The bastard of istanbul pdf

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We use cookies to ensure that we give you the best experience on our website. If you continue to use this site we will assume that you are happy with it. Rose left the ethnic foods section, making a sharp, swift U-turn into the next aisle. Inspired by her anger and melancholy, she moved down the aisle of Canned Food and Dry Beans from one end to the other, almost bumping into a young man standing there. He was eyeing the shelf where different brands of garbanzo beans were lined up.

That guy surely wasn't there a second ago! He seemed to have simply materialized, as if zoomed down from the sky. He had fair skin, a slim, well-proportioned body, hazel eyes, and a pointed nose, which made him look attentive and studious. His sable hair was short. Rose suspected that she had seen him before, but where and when she couldn't remember.

Having been caught by surprise, he could not easily get his masculine guard back. She smiled to show the young man that she pardoned him and then looked at his face without so much as a blink, making him even more nervous. Besides the suave-bunny expression that she now wore, Rose had three other animal-like looks inspired by Mother Nature, which she interchangeably employed for all her dealings with the opposite sex: her staunch-canine expression, one that she chose when she wanted to convey complete dedication; her impish-feline expression, which she used when she wanted to seduce; and her pugnacious-coyote expression, which she wore whenever she was criticized.

Now I know! You're from the U of A, right? I'll bet you like chicken quesadillas! I am usually behind the counter where the hot food is served-you know, omelettes and quesadillas. It's a part-time job, of course; it doesn't pay much but what are you gonna do? This is just for the time being. What I really want is to become a primary schoolteacher. She narrowed her eyes and moistened her bottom lip, switching to her feline expression. If Rose had had any previous experience with foreigners she would have detected the foreigner's introduction reflex-the fear of engaging in a conversation and not expressing the right words at the right time or with the correct pronunciation.

However, ever since she was a teenager Rose harbored a propensity to assume everything around her was either for or about or against her. Accordingly, she interpreted the silence as a sign of her own inability to make a decent introduction. To compensate for the error, she reached out her hand. I forgot to introduce myself.

My name is Rose. Rose raised her eyebrows and a trace of panic crossed her face. If Mustafa had any previous experience with provincials, he could detect the provincial's information reflexthe fear of not having enough knowledge of geography or world history. Rose was trying to recall where on earth Istanbul was. Was it the capital of Egypt or perhaps somewhere in India She frowned in confusion. However, ever since he was a teenager Mustafa harbored a fright of losing his grip on time and his appeal for women.

So he interpreted the gesture as a sign of having bored Rose by failing to come up with anything interesting to say, and to compensate for the lack, he hastened to cut off the conversation.

Before he disappeared, Rose heard him mumble "bye-bye" and then, as if echoing himself, another "bye-bye. She grabbed a few cans of garbanzo beans, including the ones Mustafa had left behind, and hurried to the checkout. She passed through the aisle of journals and books, and it was there that she caught sight of something she sorely needed: The Great World Atlas.

She grabbed the book, pinpointed "Istanbul" in the index, and once having found the relevant page, looked at the map to see where it was. Outside in the parking lot she found the ultramarine Jeep Cherokee heating up under the Arizona sun while her baby girl slept inside. Her soft brown hair was tied with a golden ribbon almost as big as her head and she was wearing a fluffy green outfit adorned with salmon stripes and purplish buttons.

She looked like a dwarf Christmas tree decorated by someone in a state of frenzy. Mama is gonna cook you real American food tonight! She checked her hair in the rearview mirror, put on a cassette that was her favorite these days, and grabbed a handful of marshmallows before she started the engine. Everything about her baby seemed just about right: her button nose, her round hands, her feet, everything except her name.

Her husband's family had wanted to name the baby girl after her grandmother's mother. How deeply Rose lamented not having named her something less outlandish, like Annie or Katie or Cyndie, instead of accepting the name her mother-in-law had come up with. The name sounded so Did Rose have to wait until her baby girl had reached forty to use her name without it pricking her tongue? Rose rolled her eyes and ate another marshmallow.

Then and there she had a revelation: She could call her daughter "Amy" from now on, and as part of the baptism ceremony, she sent the baby a kiss. At the next intersection they waited for the light to turn green.

