first option, however, things would come full circle. But having reached the age limits for a Kazanci man, death was close anyway, one day more or less would not make much difference at this point in his life. At the back of his mind echoed an old story-the story of a man who had escaped to the ends of the earth hoping to avoid the Angel of Death, only to run into him where they were originally destined to meet.
It was a choice less between life and death than between selfcontrolled death and sudden death. With such a family heritage he was sure he would die soon anyway. Now his left hand, his guilty hand, could choose when and how.
He remembered the little piece of paper he had stuck in the stone wall at the shrine of El Tradito. 'Forgive me,' he had written there. 'For me to exist, the past had to be erased.'
Now, he felt like the past was returning. And for it to exist, he had to be erased….
All these years, a harrowing remorse had been gnawing him inside, little by little, without disrupting his outer facade. But perhaps the fight between amnesia and remembering was finally over. Like a sea plain stretching as far as the eye could see after the tide went out, memories of a troubled past surfaced hither and thither from the ebbing waters. He reached out to the ashure. Knowingly and willfully, he started to eat it, little by little, savoring each and every ingredient with every mouthful.
It felt so relieving to walk out on his past and his future at once. It felt so good to walk out on life.
Seconds after he finished the ashure, he was seized with an abdominal cramp so sharp he couldn't breathe. Two minutes later his breathing stopped completely.
That is how Mustafa Kazanci died at the age of forty and three-quarters.
The body was cleansed with a bar of daphne soap, as fragrant and pure and green as the pastures in paradise are said to be. It was scrubbed, swabbed, rinsed, and then left to dry naked on the flat stone in the mosque-yard before being wrapped in a three-piece cotton shroud, placed in a coffin, and, despite the adamant counsel of the elderly to bury it on the same day, loaded in a hearse to be driven directly back to the Kazanci domicile.
'You cannot take him home!' exclaimed the scrawny deadwasher as he blocked the exit of the mosque-yard and frowned at each and every one involved. 'The man is going to stink, for Allah's sake! You are embarrassing him.'
Somewhere between the 'you' and 'him' it started to drizzle; sparse, reluctant drops, as if the rain too wanted to play a role in all this but just hadn't taken sides yet. This Tuesday, in the month of March, no doubt the most unbalanced and unbalancing month in Istanbul, seemed to have changed its mind yet again, deciding it in fact belonged to the winter season.
'But dead-washer brother'-Auntie Feride sniffed, instantly integrating the nervous man into her engulfing and egalitarian cosmos of hebephrenic schizophrenia 'we will take him back to his house so that everyone can see him one last time. You see, my brother had been abroad for so many years, we had almost forgotten his face. After twenty years, he finally returns to Istanbul and on his third day here, he breathes his last breath. His death was so unexpected, neighbors and distant relatives will not believe he has passed away if they don't have a chance to see him dead.'
'Woman, are you out of your mind? There is no such thing in our religion!' the dead-washer snapped, hoping this would stop whatever she might be planning to say next. 'We Muslims do not exhibit our deceased in a showcase.' His face visibly hardened as he added, 'If your neighbors want to see him, they'll have to visit his gravestone in the cemetery.'
While Auntie Feride paused to ponder this suggestion, Auntie Cevriye, standing next to her, stared at the man with a raised eyebrow, the way she looked at her students in an oral quiz when she wanted them to realize, by themselves, how illogical was the answer they had just given.
'But dead-washer brother,' Auntie Feride continued, now catching up. 'How can they see him when he is in a grave six feet down?'
The dead-washer's thick eyebrows shot up in frustration, but he preferred not to answer, finally sensing the futility of discussing anything with these women.
Auntie Feride had dyed her hair black that morning. This was her mourning hair. She shook her head with determination and then added: 'Don't you worry. You can rest assured that we are not going to display him like the Christians do in the movies.'
Pouting at Auntie Feride's relentlessly moving eyeballs and fluttering hands, the dead-washer stood dead still for an awful minute, now looking less annoyed than distressed, as if he had suddenly realized she was the craziest person he had ever come across. His ferrety eyes looked around for help. Having found none, they then slid toward the corpse patiently waiting for them to reach a decision about its fate, and finally back to both aunts again, but if there was a message secreted somewhere in this back-and-forth chilly glance, none of them could decode the meaning.
Instead, Auntie Cevriye tipped him, generously.
So the dead-washer took his tip and the Kazancis their dead.
In a flash, they formed a convoy of four vehicles. Leading the procession was a hearse, sage green as a Muslim hearse is dictated to be, the color black being reserved for the funerals of the minorities, Armenians and Jews and Greeks alike. The coffin lay at the back of the three-sided truck, and since somebody had to go with the dead, Asya volunteered. Armanoush, her face full of confusion, was tightly gripping Asya's hand so that it looked like the two had volunteered together.
'I am not having any women sitting in front of a hearse,' remarked the driver who startlingly looked very much like the deadwasher. Maybe they were brothers; one of them washed while the other carried the dead, and perhaps there was a third brother working in the cemetery, in charge of burying them.
'Well, you have to because there aren't any more men left in our family,' Auntie Zeliha chided from behind, in a voice so icy the man grew quiet. Perhaps it had occurred to him that if there truly were no men to escort the dead in the hearse, it was better that these two girls accompanied him rather than this intimidating woman with her miniskirt and nose ring.
So the man stopped complaining and soon the hearse lumbered off.
Right behind them was Rose's Toyota Corolla. Her panic was almost palpable from the way the car lurched and halted, moving inch by inch, as if she were either convulsed by rhythmic hiccups or intimidated by the wild traffic.
Given her steadily increasing trepidation, it was now hardly possible to imagine Rose at the wheel of a five- door, ultramarine Grand Cherokee Limited 4x4, equipped with an 8.0 cylinder engine. The woman who roared down the wide boulevards of Arizona had turned into a different driver on the snaky, crowded streets of Istanbul. Truth be told, Rose was completely astounded at the moment, her bafflement and disorientation almost outweighing her grief. In no more than seventy-two hours after their arrival, she felt like she had accidentally fallen through a wormhole in the cosmos and stumbled into another dimension, a strange land where nothing seemed normal, and even death was smothered by surrealness.
Grandma Gulsum sat next to her, unable to communicate with this American daughter-in-law she hadn't seen all her life, but also feeling concern and pity for her now that she had lost her husband, though not as much concern and pity as she felt for herself, now that she had lost her son.
In the back seat was Petite-Ma. Today she wore a teal outdoor head scarf trimmed with inky black on the edges. On her first day in Istanbul, Rose had spent a great deal of time trying to unravel the essential criteria that would illuminate once and for all why some women in Turkey wore the head scarf and others did not. Before long, however, she had given up, failing to solve the puzzle even at the local level, or even within the household. Why on earth ageless Petite-Ma wore the head scarf while her daughter-in-law Gulsum did not, and why one of the aunties wore the head scarf while her three sisters did not, was simply beyond her.
Right behind the Toyota was Auntie Zeliha's metallic silver Alfa Romeo, with her three sisters crammed inside and Sultan the Fifth curled in a basket on Auntie Cevriye's lap, startlingly tranquil today, as if human death
