13- Love is Over

 

On Saturday morning, Derya woke up to Serap’s call. "Sweetie, I haven’t been able to sleep for two days. Tunç is coming next week to pick up his stuff. He asked me to tell you," she said. Derya’s heart started beating fast. With the phone pressed between her right shoulder and ear, she put on her bathrobe and ran downstairs. She pressed the button on the coffee machine, opened the garden door, and inhaled the cool morning air.

Serap kept talking: "The other day, you called him, and he got really mad. ‘I was finally at peace for the last two or three weeks, but now she’s started texting again. I delete the messages without reading them. It makes me so angry,’ he said." Serap paused for a moment, waiting for her friend’s reaction. When she heard nothing from the other side, she continued: "Girl, why did you send him a message? Didn’t I tell you not to?" Derya sat on the garden swing with her coffee in hand. "Why shouldn’t I? I felt like it, so I did," she mumbled. Serap said, "Then don’t involve me. I don’t want to be in the middle of this, Derya."

Derya resented her ten-year friend Serap for wanting to stay neutral, but she didn’t say anything. After a short silence, Serap said: "I asked him how he’s going to get his stuff. He said he’d call Franck." Derya replied, "Oh come on! That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t even know Franck. Am I supposed to leave his stuff with Franck?" Serap said, "I think he’s bringing Franck with him because he’s afraid you might pull a knife or something when he comes. So I guess Franck will come with him to the door…"

Derya felt like she was in a surreal world. She put her coffee cup down on the swing and walked to the other side of the garden. While picking the dried flowers, she tried to make sense of what her friend had said. She felt stuck in a space between laughing and crying.

What hurt her wasn’t only Tunç’s absurd thoughts about her, but also the fact that Serap conveyed these words to her without questioning them. She hadn’t even said, "Are you crazy, my friend? What knife?" Tunç had been ignoring her for two months now, obviously because he didn’t have the courage to face her.

Then she told Serap, "No way, Franck wouldn’t get involved in this," and thanked her for the information before hanging up.

She stayed in the garden for a while longer and started doing the one thing that always calmed her down. She pulled out large weeds that looked like salad leaves from between the grass and sprinkled grass seeds into the gaps. The little apple tree now had apples the size of plums. She picked one of the unripe apples. While biting into the sour fruit, she called Franck and warned him: "Don’t get involved." Franck replied, "Sweetheart, why would I? Of course I won’t." "My dear Franck, a true friend," Derya thought emotionally. She wiped her teary eyes on the hem of her linen dress and continued pulling weeds.

She felt better, as if she had pulled out her inner anxiety along with the weeds. She put on her sneakers and sunglasses and went for a walk toward the vineyards. She had decided she wouldn’t behave the way Tunç expected her to. Even if situations tested her nerves, she silently promised herself she would maintain her dignity and calm.

All this had exploded during the summer holiday in Kuşadası, while chatting with Tunç’s sister. They had been drinking wine on the balcony when the topic of children came up, and Derya had said, "Well, Tunç can’t have children anyway." His sister hadn’t said anything at the time, but later she told Tunç about it. The next day, he ended the relationship over the phone.

Derya had called him countless times to apologize. "We were drinking, confiding in each other, and your sister brought it up," she had tried to explain. She had suggested they talk face to face, but Tunç never responded. He ignored two beautiful years and cut the relationship off like a knife.

Of course, Derya would have liked to have a child with him too, but while she was still trying to come to terms with it, she couldn’t understand why Tunç had made this topic such a taboo. His sister was already a little crazy; she believed that the sins of the ancestors passed down as diseases to the next generations. Who knew what she had made of the infertility issue?

That evening, she consoled herself with Korean dramas and two glasses of Chardonnay. She had always parted ways with her previous boyfriends in a civilized manner. This was the first time someone had just vanished. Sometimes she cried, sometimes she wrote her feelings in her diary.

