My dearest Mustafa (and you are dear, though I never let you feel it),
I trust that by now you will be seeking the comfort of religion through our good imam. And I am glad of that, though I cannot believe as you do. I lost that ability a long time ago. To tell the truth, I’m not sure I ever had it. My words here are meant to be another salve, for you and also for Orhan and Fatma.
I have spent the last year chasing my past. Or rather, it chased me. At first, I hid from it, looked the other way, busied myself, but then I grew tired and turned to face it. I met with it in secret places. On the highest branches of our now barren mulberry tree, at the lap of the red river where I first caressed your mother. I even climbed inside the cauldrons. Each time my past did not disappoint me. It came, explaining everything and nothing. Rest assured that whether you find me in my bed, at the base of a tree, or inside the river: I did not jump, or drown, or in any way harm myself. I simply went looking for my past and was mercifully relieved of its burden.
I’m sorry I did not love you better as a child. You were, for me, a daily reminder of her. I hope that my love for Orhan has made up, in part, for my failures as a father. I ask only for your forgiveness and that you oblige me this one last time, as I try to meld my past to your present. Forgive me. For your sake and for Orhan’s too.
Your loving father,
Kemal
“Well, that explains all the tree climbing,” says Auntie Fatma.
Orhan remains speechless. Part of him had hoped there would be an explanation of the will. His heart aches for his father, and his mind is racing with questions.
“Give it here. I’ll see to it that your father reads it.”
Orhan hands her the letter and opens Dede’s sketchbook, hoping there might be a clue to his reasoning. Almost every page is filled with sketches of the old mulberry tree that still stands in the center of their courtyard. The row of cauldrons looms sometimes in the background and sometimes in the foreground. How many times did Dede sketch these cauldrons before stripping his clothes and immersing himself for his very last breath?
“Tell me, who is this Seda?” asks Orhan.
“No ‘How are you, Auntie? How have you been, Auntie?’ Are you like this with your girlfriend too? What was her name?”
“Hülya,” Orhan replies. Auntie Fatma and Hülya were like the two parts of Turkey itself, one grasping for modernity, the other with both feet planted in the fertile soil of a rural village. The last time Auntie Fatma paid a visit to his apartment in Istanbul, she fastened a garden hose to the bathtub and proceeded to “do a proper washing.” Hülya and Orhan came home to find half his furniture piled high on the balcony and the other half dripping with soapy water. It was an amusing story he told at dinner parties.
“How is Hülya?” Auntie Fatma asks.
“Don’t know. We broke up,” he says, thinking about the curse of the Türko?lu men, always being left by their women. His grandmother passed when his father was only a toddler and Orhan’s own mother died in childbirth. Auntie Fatma, never having been a Türko?lu wife or mother, is the only female constant in the family.
“Her loss,” Fatma says. “You’re a handsome devil, like your grandfather, may Allah’s blessings be upon him. I’m supposed to say that now,” she says, laughing, “every time I mention your dede. As if Allah would take commands from me.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about, Auntie?”
“Why should I? Besides, why do you suppose I know?”
“Because you knew Dede best. And because you’re old,” he adds, winking at her. “As old as this house, maybe older.”
“Why, you son of a goat. For your information, the house is at least a decade or two older than I am. Don’t let the date on that stone arch fool you. And I’m as strong as an ox,” she says crossing her arms. “Besides, you’re no schoolboy yourself. What are you now, thirty-five?”
“I’m only twenty-nine and you know it,” he says.
“Got any pictures to show me?”
“No. I don’t even own a camera. Since when do you want to see my photos, anyway? You’re just trying to change the subject,” he says.
“Clever little boy.”
“Man,” Orhan corrects her.
“Boy, man—what’s the difference? And I have always liked your pictures. Look, I even kept this here for you.” Auntie Fatma lifts her head scarf that is draped on the table to reveal the Leica, familiar yet titillating, its silver and black fascia hinting at all kinds of possibilities. Underneath it is a portfolio of his photography.
Orhan hasn’t seen either object for years. Like the stone arch above the main door of the house, his camera and portfolio are remnants from a forgotten life.