ordered their drinksAsya, tea with lemon, Armanoush, Diet Coke with ice. The question was a manifest attempt to become better acquainted, since music happened to be Asya's main connection with the entire world.
'Classical music, ethnic music, Armenian music, and jazz,' Armanoush replied. 'How about you?'
'A bit different.' Asya blushed though she didn't know why. 'For a while I listened to harsh stuff-you know, alternative music, punk, postpunk, industrial metal, death metal, darkwave, psychedelic, also a bit of third-wave ska and a bit of gothic, that sort of stuff:'
Accustomed to regarding 'that sort of stuff' as a lost genre shared by decadent teenagers or directionless adults with more fury than character, Armanoush asked, 'Really?'
'Yeah, but then some time ago I got hooked on Johnny Cash. And that was it. Ever since then I stopped listening to anything else. I like Cash. He depresses me so deeply, I am not depressed anymore.'
'But don't you listen to anything local? Like Turkish music… Turkish pop…'
'Turkish pop!!! No way!' Asya flapped her hands in panic as if trying to wave away a pushy street vendor.
Sensing her limits, Armanoush did not press the question any further. Self-hatred, she deduced, could be something the Turks went through.
But Asya tossed back her tea, and added, 'Auntie Feride likes that kind of stuff. Though, to be perfectly honest, I sometimes can't tell if it's the music or the singers' hairstyles that she is most interested in.'
Halfway through her second Diet Coke, Armanoush asked Asya what kind of books she read, since fiction was her main connection with the entire world.
'Books. Oh yeah, they saved my life, you know. I love reading, but not fiction….'
A boisterous group of boys and girls materialized in the cafe, and they were ushered to the table across from Asya and Armanoush. As soon as they sat down, they started to scoff at everyone and everything. They laughed at the plastic burgundy chairs, the glass cases displaying a modest selection of refreshments, the errors in the English translations of the items listed on the menu, and the I LOVE ISTANBUL T-shirts the waiters wore. Asya and Armanoush yanked their chairs forward.
'I read philosophy, political philosophy especially, you know, Benjamin, Adorno, Gramsci, a bit of Zizek… especially Deleuze. That kind of stuff. I like them. I like abstractions, I guess, philosophy-I love philosophy. Especially existential philosophy.' Asya lit another cigarette and asked through the smoke, 'How about you?'
Armanoush named an elongated list of fiction writers, mostly Russian and Eastern European.
'You see?' Asya turned both palms up, as if to indicate the situation made by the two of them. 'When it comes to your favorite occupation in life, you too are less regional in your choices…. Your reading list doesn't sound very Armenian to me.'
Armanoush's eyebrow slightly rose. 'Literature needs freedom to thrive,' she said as she wagged her head. 'We didn't have much of that to expand and enlarge Armenian literature, did we?'
Sensing her limits, Asya did not press the question any further. Self-pity, she deduced, could be something the Armenians went through.
The teenagers behind started to play a game of charades. Each chosen player was assigned a movie title by the rival team, which he then had to convey to his fellow team members. A freckled, ginger haired girl started to mimic the assigned movie title, and each time she came up with a gesture, the others broke into raucous laughter. It was odd to see how a game based on 'the principle of silence could cause so much clamor.
Perhaps because of the noise in the background, whatever spirit had guided Armanoush not to trespass her limits had now departed. 'The music you listen to is so Western. Why don't you listen to your Middle Eastern roots?'
'What do you mean?' Asya sounded perplexed. 'We are Western.'
'No, you are not Western. Turks are Middle Eastern but somehow in constant denial. And if you had let us stay in our homes, we too could still be Middle Easterners instead of turning into a diaspora people,' Armanoush retorted, and instantly felt discomfited for she hadn't meant to sound so harsh.
Asya gnawed the insides of her mouth, but when she had finished, all she said was, 'What do you mean?'
'What do I mean? I mean, Sultan Hamid's Pan-Turkish and Pan-Islamic yoke. I mean, the 1909 Adana massacres or the 1915 deportations…. Do those ring a bell? Did you not hear anything about the Armenian genocide?'
'I'm only nineteen.' Asya shrugged.
The teenagers behind cheered as the freckled girl failed to accomplish her task in time and was replaced by a new player, a lanky, handsome boy whose Adam's apple jutted out from his neck with each mimic. The boy lifted three fingers, indicating that the movie's title consisted of three words. He proceeded into the third and last word directly. Raising both hands into the air, he clutched an imaginary, round thing between his palms, smelled and squeezed it. While his team members failed to understand what that meant, the rival team snickered.
'Is that an excuse?' Armanoush looked Asya in the eye. 'How can you be so impervious?'
Not knowing the meaning of impervious, Asya saw no problem in personifying the word until she had found an English-Turkish dictionary and looked it up. Savoring the brief reappearance of the sun from behind thick clouds, she remained quiet for what felt like a long time. Then she murmured, 'You're fascinated with history.'
'And you aren't?' drawled Armanoush, her voice conveying both disbelief and scorn.
'What's the use of it?' was Asya's curt answer. 'Why should I know anything about the past? Memories are too much of a burden.'
Armanoush turned her head, and her gaze involuntarily settled on the teenagers. Narrowing her eyes, she concentrated on the boy's gestures. Asya too turned around, observed the game, and before she knew it blurted out the answer: 'Orange!'
The teenagers burst into laughter, all looking at the young women at the next table. Asya flushed crimson, Armanoush smiled. They paid the bill quickly and were out on the street again.
'What movie has `orange' in its name?' Armanoush asked once they had reached the path along the seaside.
'A Clockwork Orange… I guess.'
'Oh yeah!' Armanoush conceded with a nod. 'Listen, about thee fascination with history,' she said, marshaling her thoughts. 'You have to understand, despite all the grief that it embodies, history is what keeps us alive and united.'
'Well, I say that's a privilege.'
'What do you mean?'
'This sense of continuity is a privilege. It makes you part of a group where there is a great feeling of solidarity,' Asya replied. 'Don't get me wrong, I can see how tragic the past was for your family, and I respect your wish to keep the memories alive come what may so that the sorrow of your ancestors is not forgotten. But that is precisely where our paths diverge. Yours is a crusade for remembrance, whereas if it were me, I'd rather be just like Petite-Ma, with no capacity for reminiscence whatsoever.'
'Why does the past frighten you so?'
Asya demurred. 'It doesn't!' As the capricious to and fro of the Istanbul wind fluttered her long skirt and cigarette smoke every which way, she paused briefly. 'I just don't want to have anything to do with it, that's all.'
'That doesn't make sense,' Armanoush insisted.
'Perhaps it doesn't. But in all honesty, someone like me can never be past-oriented…. You know why?' Asya asked after a long pause. 'Not because I find my past poignant or that I don't care. It's because I don't know anything about it. I think it's better to have the knowledge of past events than not to know anything at all.'
An expression of puzzlement passed over Armanoush's face. 'But you also said you didn't want to know your past. Now you sound different.'
'I do?' Asya asked. 'Well, let's put it this way, I have conflicting voices inside me with respect to this issue.' She gave her companion a glance full of mischief but then her voice became more serious. 'All I know about my past is that something wasn't right, and I can't attain that information. For me history starts today, you see? There is no continuity in time. You can't feel attached to ancestors if you can't even trace your own father. Maybe I will never be able to learn my father's name. If I keep thinking about it, I'll go nuts. So I say to myself, why do you want to unearth the secrets? Don't you see that the past is a vicious circle? It is a loop. It sucks us in and makes us run like