On Sunday, she rearranged the house. She thought that erasing Tunç’s traces would be good for her mental health. She remembered what her therapist had said: "Box up his stuff and put it in the garage. If he comes to get his things, if possible, don’t let him into the house. If you want to talk, never talk inside the house. Talk in a neutral place, like a restaurant. If he comes without warning, tell him you’re not available and ask him to come back in a few hours. That way you gain time to prepare yourself."

While trying to do what her therapist had advised, she was also struggling to extinguish the fire inside her. She texted her girls’ group: "If you have anything to throw away and don’t know where to dump it, you can donate it to my ex-boyfriend." They all laughed at this. To cheer Derya up, they started listing the things they would donate.

On Monday evening, when she came back from work, Derya packed all of Tunç’s belongings. She carefully placed his suits and shirts into a large suitcase, his sweaters and t-shirts into a smaller one. She put his coats into a big sports bag, placing thin papers between them. His shoes and a few of his work files went into a fourth bag. There was also a printer, which she put into a cardboard box. She neatly arranged everything in the garage, next to her car.

She guessed that if Tunç was in Istanbul, he would fly to Paris, pick up his sister’s old wreck of a car, and drive here. Taking into account that his sister would probably keep him busy for a few days with errands once he arrived in Paris, she figured he wouldn’t get to Annecy before next Friday.

By Wednesday, there was still no news. Derya was so stressed from waiting that she bought a three-day ticket to Bodrum for Thursday evening. Before leaving, she warned Serap: "If Tunç calls, don’t you dare tell him I went to Turkey!"

While packing her suitcase, she also genuinely felt sorry for Tunç. "A whole life doesn’t fit into three or four suitcases, my love," she had cried. She truly pitied this poor man drifting from place to place like a Bedouin. Soon he would be forty years old, a grown man, yet still living in a small studio apartment, never defying his single sister’s word. He had studied in Turkey, then lived like a nomad in various European countries. For the past four years, he had stayed in Paris because he wanted to be close to his sister. "I wish he had found peace here with me, so he could end this endless migration," she thought, as her tears dropped onto the shirts she had carefully folded into the suitcase.

Actually, Tunç had often said, "I really want this. I want to finally put down roots somewhere." But he just couldn’t do it. As long as he stayed this harsh and merciless toward himself and others, he would never find peace with any woman, in any place. He would always be like feathers drifting in the wind—one day here, another day somewhere else. It wasn’t something he could control. Something deep in his subconscious was pushing him to live like this.

Even though she had decided not to say anything to Tunç, in the following days she didn’t act as planned. She sent him a message herself, telling him that she was in Bodrum but had packed his things and left them in the garage. Tunç knew the garage code. He could go in and take them.

During the three days she spent in Bodrum, she knew he didn’t want to see her, but still, she kept imagining going to Istanbul to see him. On the last day, before noon, she made one last attempt and called his mobile. For the first time in months, Tunç answered. He said he had landed in Geneva, rented a car, and was on his way to Annecy to pick up his things.

Derya’s flight was in the evening, but that morning she was lying on a sunbed at the hotel beach in Bodrum, staring at the sea. She pictured Tunç renting a car at Geneva Airport. She wished she had arrived with the morning flight and bumped into him by chance at the airport.

She checked her watch. It was only noon. She ordered a glass of champagne. Then, as if she were in a rush, she quickly drank it and went to her room to pack her suitcase. She wanted to be in Geneva right now. Even though her flight wasn’t until 7 p.m., even though she knew she wouldn’t make it in time to catch him, she went early to the airport, skipping the shopping she had planned to do.

While waiting at the airport, still five hours before her flight, she received a message from Tunç’s French number. "Derya, thank you. You packed the bags perfectly. I couldn’t have done it this well myself." So, he had already gone to Annecy, picked up his things, and left.