Rose drummed on the steering wheel, accompanying Gloria Estefan. No modern love for me, it's all a hustle What's done is done, now it's my turn to have fun. Mustafa placed the few items he had selected in front of the cashier: Kalamata olives, frozen spinach and feta pizza, a can of mushroom soup, a can of cream of chicken soup, and a can of chicken noodle soup.

Until he came to the United States, he had never had to cook in his life. Every time he labored in the small kitchen in his twobedroom student apartment, he felt like a dethroned king living in exile. Long gone were the days when he was served and fed by a devoted grandmother, mother, and four sisters.

Now, dishwashing, room-cleaning, ironing, and especially shopping were a huge burden for him. It wouldn't be as difficult if he could only rid himself of the feeling that someone else should be doing these things for him.

He was no more used to doing chores than he was to being alone. Mustafa had a housemate, an undergrad student from Indonesia who spoke very little, worked hard, and listened to odd tapes, such as Sounds of Mountain Streams or Songs of the Whales, in order to go to sleep every night.

Mustafa had hoped that if he had a housemate, he would feel less lonely in Arizona, but the result had been quite the opposite. Voices that questioned and blamed him for who he was.

He slept poorly. He spent many nights watching old comedies or surfing on the Internet. It helped. The thoughts stopped at those times. Yet they would return with daylight. Walking from home to the campus, between classes or during lunchtime, Mustafa would catch himself thinking about Istanbul. How he wished he could remove his memory, restart the program, until all of the files were deleted and gone. Arizona was to have spared Mustafa the bad omen that fell upon every man in the Kazanci family.

But he didn't believe in such things. Drifting away from all those superstitions, evil-eye beads, coffeecup readings, and fortune-telling ceremonies in his family was less a conscious choice than an involuntary reflex. He thought they were all part of a dark and complicated world peculiar to women.

Women were a mystery anyway. Having grown up with so many women, it was odd that he had felt so estranged from them all of his life. Mustafa had grown up as the only boy in a family where the men died too soon and too unexpectedly. He experienced growing sexual desires while surrounded by sisters who were taboo to a fantasy life.

Nevertheless, he slipped into unspeakable thoughts about women. At first Mustafa fell for girls who rejected him. Terrified that he would be rejected, ridiculed, and reviled, he turned to yearning for the female body from a distance.

This year he had looked angrily at the photos of top models in glossy American magazines, as if to absorb the excruciating fact that no woman this perfect would ever desire him. Mustafa would never forget the fierce look on Zeliha's face when she called him "a precious phallus. He knew Zeliha could see behind his forced masculinity to the real story of his upbringing.

She recognized that he had been pampered and spoon-fed by an oppressed mother, intimidated and beaten by an oppressive father.

Could things have been different between Zeliha and him? Why did he feel so rejected and unloved with so many sisters around and a doting mother by his side? Zeliha always mocked Mustafa and his mother always admired him.

He wanted to be just an ordinary man, good and fallible at the same time. All he needed was compassion and a chance to be a better person. If only he had a woman who loved him, everything would be different. Mustafa knew he had to make it in America not because he wanted to attain a better future but because he had to dispose of his past. That was one thing Mustafa still had not gotten used to. In America everyone asked everyone how they were doing, even complete strangers.

He understood that it was a way of greeting more than a real question. But then he didn't know how to greet back with the same graceless ease.

He picked up his plastic bag and walked outside. A Mexican American couple crossed the sidewalk, she pushing a baby in a stroller, he holding the hand of a toddler. They walked unhurriedly while Rose watched them with envy. Now that her marriage was over, every couple she saw seemed blissfully content. I wish your grandma-the-witch could have seen me flirting with that Turk. Can you imagine her horror? I cannot think of a worse nightmare for the proud Tchakhmakhchian family!

Proud and puffed up The light turned green, the cars that were lined up in front of her lurched forward, and the van behind her honked. But Rose remained motionless. The fantasy was so delicious she could not move.

Her mind wallowed in many images, while her eyes beamed a ray of pure rage at an oblique angle. That, indeed, was the third most common side effect ofpostmarital chronic resentment: It not only made you talk to yourself and be obstinate with others, but it also made you quite irrational.

Once a woman felt justifiable resentment, the world turned upside down, and unreason appeared perfectly reasonable. Oh sweet vengeance. Recovery was a long-term plan, an investment that paid off over time.

