IN THE PARK BY THE PIER "Iskele Parklarinda," Parasiz Yatili (1989 – first edition 1971). Istanbul: Can Yayinlari, pp. 70-78.

Author: Furuzan Translator(s): Nilufer Mizanoglu Reddy Genre: short story/fairy tale

It was around the end of August; the air seemed to vibrate with the most oppressive waves of heat.
"It's too hot," said the woman. "But you know you never can count on Istanbul’s weather -- suddenly it may get cold. Don't they say if one half of August is summer the other half is winter?"
The woman was dressed in a dark, wine-colored, two-piece outfit in a style that was the fashion quite a few years ago. This made her look rather ridiculous. She was about thirty years old. The handbag she carried looked like a small suitcase; its color had vanished under several layers of dirt; there was a little snakehead attached to its clasp, showing that the handbag had once been bone color. Somehow, that snakehead with its glass-bead eyes had not lost its original color but had just turned a little yellow and was the only proof that the handbag was made of snakeskin.
"If it turns into a pastirma summer it may last till the end of November... This is Istanbul, you can never tell..."
The afternoon vendors showed up at the pier. The simit-seller putting his portable, glass-topped simit-box on his back, came out of the shadows of the acacia trees where he had gone to protect himself from the sun, and got ready to meet the ferry's passengers. The water-seller quickly rinsed his glasses in the water poured from the spout of his portable brass vessel. When they were wet, the glasses sparkled and seemed cleaner. The cheap, bright, artificially colored candies of the candy-seller had melted in the heat. Two shoeshine men, side by side, worked furiously at their jobs. One was busy shining the shoes of a navy man. He shined the old, misshapen shoes so thoroughly that all the creases in the leather stood out like peaks and valleys. The navy man, with an absent-minded smile on his face, waited patiently.
This Saturday in the month of August was like the other Saturdays of the summer. And the people who came to the pier were more or less the same people.
The woman thought: "It's always the same people. The military men on leave. The old women. The children. The old men just like old women. They walk with small steps like women. They talk in low voices. They're always munching something."
The old people ate up everything that their grandchildren had left behind when they went to play, saying, "We'll eat later"; they picked at their dentures from time to time to remove the food particles underneath. Perhaps the people who came to the pier every day weren't exactly the same people. But, somehow, in their carefree abandon they seemed identical, and could be discerned as separate only after dark when they went home. They were a uniform crowd of people, with their loose clothes hanging from their shrunken shoulders, their coarse skins and blue cataracts gradually covering their eyes.
The woman thought: "Old people are so patient. Look at that one the blond brat is pestering. She is doing nothing, just smiling. If she'd smack him in the face he wouldn't dare bother her. Poor woman came here to warm her tired bones in the sun; she hasn't got the strength to deal with him. We sacrifice everything for our children. But is it worth it? Mine is well-behaved; a little stubborn, but she's still a child."
She looked at the little girl who sat beside her quietly. She was around six or seven years old and very thin. She wore rubber boots. Her dress was quite short and faded -- it did not cover her thin legs. She covered her knees with her hands. Her hair was cut short. Her neck bones stuck out. She had her large dark eyes fixed on the water-seller. She was watching his activities. She was interested in what was going on around her and looked happy. Her lips were parted and this gave her face a dumb expression. A smell of perspiration came out of the child's rubber boots. Both the mother and the daughter had gotten used to this smell. The child had invented a name for it: "The car smell." She loved cars. The mother and the daughter had never taken a ride in a car. Perhaps the mother had -- a long time ago -- but the child didn't know about it. In hot weather their greatest fun was to walk all the way to the pier. The woman would say, "Let's go out and get a little fresh air today." Then they got ready. They left their room which faced the back of a building. The mother looked in the mirror before she locked the door. The mirror was propped up against the table where they ate because the Armenian woman who let the room had warned them not to put any nails in the wall. After locking the door the mother put the big metal key in her snakeskin handbag and they went down the staircase. The staircase was dark even in the middle of the day. But they had gotten used to it. So they went down the familiar staircase and opened the door. The light, the noise and the people surrounded them immediately. The woman, ready to walk, looked around to see what was going on. The child held her mother's hand and took merry steps, her feet slipping inside her rubber boots with the damp soles. Then, for both the woman and the child, life began. As they walked, the child looked at the woman off and on. She liked her immensely. The woman looked with familiar eyes at the stores and the vehicles and the people. "Look Mommy," the child said, "did you see that officer, he's got a little sword." But most of the time, the woman didn't see the things the child would point at.
"Come on, walk... Walk. We'll be late."
The child could never figure out why or to which place they would be late. Nobody was waiting for them. They always sat in their usual place at the pier. Perhaps they had to sit there for a certain length of time, and the mother didn't want them to be late. After the days of winter, "to have fresh air, to stroll" meant going down to the pier.
The ferry had docked at the pier. Foam came out from under its stern and whirled into the sea.
"Mother, where does that foam come from?"
The woman looked at the child -- the first lines around her eyes had already formed.
