Serenade for Nadia by Zülfü Livaneli

Author:Zülfü Livaneli [Livaneli, Zülfü]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781635420166
Publisher: Other Press
Published: 2020-03-03T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 14

I can’t describe the emptiness I felt after he’d gone. The world suddenly seemed a different place. As Ilyas drove me home, I looked out the window at all the cars, all the houses. So many people, all with their own stories and pasts, their tragedies and triumphs, none of which I would ever know.

When I got home I sat down, and decided I would do as little as possible for the rest of the afternoon.

I took the recorder out of my bag. Everything that Max had told me was contained in this tiny device. I was holding an amazing story in my hand. I felt as though I was about to discover the secret of life.

Max had said that he would tell the whole story but there was something missing. An important part of the story; maybe the most important part. A secret that he couldn’t confess even to himself. A secret that led to a lifetime of regret, and even to his cancer. I thought this secret was hidden in his unconscious mutterings in Şile when he kept repeating, “Forgive me, Nadia.” Several times, I wanted to ask him about it in Pera Palas, but I hadn’t dared to.

I’d learned so much in the past few days. About things that had happened in this country not that long ago, and what had happened in Europe within living memory. But I also realized I hadn’t learned nearly enough and that I needed to know much more.

But what did it matter if I knew what my grandmother had been through in the context of historical events? What did it matter if I knew what had occurred on specific days 60 years ago, 100 years ago, or 600 years ago? What was I going to do with the knowledge of what the people Wagner spoke of had experienced in this city? It could only be meaningful as a story about people.

The people rushing around at the airport, the anxious drivers on the road, the overweight women at the university, the people shopping in the malls, all of them had their own stories. We take as much interest in their stories as we do in our own, as long as each story is taken on its own merit. Each story is, in the end, the story of human experience, of all of our lives slipping away.

As I sat there, I remembered how bored I used to get on Sundays when I was a teenager. My father would watch soccer games on the black and white television, shouting excitedly whenever his team scored a goal. My mother would either be cooking in the kitchen or doing the crossword at the dining room table. My brother would be out, and I would have been out too if there was anywhere to go.

I felt the same way that day. Max was gone, and with him had gone the excitement, stimulation, and curiosity that had made me feel alive. Soon Ahmet would bring Kerem home, and we’d go through the same routine day after day.

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