Read Online Many and Many a Year Ago by Selcuk Altun - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Selcuk Altun
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me tell the secretary to cancel any further appointments and asked if we could meet next evening in the Hilton Hotel lobby.
ââIâll die if you donât come,â she said.
âI didnât expect a miracle, but of course I was curious about what she would say, so I went. Sheâd made reservations for dinner on the terrace and it wasnât long before she was telling me everything. Her mother had tried to marry her off but she wasnât having any of it. She met a man called Eli Arditti who whisked her away to Buenos Aires. She was glad to go, thought it would get her out from under her motherâs thumb.
âFirst he tried to go into partnership with his cousin in Buenos Aires, and when that didnât work out, he set up an export business. He lost a fortune. Yet when they returned to Ä°zmir he managed to sweet-talk Estherâs mother into another loan. She sold her apartment building to fund a jewelry business with an Istanbul Armenian. Esther was expecting that to fail too.
âShe felt trapped, she said. She couldnât divorce him because of her daughter Stella, who was seven at the time and adored her ridiculous father. She couldnât take the money she inherited from her motherâs rental properties out of the country for regulatory reasons. So she holidayed in Istanbul each year, then bought rugs at the Grand Bazaar with what was left and sent them back to Buenos Aires to sell.
âShe told me all this like it was some kind of joke. It reminded me of her goodbye speech nine years earlier. I couldnât get a word in edgeways, not even to offer my condolences for her mother who had passed away. I asked the odd questions alright, and nodded when I was supposed to. To be honest, I was surprised that she wasnât offended by my diffidence. She dragged me up to her room with a view of the Bosphorus to show me Stellaâs picture. Reluctantly I took it in my hands. It really irked me to see how handsome her husband was. There was something of Alexander the Great about him. Stella seemed to have inherited her fatherâs looks. She was as pretty as a china doll. I felt a sudden urge to flee. I reached out to stroke Estherâs cheek goodbye and she grabbed my hand.
âThe next morning we left for Cappadocia. It surprised us to discover that we were as passionate about each other as if weâd been separated for nine days rather than nine years.
*
âEvery June for thirteen years she came to Istanbul. Every year I waited for her. We went on dream holidays, as carefree as two university students in love. We never brought up our problemsâwe lived in the moment and never thought about how it might end. By then I was a professor and my sister was nagging me to marry. I somehow found out that Esther had had to sell her last property. She mentioned once that Eli had gone into the used-car business. However naïve her husband might be, I never believed that he completely bought Estherâs story about having to visit Istanbul every year to collect the rent from her apartment.
âOn her last two trips Esther stayed at three-star hotels. She was happy for me to pay for everything. She was having trouble hiding her uneasiness. On that last trip, as though it were something to brood about, she told me that her daughter had become Miss Argentina. That night I had a dream. Her husband was speeding along in his sports car, crashed and died. As soon as the funeral was over Esther and I would get married â¦
âSheâd never given me her address or telephone number, for fear that I might call her. When she didnât show up in June of 1987 I was almost in tears. Early in Julyâwhich is âTammuzâ in Hebrew and means the month of tragediesâI ran into her childhood friend Luna, whom Esther visited whenever she was in town. She had bad news for me: Esther and Eli had been killed in a car crash.
âI collapsed on the spot. From
ââIâll die if you donât come,â she said.
âI didnât expect a miracle, but of course I was curious about what she would say, so I went. Sheâd made reservations for dinner on the terrace and it wasnât long before she was telling me everything. Her mother had tried to marry her off but she wasnât having any of it. She met a man called Eli Arditti who whisked her away to Buenos Aires. She was glad to go, thought it would get her out from under her motherâs thumb.
âFirst he tried to go into partnership with his cousin in Buenos Aires, and when that didnât work out, he set up an export business. He lost a fortune. Yet when they returned to Ä°zmir he managed to sweet-talk Estherâs mother into another loan. She sold her apartment building to fund a jewelry business with an Istanbul Armenian. Esther was expecting that to fail too.
âShe felt trapped, she said. She couldnât divorce him because of her daughter Stella, who was seven at the time and adored her ridiculous father. She couldnât take the money she inherited from her motherâs rental properties out of the country for regulatory reasons. So she holidayed in Istanbul each year, then bought rugs at the Grand Bazaar with what was left and sent them back to Buenos Aires to sell.
âShe told me all this like it was some kind of joke. It reminded me of her goodbye speech nine years earlier. I couldnât get a word in edgeways, not even to offer my condolences for her mother who had passed away. I asked the odd questions alright, and nodded when I was supposed to. To be honest, I was surprised that she wasnât offended by my diffidence. She dragged me up to her room with a view of the Bosphorus to show me Stellaâs picture. Reluctantly I took it in my hands. It really irked me to see how handsome her husband was. There was something of Alexander the Great about him. Stella seemed to have inherited her fatherâs looks. She was as pretty as a china doll. I felt a sudden urge to flee. I reached out to stroke Estherâs cheek goodbye and she grabbed my hand.
âThe next morning we left for Cappadocia. It surprised us to discover that we were as passionate about each other as if weâd been separated for nine days rather than nine years.
*
âEvery June for thirteen years she came to Istanbul. Every year I waited for her. We went on dream holidays, as carefree as two university students in love. We never brought up our problemsâwe lived in the moment and never thought about how it might end. By then I was a professor and my sister was nagging me to marry. I somehow found out that Esther had had to sell her last property. She mentioned once that Eli had gone into the used-car business. However naïve her husband might be, I never believed that he completely bought Estherâs story about having to visit Istanbul every year to collect the rent from her apartment.
âOn her last two trips Esther stayed at three-star hotels. She was happy for me to pay for everything. She was having trouble hiding her uneasiness. On that last trip, as though it were something to brood about, she told me that her daughter had become Miss Argentina. That night I had a dream. Her husband was speeding along in his sports car, crashed and died. As soon as the funeral was over Esther and I would get married â¦
âSheâd never given me her address or telephone number, for fear that I might call her. When she didnât show up in June of 1987 I was almost in tears. Early in Julyâwhich is âTammuzâ in Hebrew and means the month of tragediesâI ran into her childhood friend Luna, whom Esther visited whenever she was in town. She had bad news for me: Esther and Eli had been killed in a car crash.
âI collapsed on the spot. From
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