Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [95]
That was Yani for you. When my hand pushed him, it was on behalf of all of us. It was an act of envy. After all, he’d just fall in, make a face, and then come chasing after us with that water gun, right?
That the hole happened to be filled with glass delivered our most deep-seated wish. The barber, that son of a bitch, had turned our fantasy into reality, though in our heart of hearts we never would’ve wanted for it to come true. Those shards of glass cut a life short, relieving us of that cross we bore, the cross of Yani’s good luck, only to burden us with something much heavier. A can of regret, a can of worms.
While Anfi was splitting the froth between our cups, I thought about how I hadn’t been wrong in imagining that Yani’s death would profoundly alter the future of his close circle. I checked my watch. Five after 9. I was sure Avram and Kevork would agree. Together we had learned just what it meant to pass the days without Yani. Everything had a different tone now: daylight, colors, the sweetness of little white lies, the thrill of mischief, the marvel of jokes, heads sent spinning by movie reels … The change was potent and palpable. It couldn’t all be due to feelings of guilt alone.
“Would you like some liqueur?”
“What kind?”
“Tart cherry. I made it.”
“Sounds good.”
Anfi put two slim glasses on the same tray she had set the cups on before, took an unmarked bottle from a lower cabinet, and filled one of the glasses to the brim with a cherry-colored liquid. Then she stooped and took another bottle, presumably of the same. There were three clean glasses on a dish rack to the left of the sink. The liquor was being downed fast around here, I thought.
I took the tray from her and proceeded to the living room. We sat down. Anfi raised her glass, and I responded in kind. “Here’s to the good old days.”
When I saw her drain her glass in a single gulp, I followed suit. I have a sensitive palate. Whenever I go out with friends, I’m always prompted to be the first to try the wine. I noted some subtle flavor in addition to the cherries, alcohol, and sugar. It wasn’t bad. A kind of spice, perhaps.
Anfi looked into my eyes, smiling. “For a moment there you looked so much like your father. A taller version of him, of course. He had a temper, but he also had a heart of gold. During the riots of September 6 and 7, for two days he stood guard in front of the passageway where our store was and wouldn’t let anybody through. He took off time from work to do that. And he sent a friend to mind the pharmacy, God bless him. You wouldn’t remember. You were four years old then.”
“My father used to talk about those things when he was drunk sometimes. Yani stayed at our place for two days. I still remember, because we gave him my bed.”
“So you remember that too. And then … well, our stores were still standing at the end of it all. We picked up where we had left off.”
The way she paused and sighed at that moment clearly indicated, to me, that they in fact had not picked up where they had left off.
“Fifty years, just like that … Good thing you were late. It gave me some time to think … No, not to think, but to see things anew. Come with me.”
When she stood up I automatically followed. My head was feeling a bit heavier. I remembered that liqueur often had high alcohol content. I didn’t exactly have a good tolerance for alcohol, and to top it all off, I was drinking on an empty stomach. I looked at the cups of coffee, which we hadn’t even touched.
“Let me show you.”
It was an intensely emotional moment. At first I figured she meant the photographs. We went into the hall, and I thought I had assumed correctly. We were going to Yani’s room. She opened the door, the first to the left. The curtains were drawn and it was dark inside. She turned the light on. It took me a few seconds to grasp what I was seeing. The icy fingers of terror began stroking my neck. My instincts