Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [99]
Unfortunately, regrets, however strong, cannot roll back time.
THE HAND
BY MÜGE PLKÇ
Moda
In a dolmu on the way to Moda. That’s where twelve-year-old Nazlı’s story begins. Nazlı, a delicate name for my delicate little girl.
Her mother and I separated early. It just didn’t work out between us. Yet we were so in love! Or at least that’s how I remember it being, at the beginning. I always wanted Nazlı to remember things that way too. That day, we had met at the Kadıköy piers and were making our way to the Moda dolmues when Nazlı asked me if people got married for love or money. Why? I asked. Because I’m in love, she said. At that moment I felt a twinge of pain, deep down. Like any father of a daughter, I was a little shaken up at first. I felt very clearly then and there that I was not prepared to share her with any other man, but I kept this sentiment to myself. Love is important, I said, but you have to have money too. I said it like it was some trivial remark. Like I usually did. And which I would so desperately regret later. She was a little angel. A little girl. This time, though, I decided to play down my hopelessness. Actually, dear, I said, it’s not about money; love is all that matters.
Just then, the early afternoon sun, shining from above Kumkapı, way over across the Bosphorus, struck our faces— the trees were up to their tricks again. We crossed the street. Eight-person dolmues had largely become a thing of the past, but I insisted that we wouldn’t board anything but. All right, buddy, the steward at the dolmu stand told me, just hold on. So it seemed they hadn’t yet become completely obsolete. It wasn’t long until it arrived. A yellow, beat-up old thing. It was something like this, right? I asked Nazlı. Yes, Daddy. I latched onto her hand, and onto that moment when she boarded an eight-person dolmu from Kadıköy to Moda, to see her grandmother. Her hand was cold. My heart beat unevenly, and with a wrenching at my gut, I told her that I felt chilly. There was a crisp nip in the air that winter. Warm me up, Daddy, she said jokingly, and then kissed me on the cheek. We settled into the very back seat. You sit by the window, Daddy, she told me. No, you sit by the window, I said, and look outside, so I can see outside and watch the sun shining off of you at the same time. Oh, you’re such a romantic, Daddy! she said. And then with a roguish smile: He’s just like you!
Nazlı was still smiling, there in her plaid pleated skirt and red plush coat. And the time sped by, as the dolmu swayed its way toward Moda.
The dolmu took the coastal road for a while before veering inland. I just sat there, Nazlı’s hand in mine. Again I felt that I loved her too much to share her with anyone else. Whatever it was that I had felt toward the rotund little baby in the nurse’s arms at that very first moment, that’s what Nazlı was. A miracle. Inhaling the scent of my twelve-year-old girl, I would whisper in her ear, telling her that she wasn’t alone. And she, she would laugh. Always. She knew that her grandma had baked a fabulous cake to go with the tea, over which the two of them would chat about politics and whatnot. As my mother’s first grandchild, Nazlı had a special place in her grandma’s life, and she milked it for all it was worth. Both of them were fully aware of this, and neither had any complaints.
How wonderful that you’re with me, Nazlı, I said, out of the blue. The dolmu was making its way up Moda Boulevard, past the flower shop and the toy store. I got a few strange looks from the people around me. But Nazlı was there, with me; I could see the tiny veins on her neck, her hazel eyes gleaming from beneath full brows.
I didn’t need any more memories of those eyes reflecting off the windows of the passing cars. I needed Nazlı, only Nazlı. My daughter; she was twelve years old.
I’m so glad you’re with me, Nazlı!
For those sitting near me, I was just some guy mumbling to himself, one