Read Online Many and Many a Year Ago by Selcuk Altun - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Selcuk Altun
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her foot behind my leg and flipped me onto my back, then jumped on me and started pinching my cheeks.
ââWhat! So you think I wouldnât follow you?â she shouted, whereupon the crowd of spectators burst into a round of clapping and cheering.
âDuring summer vacations I worked as a so-called intern at my sisterâs company. Iâd send Esther flowery letters signed âAliye,â the feminine version of my name, and she would secretly send me postcards from the magical European cities that she toured with her mother. I read them five times a day.
âFor three years, we lived a dream-like existence. Then, in the summer before our senior year, we decided to get married, as we intended to go to America for Masterâs degrees. Esther knew it wouldnât be easy to get permission from her pious Jewish mother to marry a Muslim boy, but we were prepared to spend a while in Ä°zmir softening her up. We waited until the end of finals to bring up the subject. I didnât worry about my sisterâshe was carrying on with a company manager who was married, after all. As for my father, his response was, âWell, if you think youâve found the woman of your life, what can I say?â
âSo the mission of tearing us apart was left to Estherâs mother. In our farewell scene Esther said, âI couldnât care less about her threats to disown me, but she vows that if I marry a Muslim sheâll commit suicide. She never really recovered from my fatherâs death, you know. Sheâs dependent on me. Youâd be appalled if you saw her. She curses me and weeps, weeps and curses me. Youâre the only man I can ever love, Ali. But â¦â
âAnd that was it.â
*
âMore because it was in New York than because of the scholarship they gave me, I chose Columbia for a Masterâs in industrial engineering. I believed my wound would heal in that great city, and I wasnât wrong. Still, as I struggled with the city and the school, Esther remained like a clot in my blood. The following year I ran into her old housemate Suna on a flight to Istanbul. She hadnât been all that sorry to hear that Esther and I had broken up. Anyway, this dumpy, disagreeable woman was nattering on about Esther marrying a Jewish fellow and emigrating to Buenos Aires. I said, âIf youâre passing on this gossip to make me feel bad, you neednât botherâit wonât work,â which shut her up.
âDuring the three years it took to complete my degree my sister Oyaâs lover divorced his wife, married Oya, and was divorced by Oya. I taught in New York for two years and then returned to Turkey for my military service. My sister by then was living with my father in his new Maçka apartment with the Bosphorus view. I was assigned to a military translation project at General Headquarters in Ankara. My father, in a burst of delayed affection, wanted me to visit every weekend. I decided not to return to the States when I learned from my sister that he had cancer. I finished my military duties and took a job at my old school, which by now had been nationalized as BoÄaziçi University. Oya had risen to director of one of her companyâs divisions. On hearing how much I was earning, she arranged some consulting work for me. That New Yearâs Eve my father passed away. It never crossed my mind to think about matters of inheritance.
âIn the 1970s the ideology wars hit BoÄaziçi like every other Turkish university. Maybe I should have gone back to Columbia. Anyway, I was tidying my desk in preparation for summer vacation one day, when who should walk into my office but Esther? I acted as if I wasnât shocked. We said our hellos like distant friends; she smiled a guilty smile. She was still attractive and elegantly dressed. The weight sheâd put on had only added to her sexiness. It was odd to feel so horny after all that time. She heard
ââWhat! So you think I wouldnât follow you?â she shouted, whereupon the crowd of spectators burst into a round of clapping and cheering.
âDuring summer vacations I worked as a so-called intern at my sisterâs company. Iâd send Esther flowery letters signed âAliye,â the feminine version of my name, and she would secretly send me postcards from the magical European cities that she toured with her mother. I read them five times a day.
âFor three years, we lived a dream-like existence. Then, in the summer before our senior year, we decided to get married, as we intended to go to America for Masterâs degrees. Esther knew it wouldnât be easy to get permission from her pious Jewish mother to marry a Muslim boy, but we were prepared to spend a while in Ä°zmir softening her up. We waited until the end of finals to bring up the subject. I didnât worry about my sisterâshe was carrying on with a company manager who was married, after all. As for my father, his response was, âWell, if you think youâve found the woman of your life, what can I say?â
âSo the mission of tearing us apart was left to Estherâs mother. In our farewell scene Esther said, âI couldnât care less about her threats to disown me, but she vows that if I marry a Muslim sheâll commit suicide. She never really recovered from my fatherâs death, you know. Sheâs dependent on me. Youâd be appalled if you saw her. She curses me and weeps, weeps and curses me. Youâre the only man I can ever love, Ali. But â¦â
âAnd that was it.â
*
âMore because it was in New York than because of the scholarship they gave me, I chose Columbia for a Masterâs in industrial engineering. I believed my wound would heal in that great city, and I wasnât wrong. Still, as I struggled with the city and the school, Esther remained like a clot in my blood. The following year I ran into her old housemate Suna on a flight to Istanbul. She hadnât been all that sorry to hear that Esther and I had broken up. Anyway, this dumpy, disagreeable woman was nattering on about Esther marrying a Jewish fellow and emigrating to Buenos Aires. I said, âIf youâre passing on this gossip to make me feel bad, you neednât botherâit wonât work,â which shut her up.
âDuring the three years it took to complete my degree my sister Oyaâs lover divorced his wife, married Oya, and was divorced by Oya. I taught in New York for two years and then returned to Turkey for my military service. My sister by then was living with my father in his new Maçka apartment with the Bosphorus view. I was assigned to a military translation project at General Headquarters in Ankara. My father, in a burst of delayed affection, wanted me to visit every weekend. I decided not to return to the States when I learned from my sister that he had cancer. I finished my military duties and took a job at my old school, which by now had been nationalized as BoÄaziçi University. Oya had risen to director of one of her companyâs divisions. On hearing how much I was earning, she arranged some consulting work for me. That New Yearâs Eve my father passed away. It never crossed my mind to think about matters of inheritance.
âIn the 1970s the ideology wars hit BoÄaziçi like every other Turkish university. Maybe I should have gone back to Columbia. Anyway, I was tidying my desk in preparation for summer vacation one day, when who should walk into my office but Esther? I acted as if I wasnât shocked. We said our hellos like distant friends; she smiled a guilty smile. She was still attractive and elegantly dressed. The weight sheâd put on had only added to her sexiness. It was odd to feel so horny after all that time. She heard
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