Read Online Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale by Mario Levi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mario Levi
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those moments that could quite unexpectedly change one’s course in life. Actually, Norbert did not merely give him a piece of his mind during these exchanges, for, he promised to assist him in finding customers through his connections should he change his mind and open a tailor’s shop, as he was supremely confident of cousin’s skill in that trade. As for his ailment . . . well, physicians, who were also sent for by the Palace, were near at hand. After all, all these things were but minor details. The important thing was to seize that mood and to fill in the gaps between them. They could try to recover the atmosphere of the old days under different conditions and circumstances, hoping for better days ahead. Leaving aside all that had gone before, he was badly in need to reconnect with someone from the past, with a family member.
Once again there was another life behind the visible objects on display . . . a life whose darkness was carried over by variegated glimmers. This exchange of ideas had taken place at a restaurant overlooking the Bosporus.
The adventure of Moses and the woman from Riga had begun, to the best of my knowledge, upon the inception of an unanticipated story at the least expected moment. They had reason to have an unshakable belief in fate during the days when they took part in this story rather hesitantly, overwhelmed by those inevitable question marks.
They had spent a short time at Norbert’s house before they moved to a small apartment in Kuledibi, to a small apartment, much smaller than those of the same class, with a sigh of despair at the fact that they were once again starting everything anew . . . Moses’ first shop had been somewhere near Tünel and his first customer had been a German, a factotum of Norbert’s who took care of his foreign business; when he made his first sallies to Istanbul, he was believed to have known the places where he had lost certain things fairly well along with the people who had been instrumental in contributing to such losses . . . Olga was the fruit of these cold winter years. To have a child after a lapse of sixteen years had brought great satisfaction to the family despite the hardships involved. This had served as a palliative to compensate for the absence of Jacob who had been, and had to be, abandoned in Alexandria, and who, after a while, had immigrated to America in pursuit of quite a different lifestyle; a necessary consequence of the need to fill another wide gap.
The diamond necklace
I could find but a few pictures that would likely lead me to Olga’s memories of childhood in Kuledibi. To the best of my knowledge, Monsieur Jacques had also been in the same predicament; even he had been in a similar predicament! To explain this blankness and to shed some light on that obscure region was not easy. This blankness, this darkness, was a story in its own right; in other words, it was likely to break ground for another tale; the contents of this darkness should be in another story which I experienced, through all the events I discovered and lived. Was Olga lonely, as lonely as she had remained in my memory? Nobody can ever know this, of course. A long time has gone by since then. All the witnesses have gone away, taking their representations of her along with them. Had there also been witnesses apart from them that might convey to me new answers or new questions? If so, I still pin my hopes on such a likelihood for the sake of a future story. Nevertheless, my recollections at this stage are but a simple and inevitable consequence of what I can discern from such a distance. Her life had always remained a puzzle in other people’s eyes. How did this happen? How on earth had one gone up such a blind alley, both for her sake and for ours? Was this due to the reserve of this woman who had fascinated many people with her beauty and elegance at every turn, the details of which I highly valued, to her self-defense as though she were a fugitive, or to a
Once again there was another life behind the visible objects on display . . . a life whose darkness was carried over by variegated glimmers. This exchange of ideas had taken place at a restaurant overlooking the Bosporus.
The adventure of Moses and the woman from Riga had begun, to the best of my knowledge, upon the inception of an unanticipated story at the least expected moment. They had reason to have an unshakable belief in fate during the days when they took part in this story rather hesitantly, overwhelmed by those inevitable question marks.
They had spent a short time at Norbert’s house before they moved to a small apartment in Kuledibi, to a small apartment, much smaller than those of the same class, with a sigh of despair at the fact that they were once again starting everything anew . . . Moses’ first shop had been somewhere near Tünel and his first customer had been a German, a factotum of Norbert’s who took care of his foreign business; when he made his first sallies to Istanbul, he was believed to have known the places where he had lost certain things fairly well along with the people who had been instrumental in contributing to such losses . . . Olga was the fruit of these cold winter years. To have a child after a lapse of sixteen years had brought great satisfaction to the family despite the hardships involved. This had served as a palliative to compensate for the absence of Jacob who had been, and had to be, abandoned in Alexandria, and who, after a while, had immigrated to America in pursuit of quite a different lifestyle; a necessary consequence of the need to fill another wide gap.
The diamond necklace
I could find but a few pictures that would likely lead me to Olga’s memories of childhood in Kuledibi. To the best of my knowledge, Monsieur Jacques had also been in the same predicament; even he had been in a similar predicament! To explain this blankness and to shed some light on that obscure region was not easy. This blankness, this darkness, was a story in its own right; in other words, it was likely to break ground for another tale; the contents of this darkness should be in another story which I experienced, through all the events I discovered and lived. Was Olga lonely, as lonely as she had remained in my memory? Nobody can ever know this, of course. A long time has gone by since then. All the witnesses have gone away, taking their representations of her along with them. Had there also been witnesses apart from them that might convey to me new answers or new questions? If so, I still pin my hopes on such a likelihood for the sake of a future story. Nevertheless, my recollections at this stage are but a simple and inevitable consequence of what I can discern from such a distance. Her life had always remained a puzzle in other people’s eyes. How did this happen? How on earth had one gone up such a blind alley, both for her sake and for ours? Was this due to the reserve of this woman who had fascinated many people with her beauty and elegance at every turn, the details of which I highly valued, to her self-defense as though she were a fugitive, or to a
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