But retaliation was quick to act. Rose's first instinct was to do something, anything, to exasperate her ex-mother-in-law. And there existed on the surface of the earth only one thing that could annoy the women of the Tchakhmakhchian family even more than an odar: a Turk! How interesting it would be to flirt with her ex-husband's archenemy. But where would you find a Turkish man in the midst of the Arizona desert? They didn't grow on cacti, did they? Rose chuckled as her facial expression changed from recognition to one of intense gratitude.

What a lovely coincidence that fortune had just introduced her to a Turk. Or was it not a coincidence? Singing along with the song, Rose moved forward. But instead of going straight on her route she veered to the left, made a full U-turn, and once in the other lane, sped in the opposite direction. Primitive love, I want what it used to be, In next to no time the ultramarine Jeep Cherokee had reached Fry's Supermarket's parking lot.

I don't have to think, right now you've got me at the brink This is good-bye for all the times I cried Just when Rose was about to lose any hope of finding the young man, she spotted him patiently waiting at the bus stop with a flimsy plastic bag next to him. But I call her Amy! Amy this is Mustapha, Mustapha this is Amy So, she decided to give him another hint, this time a more revealing one: "My daughter's full name is Amy Tchakhmakhchian. So Rose felt the need to repeat, just in case it hadn't been understood the first time: "Armanoush Tchakh-makhchi-an!

Hey, that sounds like Turkish! Suddenly she felt insecure. He didn'tget it, did he? Rose wondered to herself as she chewed the inside of her mouth. Then, as if breathing out a suppressed hiccup long welling up in her throat, she let out a whoop of laughter. But he is cute He will be my sweet vengeance!

If you don't have other plans we could go to it and grab a bite afterward. Would you like to come with me? But this time Mustafa felt no need to correct her. Ts it true? Please somebody tell me it is not true! His dark eyes were slightly bulged with excitement. He had a full, drooping mustache that turned up slightly at the ends, making him look like he was smiling even when seriously enraged. Being the only one in the family who had unreservedly supported Barsam's marriage to Rose, she now felt culpable.

Such self-reproach was not something she was used to. A professor of humanities at the University of California at Berkeley, Surpun Tchakhmakhchian was a self-confident feminist scholar who believed that every problem in this world was negotiable by calm dialogue and reason. There were times this particular conviction had made her feel alone in a family as temperamental as hers.

The whole family was gathered around an antique mahogany table full of food, although nobody seemed to be eating anything. Auntie Varsenig's twin babies slept peacefully on the sofa. Distant cousin Kevork Karaoglanian was here too, having flown from Minneapolis for a social event organized by the Armenian Youth Community in the Bay Area. Uncle Dikran suspected the reason his handsome nephew came to San Francisco so frequently was not only because he was committed to these organizational events, but also because he had a yet-to-be-revealed affection for a girl he had met in, the group.

Dikran Stamboulian gazed longingly at the food set out on the table, and reached for ajar of yogurt drink, Americanized with too many ice cubes.

In multihued clay bowls of different sizes were many ofhis favorite dishes: fassoulye pilaki, kadin budu kofte, karmyarlk, newly made churek, and to Uncle Dikran's delight, bastirma. Though he was still fuming, his heart warmed at the sight of bastirma and entirely melted when he saw his favorite dish next to it: Burma.

Despite the fact that he had always been under the strict dietary surveillance of his wife, every year Uncle Dikran had added another layer of flab to his infamous belly, like a tree trunk adding a growth ring with the passing of each year.

Now he was a squat and portly man who did not mind drawing attention to either fact. Two years ago he had been offered a role in a pasta commercial. He had played a jolly cook whose spirits could not be dampened, even when he was dumped by his fiancee, since he still owned his kitchen and could cook spaghetti casserole. In truth, just as in the commercial, Uncle Dikran was such an exceptionally good-humored man that whenever one of his many acquaintances wanted to illustrate the 51 ELIF SHAFAK cliche of fat people being far more cheery fellows than others, they would cite his name.

Except today Uncle Dikran didn't look like his usual self. As a new-to-the-job elementary school teacher grappling with unruly kids all day long, she couldn't help correcting any mistake she heard. Except she doesn't acknowledge that! That woman is nuts, I tell you. She is doing this on purpose. If Rose is not doing this just to upset us, let my name not be Dikran anymore.

