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It wasn't long before Archimboldi's fourth book arrived at the publishing house. It was called Rivers of Europe, although it was really about only one river, the Dnieper. One might say the Dnieper was the protagonist and the other rivers were the chorus. Mr. Bubis read the book in one sitting, in his office, and his laughter as he read it could be heard all over the house. This time the advance he sent Archimboldi was bigger than any previous advance, in fact so large that Martha, the secretary, before mailing the check to Cologne, brought it into Mr. Bubis's office and asked (not once but twice) whether the sum was correct, to which Mr. Bubis answered yes, it was, or it wasn't, what did it matter, a sum, he thought when he was alone again, is always approximate, there is no such thing as a correct sum, only the Nazis and teachers of elementary mathematics believed in correct sums, only sectarians, madmen, tax collectors (God rot them), numerologists who read one's fortune for next to nothing believed in correct sums. Scientists, meanwhile, knew that all numbers were only approximate. Great physicists, great mathematicians, great chemists, and publishers knew that one was always feeling one's way in the dark.
ugh
That evening, before they left the village, the baroness insisted on driving up a mountain from which there was a view of the whole area. She saw winding paths in shades of yellow that vanished in the middle of little leaden-colored clusters of trees, the clusters like spheres swollen with rain, she saw hills covered in olive trees and specks that moved with a slowness and bewilderment that seemed of this world and yet intolerable.
It was a respectable sum, but Archimboldi put the check in his pocket without a word. Then they began to talk. They ate Venetian sardines with slices of semolina and drank a bottle of white wine. They got up and walked around a Venice that was very different from the snowy wintertime Venice they had enjoyed the last time they met. The baroness confessed that she hadn't been back since.
"I've been here only a little while," said Archimboldi.
They were like two old friends who don't need to say much to each other. It was the beginning of fall, the weather mild, and a light sweater was enough to keep warm. [...]
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During all those years the only person with whom Archimboldi maintained more or less permanent ties was the Baroness Von Zumpe. Generally their contact was epistolary, although sometimes the baroness made an appearance in the cities and towns where Archimboldi was living and they went for long walks, arm in arm like two ex-lovers who no longer have many secrets to tell. Then Archimboldi accompanied the baroness to her hotel, the best the city or town had to offer, and they parted with a kiss on the cheek, or, if the day had been particularly melancholy, with an embrace. The next morning the baroness would leave first thing, long before Archimboldi got up and came in search of her.
Seeing her name and her most secret thoughts exposed on the printed page, Suat burst into tears. After telling Nâzım never to poke his nose in her private business again, she ran from the room, slamming the door behind her. But she did submit a story to the next edition of that journal. In the months and years that followed, she became the regular contributor she had never agreed to be, crossing the Bosphorus by ferry to the Sirkeci quarter, in the old city, climbing the narrow lane up to the publishing district of Babıali to deliver by hand her stories and articles to this and like journals. Her confident manner and fashionably modest attire won her a certain degree of respect, though no one in those smoke-filled, men-only offices knew quite what to make of her. If she ever heard the nervous sniggers she may have left in her wake, she was too happy to care.
“I am not ashamed of being a woman,” she once said. “And I take great pride in being a writer. That title is my sole fortune, my single pride, and my bread.” Her aim in life was “to gaze at the stars” without impediment.
from the intro by maureen freely
Today, almost half a century later, she is known in Turkey as the writer who was erased from the record. But now, at last, her books have been reissued. Symposia have been held, and a fine biography written. She remains a puzzle—the Marxist who wrote steamy romances. The Ottoman daughter who was given the name of the son she was meant to be. The fearless activist who loved a good laugh and a good party. The dissident who spent decades on the poverty line, but who never gave up on the city’s best patisseries. Until her last, she would happily pass up on supper just to share an overpriced éclair with a friend. She never stopped fighting, writing, or hoping. In her life, as in her work, she offers a shining example of what is possible, even at the worst of times, if you set out to make the most of things, just by following your own lights.
“Oh, my queen. My darling wife. No monarch in this world could kiss the ground you stand on. I can’t begin to tell you what pleasure it gives me to show you off. It wasn’t like this before. I didn’t dare take you out. I wasn’t important enough. You’re the jewel in my crown, my darling wife. You’re my life. I live for you, and only for you. I work for you. For the wealth and prosperity you deserve. All I want is to be the one to bring you that fortune. Believe me, Celile. Everything I want, I want for you.”
awful
In ten years of marriage, her husband had not looked as strange to her as he did at this moment; no matter what her mood, she had never wished to recoil like this from his presence; since the day of their wedding, they had got along so well that she had come to think of him as an extension of her own body. She had never seen him as separate, or herself in the company of another, nor had she ever imagined she would one day have thoughts she could hide from him. But now, in this bedroom where she had always felt at one with her husband, she was suddenly aware that he inhabited another body. It amazed her to find herself awash with thoughts she could not share with this stranger, things she could never say. She felt like running far, far away. She wanted to be alone. She needed to be alone; she could not, despite the force of habit, find the courage to look at herself in the mirror as she stripped. She was afraid of seeing the everyday Celile, the Celile of yesterday.
That was why she never crossed anyone. She had nothing to cross them with. She did not become involved in the lives of others, let alone identify with others. Wherever she happened to find herself, she kept herself at one remove, never joining in, never involving herself with others.
But not because she looked down on them.
She placed herself apart because she felt herself separate. She’d done so all her life. If on occasion she was obliged to participate, she became like a branch drifting with the currents in the sea, never resisting. She was ruled by the currents. But they never got inside her. Inside, she remained the same.
Nothing could penetrate her. Nothing could draw her out.
The apartment in Firuzağa began to feel too small. So they moved to a larger and more modern apartment in Talimhane.
They were on the road to happiness, Ahmet told himself, but he still wasn’t happy.
Since Nazikter’s death, they’d had just one maid. Now Ahmet noticed that she was not a good cook. They hired a second maid who did know how to cook, and another who came once a fortnight to do the laundry. But this wasn’t happiness, either…They needed houseboys, and gardeners, and chauffeurs.
Even these would not bring happiness. They were simply signposts, pointing the way.
Celile, meanwhile, acted as if nothing in their lives had changed.
She greeted their new prosperity with her customary calm indifference.
Not once did he see a glint of admiration in her eyes.