Posted 5 years ago
“I am speaking of the evenings when the sun sets early, of the fathers under the streetlamps in the back streets
returning home carrying plastic bags. Of the old Bosphorus ferries moored to deserted
stations in the middle of winter, where sleepy sailors scrub the decks, pail in hand and one
eye on the black-and-white television in the distance; of the old booksellers who lurch from
one ϧnancial crisis to the next and then wait shivering all day for a customer to appear; of
the barbers who complain that men don’t shave as much after an economic crisis; of the
children who play ball between the cars on cobblestoned streets; of the covered women
who stand at remote bus stops clutching plastic shopping bags and speak to no one as they
wait for the bus that never arrives; of the empty boathouses of the old Bosphorus villas; of
the teahouses packed to the rafters with unemployed men; of the patient pimps striding up
and down the city’s greatest square on summer evenings in search of one last drunken
tourist; of the broken seesaws in empty parks; of ship horns booming through the fog; of
the wooden buildings whose every board creaked even when they were pashas’ mansions,
all the more now that they have become municipal headquarters; of the women peeking
through their curtains as they wait for husbands who never manage to come home in the
evening; of the old men selling thin religious treatises, prayer beads, and pilgrimage oils in
the courtyards of mosques; of the tens of thousands of identical apartment house entrances,
their facades discolored by dirt, rust, soot, and dust; of the crowds rushing to catch ferries
on winter evenings; of the city walls, ruins since the end of the Byzantine Empire; of the
markets that empty in the evenings; of the dervish lodges, the tekkes, that have crumbled;
of the seagulls perched on rusty barges caked with moss and mussels, unϩinching under the
pelting rain; of the tiny ribbons of smoke rising from the single chimney of a hundred-yearold
mansion on the coldest day of the year; of the crowds of men ϧshing from the sides of
the Galata Bridge; of the cold reading rooms of libraries; of the street photographers; of the
smell of exhaled breath in the movie theaters, once glittering aϱairs with gilded ceilings,
now porn cinemas frequented by shamefaced men; of the avenues where you never see a
woman alone after sunset; of the crowds gathering around the doors of the state-controlled
brothels on one of those hot blustery days when the wind is coming from the south; of the
young girls who queue at the doors of establishments selling cut-rate meat; of the holy
messages spelled out in lights between the minarets of mosques on holidays that are
missing letters where the bulbs have burned out; of the walls covered with frayed and
blackened posters; of the tired old dolmuşes, ϧfties Chevrolets that would be museum pieces
in any western city but serve here as shared taxis, huϫng and puϫng up the city’s narrow
alleys and dirty thoroughfares; of the buses packed with passengers; of the mosques whose
lead plates and rain gutters are forever being stolen; of the city cemeteries, which seem like
gateways to a second world, and of their cypress trees; of the dim lights that you see of an
evening on the boats crossing from Kadıköy to Karaköy; of the little children in the streets
who try to sell the same packet of tissues to every passerby; of the clock towers no one ever
notices; of the history books in which children read about the victories of the Ottoman
Empire and of the beatings these same children receive at home; of the days when
everyone has to stay home so the electoral roll can be compiled or the census can be taken;
of the days when a sudden curfew is announced to facilitate the search for terrorists and
everyone sits at home fearfully awaiting “the oϫcials”; CONTINUED IN SECOND PART OF THE QUOTE”
― Orhan Pamuk, Istanbul: Memories and the City