Find me another name! She left the table and scuffled toward her armchair. Though a wonderful cook, she had never had a big appetite and lately, her daughters feared, had somehow developed a way to stay alive by eating no more than a teacupful a day.

She was a short, bony woman who possessed an exceptional strength to handle situations even more dire than this, and whose delicate face radiated an aura of competence. Her refusal to admit defeat no matter what, her unflagging conviction that life was always a struggle but if you were an Armenian it was three times as grueling, and her ability to win over everyone she came across had over the years bewildered many in her family. The patron saint of lost articles had helped her numerous times in the past to cope with the losses in her life.

With that Grandma Shushan took up her knitting needles and sat down. The first skeins of a cerulean baby's blanket dangled from the needles with the initials A. Grandma Shushan's knitting affected the family like group therapy. The sure and even cadence of each stitch soothed everyone watching, making them feel that as long as Grandma Shushan kept knitting, there was nothing to fear and in the end, everything would be all right.

Poor little Armanoush," said Uncle Dikran, who as a rule took Shushan's side in every family dispute, knowing better than to disagree with the omnipotent materfamilias.

Uncle Dikran dropped his voice as he asked, "What's going to become of that innocent lamb? Barsam walked in, his face pale, his eyes staring worriedly behind wire-rimmed glasses. Look who's here! Barsam, your daughter is going to be raised by a Turk and here you are doing nothing about it He moved his eyes to a huge reproduction of Martiros Saryan's Still Life with Masks on the wall, as if the answer he needed was hidden somewhere in the painting. But he must have failed to encounter any solace there because when he spoke again his voice sounded as inconsolable as before.

Rose is her mother. What a mother! For a man of his size he had an oddly shrill laugh-a detail he was usually conscious of and able to control, except when he was under stress. What kind of a joke is that? Ah, marnim khalasim! Barsam stood stone still. Talk with your wife. It has so much sugar in it.

So many calories. Why don't you try artificial sweeteners, Mom? Everything has a season. Still chewing, she turned to her brother: "What is Rose doing in Arizona, anyway? She is doing that on purpose, you know. She wants the whole world to blame us, thinking we are not giving her any child support.

A brave single mom fighting against all odds! That's the role she is trying to play! Working at the Student Union is a temporary thing. What she really wants is to become a grade school teacher. She wants to spend her time with kids. There is nothing bad in that. As long as she is OK and takes good care of Armanoush, what difference does it make who she is dating?

If you have no appreciation of history and ancestry, no memory and responsibility, and if you live solely in the present, you certainly can claim that. But the past lives within the present, and our ancestors breathe through our children and you know that As long as Rose has your daughter, you have every right to intervene in her life.

Especially when she starts dating a Turk! Auntie Varsenig continued, "Tell me how many Turks ever learned Armenian. Why did our mothers learn their language and not vice versa? Isn't it clear who has dominated whom? Only a handful of Turks come from Central Asia, right? And then the next thing you know they are everywhere!

What happened to the millions of Armenians who were already there? And then forgotten! How can you give your flesh-and-blood daughter to those who are responsible for our being so few and in so much pain today?

Mesrop Mashtots would turn in his grave! To ease the distress of his nephew, Uncle Dikran began telling a story. This is a community service. Auntie Varsenig ran to her side and managed to shush her with only the touch of her fingers. After the haircut, he tries to pay the barber and the barber objects-'Sorry, I cannot accept your money.

The next morning when the barber opens his shop He found a dozen Armenians waiting for a free haircut! If we see something good, we immediately share it with our friends and relatives. It is because of this collective spirit that the Armenian people have managed to survive. Able to comprehend only house-Armenian but not newspaperArmenian, Kevork chuckled, a bit too nervously perhaps, as he tried to conceal the fact that he had understood the first half of the sentence but failed to get the rest.

Having gotten the message, Uncle Dikran heaved a sigh, like a boy scolded by his mother, and went back to his Burma for consolation. A silence ensued. Everyone and everything-the three men, the three generations of women, the myriad rugs decorating the floor, the antique silver in the cupboard, the samovar on the chiffonier, the videocassette in the VCR The Color of Pomegranates , as well as the multiple paintings and the icon of The Prayer of Saint Anna and the poster of Mount Ararat canopied under pure white snow-fell silent for a brief moment as the room acquired a rare luminosity under the drowsy light of a streetlamp just lit outside.

