ears at the slightest sound. The mortar that held their friendships together became diluted by suspicion covered with egg white. Even the soundest of friendships was shaken by the first pang of apprehension. However, the silver comb was useless without a silver mirror. As Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi knew, the women became uglier in each other’s reflections. This is why they were not to turn their backs on each other, but had to arrive side-by-side, arm in arm. Climbing up the hill together, they had to be as crowded as a cherry tree as they entered the westward-facing door.

Some of the women were accustomed to being together. Most of them enjoyed socialising, or wished to appear as if they did. They’d climb the hill laughing and joking. They’d start up the hill together in a crowd, and the same crowd would arrive at the entrance to the tent. And some, knowing well that in the end they would all have to come together, preferred to climb all by themselves until the last step. Most of them were reserved by nature, or wished to appear as if they were. The fountain on the hill was a turning point for them. When they arrived at the fountain, they had no choice but to come together. The fountain put on airs; it sprayed out water with enthusiasm. The women wet their mouths, foreheads and necks with the ice-cold water. Those who had come that far by themselves would come together in small groups, and would enter into complaisant and unavoidable friendships as they continued on their way. The rest of the way up the hill would be spent getting to know each other. From then on they couldn’t be separated from each other; from then on strangers became friends, and friends became travelling companions. With each step they became more cheerful and open. As they walked arm-in-arm some of them even began to lose their fear. For Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi’s orders were strict; even if she was fear itself, no female should be excluded from the crowd of women entering the tent. For this reason, after the evening call to prayer, carrying swollen bundles and with their fussing children beside them, they crossed the threshold of the westward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent pushing one another and grasping their long woollen coats.

Most went on foot. Because those who insisted on going by carriage could be the victims of mysterious accidents. Sometimes nothing went wrong; even if the horses were sweating profusely, they went straight up the hill and succeeded in making it to the top. Sometimes the carriages would overturn for no reason. Sometimes they would slip on the ice, sending the passengers rolling back down at great speed. When these incidents were spoken of, it was with much exaggeration, and the addition of a sprinkling of mystery. When this was the case, the women who were accustomed to detecting the warning of a disaster usually caused by carelessness, preferred to leave their carriages at the foot of the hill and climb on foot, for there was no need to anger the saints buried on the hill. From time to time, there were also some groups who arrived on litters. These, pale complexioned women from elite families, would climb the hill with dignified expressions on the shoulders of their strong powerful servants. But as is the way of the world, these too overturned from time to time.

Those who turned and looked back when they reached the top of the hill could see the sea. The sea was blue, bluer than blue; it was hostage to its own clear stillness. Once in a while some women got a crazy idea. The sea was a breast, gently swollen, aching, calling softly from afar for a mouth for its milk. Now…without regret for the past or concern for the future; as if…just by relaxing, opening their mouths and closing their eyes, it would be possible to be filled with time by sucking deeply on the present moment. In any event, their responsibilities were ready and waiting to be wrapped up. The loose string would quickly be re-wound. Children would take care of their mothers, mothers-in-law would take care of their daughters-in-law, and friends would take care of each other; those who were still captivated by the sea would be reminded that they had to reach the cherry-coloured tent before it grew dark. It worked. Once those who were lost in empty dreams were reminded of who they were, they would come on their own. In any event, as Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi often said: if the ship of womanhood were to sink, it would not be from a slow leak in the cargo hold of womanly duty motherly responsibility, but from a resounding and heavy rain of cannon balls of dreams. Women were susceptible to the lure of dreams.

Even though in time this area came to be called a swamp, no one who had ever smelled the heady fragrance of the fig and lemon trees, or seen their delicate purple buds would want to believe it. Here, sparrows would chirp merrily, peacocks would strut around showing off, and nightingales would compose melodies to roses of unsurpassed beauty. For all of the women, if the area surrounding the cherry-coloured tent was a part of heaven, then that steep hill was the bridge which the righteous will pass over and from which the unrighteous will fall on the Day Of Judgement. But no one bothered their heads much about this question. It wasn’t the outside of the tent that was important, it was the inside. And if anyone knew the truth of the matter, it would be Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi.

Here, it was possible to meet women of every temperament and nature. Matchmakers eagerly cast their eyes about for marriageable girls, irritable old women who constantly moved their lips as they cursed everything, cunning and foul-mouthed cloth peddlers looking for customers to corner, widows wrapped from head to toe in grief, cheap sluts who had aged before their time, greying whores who looked older than they were, fresh young girls whose pink complexions showed that they’d spent the whole day at the baths, professional midwives who knew at a glance what cure was needed for anyone’s troubles, swan-necked dancing girls who never danced, never even smiled without hearing the sound of money, poor Jewish women from the miserable shacks of Balat, Gypsy women who carried their babies on their backs and their secrets in their bosoms, spoiled, pink-skinned Circassion girls, Arab women with mascara and jet-black hair, brides-to-be who tied silk handkerchiefs to the branches of the trees around the tent, rich Armenian women with palanquins inlaid with mother-of-pearl, Persian women who smelled of hot spices, French governesses who taught etiquette to the children of elite families, multi-talented concubines who were raised to be given as gifts to the palace, pregnant women with swollen bellies, Italian actresses who couldn’t share with their troupes, deeply religious grandmothers who were forcibly dragged here by their grandchildren and the grumbling of their daughters-in-law, ladies who were the toast of Pera society, house-proud Greeks from Tatavla, Russian women of slight and graceful build and languorous looks, successful English dance teachers, usurer’s wives who had new clothes made each time their husbands made a killing, self-sacrificing nurses from the hospitals of Beyoglu and so many others…young, old, children, everyone imaginable was here.