"The sailors wash their laundry and throw the water into the sea."
The child was puzzled. She thought about the sailors who made this endless white foam each time a ferry arrived. Oh, they must have so much laundry to wash! She loved the foam.
The simit-seller was disappointed in the ferry's passengers. They had quickly dispersed. He walked toward the crowd in the park. The old woman sitting next to the mother and the daughter asked him, "Sonny, are they fresh?"
With special care, holding it on the tips of his fingers, the simit-seller gave the simit he liked best to the old woman. The old woman grabbed a handful of coins from the bottom of her black handbag and made the right change. This was a bit tiring for her. She took a deep breath. She called her grandchild who was busy filling and emptying her bucket over in the sandbox.
"Sitare!.. Come here, child, look, I bought a simit for you. You'll like it."
The child looked at her grandmother and went back to playing. The old woman turned:
"What can you do?" she said. "Grandchildren are so well loved. They used to tell me that and I didn't believe it."
The woman said, "You're right."
This answer made the old woman happy. Looking at the woman's handbag with interest, she said:
"They only have Saturdays together. My daughter and my son-in-law, that is. My son-in-law works in a bank. He's a bank employee. It's been three years since he married my daughter. We made her marry very young. Eh, nowadays, there aren't so many good husbands around. I live with them. On Saturdays I take Sitare out so they can wash up, wear something nice and go out to get a little fresh air. You should see how much this one adores her father. In the beginning Hayri -- Hayri is my son-in-law -- wanted to have a boy. You know what they say: When a baby girl is born, she's supposed to say, 'if they don't throw me out in the first forty days, I’ll have my way with them.' Now her father is simply crazy about her. They only have their Saturdays. They're both so young, they should go out and have a little fun."
The woman pressed her snakeskin handbag on her lap and turned toward the sea. She thought:
"They have only Saturdays. Hah! I have every day. Let them wash up. They've been married for three years. But you don't wash up first. When the shuffling of the old woman and the whining of the little girl stop in the house, then they can open their bedroom door without shyness. The well practiced embraces and caresses after three years! One feels all heated up. In the summer one feels even hotter. The bathroom stove is lit for the bath. To wash up all that went on before. The flesh is so soft then. But it becomes firmer again. The burning of the skin after a good scrub with a lot of soap! I haven't had a decent wash for a whole year. In this house! It isn't even a house. It's only a single room. I'm afraid the dirt on my neck will show. I can only have a sponge bath. I wash my hair leaning over a dishpan with the dishwashing soap. It smells bad; it has a heavy and greasy odor. Maybe the olive oil soap is much better. I’ll have to try that. I can't wash the child at all. She's so thin! She's nothing but skin and bones!"
She turned again. She looked at the child who was watching the activities of the water-seller. The fine glow on her cheekbones made her look even younger and thinner. The crowd at the pier had grown larger. People who had gone there for a stroll were now trying to find their way back through the melee. Women, well groomed, in light summer dresses, made the crowd look more colorful. Near the ticket booth, a beggar with bloodshot eyes and with one arm bent and twisted like the branches of a tree was unable to attract any attention despite all his efforts. He kept going up to the sandwich stand to try his luck again; but his plight was considered quite ordinary. The people there thought beggars ought to have heartbreaking deformities to ask for alms. The sun was descending over the sea; the redness spread all over and everything looked more beautiful. The ships gliding in the sea, with their flags fluttering in their sterns, filled the last days of the summer with merriment.
The child, still interested in the water-seller, asked her mother:
"This water-seller has a lot of money, doesn't he, Mommy?"
"Where did you get that idea? If he had a lot of money, he wouldn't be a water-seller."
"Why, does selling water mean being poor? But, the thing he puts the water in is so shiny, it's like gold..."
The woman was suddenly very angry at her child. She felt it was stupid for her to be so interested in the water-seller in the midst of so many things, each time they came here.