The ghosts of the past were with them. Another trolley passed by chiming its bells, transporting noisy children and tourists from Russian Hill to Aquatic Park, the Maritime Museum, and Fisherman's Wharf. The rush-hour sounds of San Francisco poured into the room, pulling them out of their reverie.

She was a shy girl from Kentucky when we first met. But Barsam ignored him, and continued. They don't even sell alcohol there! Did you know that the most exciting event in Elizabethtown, Kentucky, is this annual festival when people dress up as the Founding Fathers? By now all the anger had drained out of him, replaced by the knowledge that he couldn't possibly manage to remain upset with his favorite nephew any longer.

A huge family with a very traumatic past! How can you expect her to cope with all of this so easily? Unlike her mother she had a good appetite, and given the amount of food she ate every day, plus the fact that she had recently given birth to twins, it was nothing short of a miracle that she could stay so thin.

Each time we came to your house, she would put on that dirty apron and cook mutton. Sometimes we would get mutton barbecue with Spicy Tex-Mex sauce, and other times mutton barbecue with Creamy Ranch sauce Your wife's kitchen was a land of variety! Rose is not appropriate for her. Such a sweet name for that much bitterness.

If her poor papa and mama had had the faintest idea as to what sort of a woman she would turn out to be, believe me, my dear brother, they would have named her Thorn!

The exclamation had sounded neither like a reproach nor like a warning, but somehow had both effects on everyone in the room. By now the dusk had turned to night and the light inside shifted. Grandma Shushan stood up and turned on the crystal chandelier. We've shrunk like a pruned tree Rose can date and even marry whomever she wants, but her daughter is Armenian and she should be raised as an Armenian. Diabetes or no diabetes, how could one decline Burma? She always had. Perhaps her disapproval had something to do with the fact that ever since she was a little girl, each year on her birthday she was made to eat exactly the same cake-a triplelayer caramelized apple cake extremely sugary with whipped lemon cream frosting extremely sour.

How her aunts could expect to please her with this cake, she had no idea, since all they heard from her on the matter was a litany of protests. Perhaps they simply forgot. Perhaps each time they erased all recollections of last year's birthday. That was possible. The Kazancis were a family inclined to never forget other people's stories but to blank when it came to their own.

Thus on each birthday Asya Kazanci had eaten the same cake and at the same time had discovered a new fact about herself. At the age of three, for instance, she had found that she could get almost anything she wanted, provided she went into tantrums. When she reached the age of eight, she learned something that until then she had had only a sense of but did not know for sure: that she was a bastard.

Looking back, she thought she shouldn't be given the credit for this particular information since if it weren't for Grandma Gulsum, it would have taken her much longer to discover it. It so happened that the two were alone in the living room on that day. Grandma Gulsum was immersed in watering her plants, and Asya in watching her as she colored in a clown in a children's coloring book. If you tell them soil is their mother and water is their father, they buoy up and blossom.

She made the clown's costume orange and his teeth green. Just when she was about to color his shoes a bright crimson, she stopped, and began to mimic her grandmother. Soil is your mom, water is your daddy.

Emboldened by her indifference, Asya increased the dose of her chant. It was the African violet's turn to be watered, Grandma Giilsum's favorite. She cooed to the flower, "How are you, sweetie? Then, at age ten, she discovered that unlike all the other girls in her classroom, she had no male role model in her household.

It would take her another three years to comprehend that this could have a lasting effect on her personality. On her fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth birthdays, she uncovered respectively three other truths about her life: that other families weren't like hers and some families could be normal; that in her ancestry there were too many women and too many secrets about men who disappeared too early and too peculiarly; and that no matter how hard she strived, she was never going to be a beautiful woman.

The very next year, exactly two days before her eighteenth birthday, Asya plundered the pillbox in the house and swallowed all the capsules she found there. She opened her eyes in a bed surrounded by all her aunts and Petite-Ma and Grandmother Gulsum, having been forced to drink muddy, smelly herbal teas as if it wasn't bad enough that they had made her vomit up everything she had had in her stomach.

