most vividly, I suppose, is the drive-in movie theaters. Turgut’s biggest hobbies were cars and comic books. As soon as we arrived in the united States, he bought a second-hand car from someone who was leaving the embassy: a dark green, plump convertible. It was a huge car. I used to struggle to open the doors. It had snow-white leather seats, a wooden steering wheel, and white tires. Turgut adored it. Every Saturday, he spent hours washing and polishing it in front of our house. Only after that could we go for a ride.
On summer nights, as we sat in the car, watching a movie at the drive-in, I would wrap a shawl around my shoulders and lose myself in dreams. We must have watched an amazing number of films, but if you asked me, I wouldn’t be able to remember even one of them in much detail.
Later, when we were alone at home in the evening, I would either take a seat in front of the television or pick up a book and make myself comfortable in an armchair.
We did not talk much. Days went by in the same way, as if this were the normal way to lead a married life. Turgut seemed content. On the other hand, I guess few women at that time had the slightest thought of asking their husbands, “Do you think we’re happy?”
Life was like that: get a two-storey house with a garden, have children, go on a picnic with your new car on the weekends, attend evening parties where the women played bridge and the men watched a game on TV or discussed politics. The kids would grow up, get married, and the number of framed photographs on the shelves, sideboards, and coffee table would increase. When you got old, you would expect the children to celebrate New Year’s Eve at your place, sit with your grandchildren on your lap, and hope that they would be consoled with a few fond memories at your funeral, which, hopefully, would be memorable.
This was how the families on TV lived. Beautiful young mothers, who waited for their husbands at home and tried to be close friends with their children, told us that a small world in a small house could be the most beautiful planet in the universe.
What else did you expect it to be like?
Turgut worked zealously and enthusiastically. He constantly told me about our future life—how he wanted his life to be.
We would have children. (two were enough.) Perhaps we would have to spend a few years in a distant and rather undesirable country, but it had to be. After that, we would return to Ankara. From then on, things would be easier. Besides being able to save a lot of money, we would be assigned to European capitals.
He made a great start to his career as a diplomat. Even at night, he read about history and studied. Although he was not interested, he bought books about art history, attended the opera and ballet, and began to learn a third language.
Diplomats were genial, intelligent people who never revealed their personal opinion, no matter what subject was discussed.
The luncheons and dinners had to be in accordance with certain unwritten but well-understood rules. There were specific ways to give compliments, and diplomats’ wives were responsible for choosing presents that would be sent to Turkey, as well as welcoming visitors from abroad and showing them around.
I was not very adept at any of these tasks.
Thankfully, I was still considered too young, so no one really minded.
Even when I said the wrong things at the wrong time, people smiled at Turgut as if to say, “Don’t worry. We know that she’s still a child. Soon, she will understand and get used to these things.”
Once Fuat told me, “Sometimes I forget that you’re just a child, but I’m still amazed how you can say such things and do whatever you wish even at this age.”
They have always wondered. Bewildered. All of them . . .
All my life, I have heard the gossip that followed me. Wherever I went, I noticed how everyone suddenly stopped talking as soon as I stepped into the room.
Wasn’t it the same even at school? Everyone tried hard to get on well with me, yet they still adopted a hands-off attitude. I never had a close friend except Ayla. Was that because I always said things openly instead of gossiping or saying things behind people’s backs? Maybe it was because it was impossible to determine the course of my actions.
There was another thing they could not comprehend: some people build their lives as they will. Others make do just with talking about the lives of others.
I didn’t want to waste my life talking about the lives of other people.
So I let them talk about mine.
Would they respect me because I was devoted to my husband? Or because I did not break the rules? Was I supposed to live my life as they wanted, so that they would not talk behind my back and spread their repulsive gossip?
Of course I couldn’t do that, and I didn’t even care.
Why should I care about what people think of me, especially when I don’t find them worthy?
It doesn’t matter one bit to me!
Even as a child, I pitied such people. I used to secretly watch my mother’s friends who came to our house for tea parties. I always felt sorry for those women, who had nothing to talk about except their husbands and the lives of people they had never met.
They were the kind of people who did not say what they really thought but what others wanted to hear.
I often used to tell myself I would never ever be like them, even if they knocked me down.
And I did not become like them.
To tell the honest truth, I fought against myself in those days.
I had no one to tell me what to do. I was at the beginning of a new life, and it did not have a user’s manual. What had to be done was obvious. What’s more, it was the same for everyone.
Each of us was one of those ordinary women: volunteers who promised to make a comfortable home so that our husbands would be successful and buy us more.
If you didn’t question too much, watched what others were doing, and followed the right example, the same system continued onas if it were a secret scroll transferred from one to another.
But that kind of life bored me to death.
After Turgut went to bed, I used to lie on the big sofa in the living room and read novels that transported me to different worlds. After watching a film, I used to live in that film for many days.
It almost felt as if a different person dwelled inside of me: that good old friend of mine. The friend inside my mind who had talked to me when I was a child, shared my lonely moments, come with me wherever I went, shared my happiness and sadness, known when my heart was broken when no one else did, and given me advice. My imaginary friend had grown up, too, but stayed with me.
Most of you have known such a friend. The friend in you who shared your deepest secrets. Yet, one day you discovered that your friend, your confidant, had gone away quietly and secretly, without even leaving a letter of farewell, as if she had known that she had to go.
What can I say? My friend didn’t leave me.
My friend is still here, by my side, sitting in that chair across from me and laughing about my situation.
Strange, but after
