Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [37]
Today’s guest didn’t look much like a mama’s boy. And he had no intention of locking Cemile Abla up in a hotel suite or anything of the sort. He was very polite; his first wife had died of breast cancer (—What a pity /—Yes, it was truly a pity); he was Nalan’s brother’s army buddy, so he wasn’t really a stranger. His eyes were red, as if he cried all the time (—I think I need to change my glasses prescription /—Oh my, yes, you should get that looked at right away); he was a retired history teacher (—Yet you’re still so young /—But I just can’t deal with teenagers anymore); he suffered from gastritis and ulcers; he couldn’t have salt because of his blood pressure; and he was very lonely.
Cemile Abla was too happy with her own life to settle for alleviating some guy’s loneliness. The thought of growing old and dying in a home full of stomach pills and history books gave her goosebumps. (—What’s the matter, Cemile Hanım? Are you okay? /—Oh, it’s nothing. Just a little chill.) Besides, she’d made her decision as soon as he told her that he hadn’t had a bite of fish since he was a child, and that he held his nose whenever he walked by a fish stand.
“You see, I had this accident once when my mother tried to force me to swallow fish oil,” he’d explained, and just as he was about to go into the details, Cemile Abla excused herself and went to the kitchen.
Cemile Abla had long ago reconciled herself to the fact that she would never be able to find a husband like her father; and deep inside she was relieved about this. But at the same time, she didn’t want to be rude to her matchmaker friends, or the eager potentials who came to visit. At some point in the middle of their first meeting, she would get lost in thought and weigh the possible match thoroughly, sincerely, without prejudice, and with a clear head. But there was no need to waste any time considering the possibility of a man who couldn’t tolerate the smell of fish.
Timur Bey (—My father was a great admirer of Tamberlaine, that’s how I got my name. /—Won’t you have another piece of cake?) was so excited that he failed to notice Cemile Abla’s evasive answers, her distress, her constant escapes to the kitchen. His mind was elsewhere: He had one foot in the grave, he was certain that this was his last chance, so he had promised himself that he wouldn’t give up until he had resolved this matter once and for all.
When Cemile Abla returned from the kitchen with fresh cups of tea, she found Timur Bey standing there expectantly. He took a small box covered in red velvet from his pocket, opened it with his thin fingers, and removed a diamond ring.
“It was my grandmother’s. My late wife, may she rest in peace, wore it all the time, and I hope that you, too, will like it.”
“Timur Bey, I’m shocked,” said Cemile Abla. She placed the tray on the coffee table. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Please. Please, I beg you, don’t say no.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “If you reject me, I don’t know what I will do, I don’t know how I will survive. Believe me, I couldn’t bear it, I don’t think I could possibly go on. I’ve waited so long, only the thought of the day I would once again give this ring to a woman I love has kept me going. But I swear, I’m at the end of my rope. If you don’t … life for me will be meaningless …” He took the fingers of Cemile Abla’s left hand into his own and squeezed them so hard he nearly broke them.
Cemile Abla stared ahead blankly, hoping that this response would put an end to the conversation.
“Forgive me …” said Timur Bey. “I’m so terribly excited, I don’t know what I have to say to convince you. But I can tell you this—I’ll talk for as long as it takes, for hours