She began her eighteenth year discerning a further fact to be added to her previous discoveries: that in this weird world, suicide was a privilege as rare as rubies, and with a family like hers, she sure wouldn't be one of the privileged. It's hard to know if there was a connection between this deduction and what ensued next, but her obsession with music started more or less in those days.

It wasn't an abstract, encompassing love for music in general, not even a fondness for selected musical genres, but rather a fixation on one and only one singer: Johnny Cash. Making the lyrics of "Thirteen" her lifelong motto at the age of eighteen, Asya had decided she too was born in the soul of misery and was going to bring trouble wherever she went.

Today, on her nineteenth birthday, she felt more mature, having made yet another mental note of another reality of her life: that she had now reached the age at which her mother had given birth to her.

Having made this discovery, she didn't quite know what to do with it. All she knew was that from now on she could not possibly be treated like a kid. So she grumbled, "I warn you! I do not want a birthday cake this year!

Sometimes she likened herself to the cryptic Qur'anic creature Dabbet-ul Arz, the ogre destined to emerge on the Day of judgment, with each one of its organs taken from a different animal found in nature.

Just like that hybrid creature, she carried a body composed of disconnected parts inherited from the women in her family. She was tall, much taller than most women in Istanbul, just like her mother, Zeliha, whom she also called "Auntie"; she had the bony, thin-veined fingers of Auntie Cevriye, the annoyingly pointed chin of Auntie Feride, and the elephantine ears of Auntie Banu.

She had a most blatantly aquiline nose, of which there were only two others in world history Sultan Mehmed the Conqueror's and Auntie Zeliha's. Sultan Mehmed had conquered Constantinople whether you liked it or not, a fact significant enough to overlook the shape of his nose. But having no imperial achievements on her curriculum vitae and possessing a natural incapability for charming people, Asya thought, what on earth could she do about her nose?

Among what she inherited from her relatives, there were some pleasant qualities too. For one thing, her hair! She had frizzy, sable, wild hair theoretically, like every other woman in the family, but in practice, only like Auntie Zeliha.

The disciplined high school teacher in Auntie Cevriye, for instance, kept her hair in a tight chignon while Auntie Banu was disqualified from any comparison, since she wore a head scarf almost all the time.

Auntie Feride frantically changed her hair color and style depending on her mood. Grandma Gulsum was a cotton-head, as her hair had gone snowy and she refused to dye it, claiming it wouldn't be appropriate for an old woman. Yet Petite-Ma was a devoted redhead. Her everworsening Alzheimer's might have caused Petite-Ma to forget a plethora of things, including her children's names, but to this day she had never forgotten to dye her hair with henna.

Finally in her list of positive genetic features, Asya Kazanci included her almond-shaped fawn eyes from Auntie Banu , a high forehead from Auntie Cevriye , and a temperament that rendered her prone to explode too quickly but that also, in an odd way, kept her alive from Auntie Feride. Nevertheless, she hated to see that with the passing of each year she more and more resembled them. Except for one thing: their proclivity for irrationality.

The Kazanci women were categorically irrational. Some time ago, so that she would not act like them, Asya had promised herself she'd never swerve from the path of her own rational, analytical mind.

By the time of her nineteenth birthday, Asya was a young woman so profoundly stimulated by the need to assert her individuality that she had become capable of the most peculiar rebellions. Thus, if she repeated her cake objection, this time even more fervently, there was a deeper reason behind her fury: "No more stupid cakes for me!

It's already done," Auntie Banu said, darting a glance at Asya over a newly opened Eight of Pentacles. Unless the next three cards did not turn out to be exceptionally promising, the tarot deck on the table was heading in the direction of a bad omen. It must be a surprise! By now she knew too well that being a member of the Kazanci family meant, among other things, professing the alchemy of absurdity, continually converting nonsense into some sort of logic with which you could convince everyone, and with a little push, even yourself.

It was true, at least to a certain extent. Having worked upon and fleshed out her talent for clairvoyance over the years, Auntie Banu had started seeing customers at home and making money from it. It took a fortune-teller no longer than a flash to become legendary in Istanbul.

If luck was on your side, it sufficed to successfully read someone's future, and the next thing you knew, that person would become your top customer. I will definitely recommend this book to fiction, historical lovers. Your Rating:. Your Comment:. Read Online Download. Great book, The Bastard of Istanbul pdf is enough to raise the goose bumps alone.

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