A Conversation with Orhan

A Conversation with Orhan
March 2010

I was laying on a couch at the back of the books store paging through “Istanbul – Memories and the City," a memoir by Orhan Pamuk. One minute I was enjoying the photos of Old Istanbul, and the next thing, I just woke up. The beleaguered store girl must have closed up in a rush without looking back here.

I saw him before he saw me – a trim man in a dark raincoat wandering down an aisle. Just the two of us in the deserted store.

Since the best defense is offense I half shouted, “Hey.”

“Are you speaking to me?” the shadow replied, turning in my direction.

“Do you see anyone else in here?” I asked, jumping up and standing very tall.

He came slowly toward me. “What am I doing here?” he asked.

“That's just what I was going to ask.”

“Well, one minute it was evening and I was sitting in a park enjoying the lights on the water from the Bosporus Bridge, and now, here I am inside a closed book store!”

“You look kind of familiar,” I said.

“My picture was on the back of my recent publication, 'The Museum of Innocence.'

Disarmed, I recognized him. “Orhan Pamuk – amazing to meet you like this; I DO recognize you from that very photo.”

“Yes, it IS pretty amazing,” he said looking around. “I'd love a glass of tea.”

“Sorry, you're not in Turkey now. This is America , and as you can see, this isn't my living room. I've heard post modern literature sometimes deals with a non rational approach to time, but didn't think it could spill over into this world and apply to space as well!”

“Call it whatever you want, apparently I'm here.” We both sat down on the couch in the rosy light of the Exit sign.

“Well Orhan, if I may call you that...” Up close he looked something like a fox with his long pointy nosed and large greenish eyes.

“Yes, you can Miss...”

“Danu.”

“Miss Danu, then.”

“I finally finished your recent novel and although it was quite a feat, I had some problems with it. So I looked at some reviews and post modern literature was mentioned. This helped some. I hate to critique you - being a Nobel Prize laureate and all – and I loved your book, “ Istanbul .” By the way, could you sign this copy for me?”

“Sure,” he said smiling and scrawling his signature on the title page.

“But,ummm, let me ask you some questions about the ' Museum of Innocence .' I read in the media that you proposed to actually create a museum with many thousands of objects that were mentioned in this novel, mementos of the love Kemal had for his cousin Fusun.”

“Yes all those lovely objects he collected while longing for his forbidden love. Since you read 'Istanbul' you must have observed how my character Kemal's life and my own life coincide. And how many things, including the old apartment of my mother's and some of the objects presented in that book, also appear in this one. This is the thing - if the museum happens, not only will art be imitating life, but will BE life that people can see and maybe even touch... What do you think of this concept?” he said, leaning closer.

“I think your technique of having Kemal compulsively gather, sometimes steal and then present throughout the story these mostly common, everyday objects to the reader that relate to his tortured relationship (9 years of happiness, sadness and longing) was an effective way to show his desperation and to evoke sympathy in the reader. He collects this stuff and puts it in the old, deserted family apartment which was the scene of their brief love affair. You show him over years idolizing, hugging, kissing and rubbing these things on his body for solace. He feels the objects have almost a magical power to evoke the past. This was a successful technique that demonstrates his sad, romantic vulnerability and his effort to console himself - bordering on the cuckoo.
What makes you think the literary set - or others - will be interested in touring an apartment/museum crammed with; dozens of stolen salt shakers, matchbooks, old movie tickets and posters, Fusun's white cotton panties and socks, her many barrettes, bracelets, other jewelry AND 4,213 cigarette butts squished this way and that (indicating her mood) and labeled with time and place and maybe some other details, along with thousands of other such items?” I asked.

“These objects are meaningful to the story, to Kemal, to me and hopefully to the reader. They represent a kind of metaphysics, some starting as real objects crossing over into the realm of literature, and others created within the book. With establishment of the museum they cross back over to this side of reality. Looking at it another way, and I hate to make it too easy for you, but haven't you heard of Theater of the Absurd?” he said.

“Yes I have, but you were quoted in the media recently saying that now that the museum is being scraped together, and I'm sure it hasn't been easy finding some of the objects you included in the novel since some of them are from 1975 or earlier, that you have been having second thoughts about completing the museum. You even said that it maybe wasn't such a good idea since you are a writer, not a museum curator.”

“It's true,” he said, slumping back on the couch. “Like so many things in life and in literature, what may seem like a fantastic idea at first often turns out to be a bad idea, or worse, comes to nothing at all.”

He rose slowly, wrapping his rain coat around him.

“Yes,” he continued, “it will be quite difficult now since so much time, effort and money have been spent in starting to bring the Museum of Innocence to life – so to speak. And there is still a long way to go. But you're right. What started out being mainly fictional objects created to enhance the story, to illustrate Kemal's plight and to evoke empathy in the reader, will be better left remaining in the reader's imagination. And this way I won’t have to make, count and label 4,213 cigarette butts! I feel better already! Now I understand why Chance, Fate, or Whatever transported me all the way over here to meet with you tonight. Tesekkur ederim (Thank you).”

He gave a little bow and turned toward the front of the store.

I watched as Orhan Pamuk dematerialized just as he reached the plate glass widow to the street.