"Perhaps purgatory will be your abode forever." Mrs. Sweet tried to offer some solace, feeling helpless as she witnessed the master cry. "How about the Armenian girl? Are you going to tell her about her grandmother's secret?"
"I can't. It is too much. Besides, she wouldn't believe me."
"Life is coincidence, master." It was Mr. Bitter again.
"I cannot tell her the story. But I will give her this." Auntie Banu opened a drawer and took out a golden pomegranate brooch with seeds of rubies buried inside.
Grandma Shushan, once the owner of this brooch, was one of those expatriate souls destined to adopt one name after another, only to abandon each at every new stage of her life. Born as Shushan Stamboulian, she then became Shermin 626. Next she was Shermin Kazanci, and after that, Shushan Tchakhmakhchian. With every name acquired something was also lost in her forever.
Riza Selim Kazanci was a shrewd businessman, a dedicated citizen, and also a good husband in his own way. He had been astute enough to switch from cauldron making to flag making at the beginning of the Republican era, right at a time when the nation needed more and more flags to adorn the entire motherland. That is how he became one of the wealthiest businessmen in Istanbul. His visit to the orphanage took place sometime around then, as he intended to see the headmaster for potential business arrangements. There in the dimly lit corridor, he saw a converted Armenian girl, only fourteen. It wouldn't take him long to find out she was the niece of the man he most adored in this world: master Levon-the man who had taught him the art of cauldron making and who had taken care of the needy boy that he once was. Now it was his turn to help master Levon's family, he thought. And yet, when after numerous visits he would finally propose to her,' it wasn't kindness that guided him but love.
He was convinced that she could and eventually would forget. He was convinced that if he treated her nicely and dotingly, and gave her a child and a magnificent home, she would bit by bit forget her past and her wound would ultimately heal. It was just a matter of time. Women cannot keep carrying the burden of their childhood once they themselves give birth to a child, he reasoned. Thus, when the news arrived that his wife had abandoned him to go with her brother to America, he at first refused to believe it, and then ostracized her. Shushan disappeared from the annals of the Kazanci family, including from the memories of her own son.
Being named Levon or Levent made little difference to Shushan's son. Either way, he grew up to be a dour man. As gentle and polite as he was outside his house, he was cruel to his own children, four girls and a boy.
Family stories intermingle in such ways that what happened generations ago can have an impact on seemingly irrelevant developments of the present day. The past is anything but bygone. If Levent Kazanci hadn't grown up to be such a bitter and abusive man, would his only son, Mustafa, have ended up being a different person? If generations ago in 1915 Shushan hadn't been left an orphan, would Asya today still be a bastard?
Life is coincidence, though sometimes it takes a djinni to fathom that.
Late in the afternoon, Auntie Zeliha stepped outside into the garden. Not wanting to enter the house, Aram had been waiting there for hours, having long since finished smoking all his cigars.
"I brought you tea," she said. The spring breeze caressed their faces, carrying from far and wide the sundry smells of the sea, growing grass, and the yet-to-blossom almond flowers of Istanbul.
"Thank you, my love," Aram replied. ""What a lovely tea glass."
"Do you like it?" Auntie Zeliha rotated the tea glass in her hand as her face brightened with recognition. "This is so bizarre. You know what I've realized just now? I bought this set twenty years ago. So strange!"
"What is so strange?" Aram asked, feeling at that moment a drop of rain.
"Nothing," Auntie Zeliha said, her voice lowering. "It's just that I never believed they could survive this long. I always feared they would break so easily, but I guess they live to tell the tale, after all. Even tea glasses do!"
In a few minutes, Sultan the Fifth slowly padded out of the house, his stomach full, his eyes drowsy. He drew a circle around them before curling up next to Auntie Zeliha. For a while he seemed immersed in meticulously licking a claw, but then he stopped, looking around in alarm to ascertain what might possibly have disturbed the serenity. In lieu of an answer, a lukewarm drop fell on his nose. Then followed another drop, this time on his head. The cat rose slowly with deep discontent, and stretched his limbs before heading back into the house. Another drop. He quickened his pace.
Maybe he didn't know the rules. He just didn't know that whatever falls from the sky shall not be cursed. And that includes the rain.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel was written while commuting between Arizona, New York, and Istanbul. My gratitude goes to numerous Armenian and Turkish families who have welcomed me, hosted me in their houses, cooked for me, and shared their personal stories with me, despite the difficulty of remembering a painful past. I am particularly indebted to Armenian and Turkish grandmothers, who have an almost natural ability to transcend the very boundaries that nationalists on each side take for granted.
Much gratitude to Marly Rusoff and Michael Radulescu, my literary agents and dear friends, for their matchless support, work, and amity. Thank you to Paul Slovak for his editorial guidance, faith, and encouragement. Thanks to Muge Gocek, Anne Betteridge, Andrew Wedel, and Diane Higgins for their generous contribution.
Between the Turkish edition and the English edition of this novel in 2006, I was put on trial for "denigrating Turkishness" under Article 301 of the Turkish Penal Code. The charges that were brought against me were due to the words that some of the Armeman characters spoke in the novel; I could have been given up to a three-year prison sentence, but the charges were eventually dropped. During this time, I have been fortunate enough to receive enormous support from so many people, friends, and strangers alike, of such different nationalities and religions. I owe them more than I can say.
And finally, as ever, I thank Eyup, for his patience and love… for just being himself…