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Whenever there was a pause in the greeting and joking, I raised my head to survey the guests and the waiters carrying trays of canapés among them and I could tell from the level of laughter and chatter that the drinks were begi
By now the guests, especially the elderly, had tired of standing, and hungry people were already looking for their tables, with little children forging ahead (“Gra
“Old, sophisticated families like theirs are in short supply these days, Kemal Bey,” he said. “You are in the world of business, so you know better than I do that we’re being swamped by ill-ma
“Yes, sir, I am,” I said. I could not help noticing that the former minister was disappointed by the lack of jolliness in my reply.
“Engagements are not to be broken. It means that this girl’s name will be linked with yours until the end of your lives. Have you given this serious thought?”
The guests were already pouring in and forming a circle around us.
“I have.”
“Well then, let’s get you engaged so that we can eat. If you would take your place…”
I could tell he hadn’t warmed to me, but that did not dampen my mood. The former foreign minister began by telling the assembled guests a story from his army days. He, like Turkey itself, had been very poor forty years ago, and he recounted, with genuine feeling, how he and his dear departed wife had become engaged without fanfare or ceremony. He declared his high regard for Sibel and her family. There wasn’t much wit in what he said, but even the waiters who had retired to the side holding their trays smiled as if listening to an entertaining story. When Hülya, the sweet, bucktoothed ten-year-old whom Sibel loved dearly (and who was utterly fascinated by her), came forward with the silver tray bearing the rings I display here, the crowd fell silent. Sibel and I were so excited, and the former foreign minister so distracted, that we got into a hopeless muddle about which ring went where. But by now the guests were ready for a laugh, and so when a few people cried out, “Not that finger, it goes on the other hand,” a general titter circulated through the crowd, until the rings finally found their proper places, and then the former foreign minister cut the ribbon binding them, to a spontaneous round of applause sounding like a flock of pigeons taking flight. Even though I had prepared myself for this, the sight of so many people I had known all my life clapping for us and warmly smiling made me as giddy as a child. But this was not what set my heart racing.
For in the back of the crowd, standing next to her mother and father, I’d seen Füsun. A rapturous wave washed over me. As I kissed Sibel’s cheeks, as my mother came to our side and I embraced her, and then my father, and my brother, I realized what it was that had made me so joyful, though I still thought I could hide it, not just from the crowd, but from myself, too. Our table was right on the edge of the dance floor. Just before we sat down I saw Füsun sitting with her parents at the very back, right next to the table for the Satsat employees.
“You both look so happy,” said my brother’s wife, Berrin.
“But we’re so tired, too,” said Sibel. “If this is what it takes to pull off an engagement party, just imagine how tiring the wedding is going to be.”
“You’ll be very happy on that day, too,” said Berrin.
“How do you define happiness, Berrin?” I asked.
“Goodness, what a question,” said Berrin, and she behaved as if she were considering her own happiness, but because even to joke about such a thing made her uncomfortable, she smiled bashfully. Amid the babble of conversation, the guests’ chatter, occasional cries, the clink of knives and forks, and the strains of music, we both heard my brother’s loud, shrill voice as he regaled someone with a story.
“Family, children, and good company,” Berrin said. “Even if you’re not happy”-here, she indicated my brother with her eyes-“even when you’re having your worst day you live your life as if you are. All sorrows fade away when you’re surrounded by your family. You should have children right away. Have lots of children, just like peasants.”
“What’s going on here?” said my brother, joining us. “Tell me what you’re gossiping about.”
“I’m telling them to have children,” said Berrin. “How many should they have?”
No one was looking, so I downed my half glass of raki in one gulp.
A little later Berrin whispered into my ear: “That man at the end of the table, and that charming girl next to him-who are they?”
“That’s Nurcihan, Sibel’s dear friend since lycée days-they also went to France together. Sibel has seated her next to my friend Mehmet, hoping to get something started.”
“Doesn’t look very promising so far!” said Berrin.
Sibel felt a mixture of admiration and compassion for her friend Nurcihan. When they were students in Paris, Nurcihan had had several love affairs, which she’d courageously consummated, even moving in with a few of these men (Sibel had enviously told me all these stories), and all the while keeping this life secret from her wealthy parents in Istanbul; but with time these adventures had left her feeling sad and drained, so now, under Sibel’s influence, she was plotting a return to Istanbul. “But for obvious reasons,” I added, after telling all this to Berrin, “she’ll need to fall in love with someone who appreciates her worth, someone at her level, who won’t be troubled by her French past, or her old lovers.”
“Well, if you ask me, it’s not happening tonight,” she whispered. “What sort of business is Mehmet’s family in?”
“They have money. His father is a well-known building contractor.”
As Berrin saucily raised an eyebrow in snobbish suspicion, I told her that although his family was very religious and conservative, Mehmet was a trusted friend of mine from Robert College, an honest and decent man who had for years refused to let his headscarf-wearing mother arrange a marriage for him to an educated Istanbul girl, because he wanted to marry someone of his own choosing, a girl he could go out with. “But so far he’s got nowhere with the modern girls he’s found for himself.”