Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [36]
What she liked most about these walks was the fishermen. Because of the wall of wedding boats blocking access to the shore, not many fishermen, other than Captain Hasan, stopped by these parts anymore. But there were a few who, as if by some unspoken agreement, would draw their boats ashore in the shadow of Hisar on moonlit nights and, if they happened to be in the mood, reminisce about the old days for hours on end. Sometimes they’d lean on the old cannons at the base of the towers. It made Cemile Abla happy to see them as she walked along the deserted sidewalks and the asphalt roads now devoid of passing cars. She’d join them when invited; there was no need to insist. She would join them not because she couldn’t say no, but because their conversations reminded her of her father. She’d sit down on the old blanket they’d have spread out on the ground, sticking her legs out to the side and bending them just so, and then she’d cover her knees with the edge of her topcoat and sip on the half-full tea glass of undiluted rakı that they’d offer. It was during those hours that the fishermen, so reticent during the daytime, would wax talkative; they’d discuss sea currents and schools of fish, they’d tell stories about the adventures of Ali Reis, ask Cemile Abla how she was getting on, and then, when dawn began to break, they’d get back into their boats, their minds at ease, knowing that they had done their duty and tended after the daughter of the great man who preceded them. Then they would head out into the foggy waters of the Black Sea.
Cemile Abla had one condition for the potential grooms who came to meet her. They had to meet at her home, not outside. And they had to come after dark (she had no intention of falling prey to the tongues of those pint-sized gossip mongers playing ball out in the streets), but not too late (She didn’t know yet if these new neighbors of hers were the snoopy sort or not). Sure he can come over, we’ll drink some tea and chat and get to know one another, she’d say. And then we’ll see. Having so thoroughly enjoyed their first visit, the gentlemen would want to meet a second time. By the second visit, however, they did not have to be told: It would become blatantly obvious that Cemile Abla had absolutely no intention of marrying. Disappointed and resentful, they’d go back home, and after a few days, all they would recall was the delicious cake, the tarts, and the faint smell of fish.
Luckily, Cemile Abla had so far encountered only two obstinant potentials. The first was a lawyer with a single, long eyebrow. He drank his tea warm with four heaps of sugar. For some reason he just hadn’t been able to find a proper companion and, because his heart could no longer bear his mother’s griping, he had decided to take care of the matter as swiftly as possible. After all, his mother—may she live long—was on her deathbed (as she had been for years). And so from now on he was not going to be picky; he was willing to overlook small defects. On his second visit he informed Cemile Abla that he was going to take her to kiss his mother’s hand and discuss engagement plans. An apartment in Üsküdar was ready and waiting for them; they could sell this ramshackle house with its creaking wooden planks and put the money in the bank. The three of them, mother, son, and daughter-in-law—may they live long—would come together and build a happy little nest of their own.
The second one was a handsome, bright-eyed, bushy tailed man. He was at least ten years younger than Cemile Abla, well off, and apparently had a hankering for older women. So much so that by their second meeting he had two plane tickets in his pocket and had already booked a room at a hotel in Bodrum. “Are we going to stay in the same room?” Cemile Abla had asked. Was it such a bad idea for them to slip under a blanket and get to know