She thought: "If I didn't have her, I would be free. Only myself to care for. I'm thirty years old now. I'm getting old. Who would want to marry a woman with a seven-year-old child? I'm so thin. I'm flat chested. Maybe if I ate a little better. Oh, where are the husbands anyway? I don't really want to get married. But I haven't a penny. Sometimes the devil tempts me to jump into the sea and put an end to everything. Oh, that man, why did he have to die? He didn't think about us at all. Didn't he know? We had nobody. At the place where he used to work, they handed me his two months’ salary. I sold my wedding sets. A wardrobe and a bed. Then had a little more money. When I bought my wedding set in Mahmutpasa, the man said, 'Sister, this is solid stuff, you can't beat it. Look, they didn't warp in this wetness and humidity here. Never mind the creaking of the doors.' My husband and I laughed. They were the most expensive items in our house. I was in love with my husband and I had eloped. What did they tell me? Don't do it. Look, Sadi Bey, who owns the snack stand in the outdoor movie theater, is going to send a matchmaker to you. Don't do anything rash by yourself. Well, I did it. I eloped. I got married. Now I feel I've almost forgotten my husband. When I think about him I go blank. I feel all dried up inside. As if the man who shared my bed had no face. Of course he had a face. I feel completely drained. I was so sad, so sad. All the time I think about the rent for the Armenian woman's room and the money for food. But sometimes I say, to hell with everything, jump into the sea, then everything will be over. Oh, that man! How did he let himself be mangled by a machine? His bosses paid for his funeral. Thank God, they were good people. His co-worker came and told me, 'Sister, I have bad news for you... Your man had his arm caught by the machine. He didn't even have a chance to scream. He was inside the machine. Oh, how much blood a man has! Don't grieve, don't. Everything happened so quickly he didn't feel any pain. Here's what they found on him: his snapshot, with his corporal who came from Yozgat, when he was doing his military service, his plastic wallet, a five-lira bill, seventy-five kurush in change, and a crumpled, damp handkerchief.' If I didn't have this child… she's not aware of anything. She's having fun. For her there's no such thing as poverty. Imagine, she thinks the water-seller is rich. Well, he is better off than we are. Oh, I don't want the night to come at all. Where can I go with this child? I have nothing to wear. All I've got is this two-piece outfit I wore on my wedding day. And this handbag. When we were doing our wedding shopping, I remember how the man in the shop sold this handbag to us, saying, 'Buy it, it's a very good buy. In the old days, only the high-class European ladies could carry handbags like this. I'm giving this to you almost free -- my wedding gift.' I love this bag. People who see it can't keep their eyes off it. My suit is getting frayed here and there. At that time silk moiré was the rage. This year everybody is wearing silk prints with large flowers. I don't want the night to come. No sleep, no rest. Soon she'll have to go to school. I'll have to get so many things ready to send her to school."
The old woman who had bought a simit for her grandchild, Sitare, kept calling her, but after a while she got tired and gave up. She started watching the things around her. When her eyes caught the young woman, she attempted to talk to her again.
"Young lady, would your little one like to eat a piece of simit?"
"No, thanks. She has no appetite... I fed her before we came here."
"I suppose I shouldn't eat it, but I'm stuck with this simit."
The old woman, after looking for some time at the child and the woman, couldn't help noticing the shabbiness and oddness of their clothes. She pretended as though she was brushing off the simit crumbs and moved to sit on the empty bench farther away from them. She glanced toward them. She felt justified in getting up and she relaxed. She broke the simit into small pieces and started eating. The child sat still as the light of the late afternoon became softer. The dry leaves falling from the acacia trees were strewn everywhere. The colors of the newly watered snapdragons had merged with the colors of the setting sun.
The young woman stirred a bit. The child looked at her mother for the first time since they had come there. But the woman sat upright again.
"We can stay a little longer, nobody is waiting for us. The weather is beautiful. I wonder if we'll have a pastirma summer this year that'll last until November," she said.
"What's pastirma summer, Mommy?"
"Well, it means that the winter will be short and the summer will be long.
"This child isn't growing at all. Her growth has stopped. I have to enroll her in the school over there near the house. She must have a uniform. I must go to my sister's. Maybe she has Mahinur's old uniform. Her daughters are grown now. I went to her place after my husband died. It was such a silly thing to do. The day he died everything seemed like a funeral to me. They received me in a strange manner. Did they think I was going to stay there forever? They were busy preparing the evening meal. As I passed through the kitchen, in a cupboard I saw a plate of stuffed cabbage; paper-thin, pure-white cabbage leaves stuffed with rice and cooked in olive oil. When I went there they stopped working. I decided to leave. They begged me to stay for dinner. I didn't stay. It was as though we weren't sisters any more. Hadn't she told me to marry Sadi Bey who owned the snack stand in the outdoor movie theater? But, I didn't. Okay, now they were proved right. My sister's husband is a ticket collector on the trains. Both her daughters go from house to house, daily, to earn their living as dressmakers. I really couldn't have stayed. As I was leaving, my sister put ten liras into my hand, through the crack of the door, saying, 'Oh, my poor sister!' Now I wish I hadn't taken that money. My sister got rid of her sorrow and her responsibility for me with that money. I can't go there any more. I have to send this child to school so I can find a job and work. But how? This child has stopped growing. Oh, I don't feel sorry for anything now. I even forgot that I once loved my husband. How am I going to find a job now? What jobs are available in this city? It's been ten months since my husband died."
"Come on," she said to her daughter, "Let's go home before it gets too dark."
Holding hands, they walked by the flowerbeds bordered with fresh green autumn-grass. The woman's two-piece outfit on her young, erect figure looked almost black in the evening shadows. The child walked, feeling the evening coolness settle in her rubber boots. The old people were getting ready for the walk back home. They couldn't stay out much longer; they didn't need so much sleep at night any more, but they were no longer agile enough to walk on the streets after dark.
Yes, the air was much cooler during the sunset hours. As the young woman had said, if the first half of August was summer, the other half was winter.

Other work(s) in this website: THE RIVER short story/fairy tale