She didn’t reply, but if she had, she would have told him she had kissed and smelled all his belongings while packing them, and that there was nothing else she could do. Now that the bags were gone, the last bond between them was also broken. Wiping her tears, she sat at the airport bar and ordered another glass of champagne. While sipping it, she scrolled through their old messages and deleted them one by one. She knew she would regret this later that night in bed, but she still did it. Then she wrote in her diary: "What difference does it make to a blind man if it’s glass or diamond? If the one looking at you is blind, don’t think you’re made of glass! / Mevlana." Then she crossed out the word "diamond" and wrote "Derya" instead. Because even though love was over, life went on.

 

 

18- The Power Outage

 

It was Monday morning in Montreal, 11:30 am. I was working from home and attending a Teams meeting when suddenly my connection was lost. Thinking there was a problem with the modem, I unplugged it and plugged it back in. I was annoyed. When I decided to make myself a coffee, I realised the coffee machine wasn’t working either—that’s when I understood the power was out.

I opened the front door and looked outside. The corridor lights were on, and the elevator was working. I thought, “Maybe a fuse blew.” I went back inside, opened the fuse box behind the door in the storage room where we keep the washing machine and the air conditioner. Everything was fine—the switches were all up.

I rushed outside. In the elevator, I ran into a neighbour I didn’t know from our two-hundred-apartment residence and asked if they had electricity. Theirs was also out. I learned the whole neighbourhood was affected. He told me that the corridor lights and the elevator were connected to a generator.

So, they were used to outages. I didn’t panic, but I was annoyed because my meeting was cut off. I considered reconnecting via my mobile, but I remembered I hadn’t installed Teams on my Canadian SIM card, so I gave up. Anyway, it was already 11:30. In Zurich, it was 5:30 pm. I had already said everything I needed to say in the meeting. I decided my absence wouldn’t be a problem and went out for a walk.

I had invited my son and my nephew to Montreal to watch the Formula 1 races. Last week, we watched the races together and visited tourist sites in the city. Now they were exploring on their own. I had told them I’d meet them for lunch after finishing work. Since I finished earlier than expected, I sent them a message, and they sent me their location from Saint-Catherine Street.

When I reached René-Lévesque Avenue, I saw that the traffic lights were off and a few traffic police officers were directing traffic. I was curious how far the power outage had spread. It was now noon. I thought to myself, “What kind of underdeveloped country is this Canada, cutting off the power to an entire neighbourhood without warning, and it’s already been half an hour.” That would never happen in Zurich.

When I met up with them, I realised the outage had spread that far. We entered a hamburger restaurant. My nephew had decided to taste and rate poutine at every restaurant in Quebec, so he chose poutine again. Thankfully, the gas stoves were still working, so we were able to have lunch.

The lights didn’t come back in the afternoon either. My husband came home early from work and told us the factory they were building outside the city had also lost power. Through our phones, we found out the outage wasn’t just in Canada—some U.S. states were affected too.

When night fell, from our apartment with its amazing Montreal view, we saw the city was pitch black. Only CHUM Hospital and a few other buildings had lights, probably running on generators.

My son and nephew, whose vacation was ending in three days, started to worry about their flights. My nephew wanted to call his father in Stockholm, but it was already 8 pm here and 2 am there. I suggested waiting until the next day to avoid worrying them in the middle of the night.

To calm the kids down, we lit candles. We, the adults, had wine; the youngsters drank their favourite peach juice, and we chatted. Less than five minutes passed when we heard an announcement from a police car passing by our street. We listened carefully.

The announcement said that there had been no electricity in our city for eight and a half hours, that the entire American continent was in the dark, and for the past hour there had also been power cuts in parts of Europe and Africa. The outage was progressing step by step from west to east. They said the cause was under investigation, there was no need to panic, hospitals were running on generators, and solar-powered lights were working.

Instead of calming us, these words made us even more anxious. We wondered, “What do they mean by ‘parts of Europe, from west to east’?” We grabbed our phones. The kids said their batteries were about to die, so we decided to turn off all the phones to save power and leave only one on to get updates. We kept my husband’s phone on.

First, we checked our own countries in Europe. My husband’s country, Belgium, was completely in the dark. In Sweden and Switzerland, the power was slowly starting to go out. It was around 3 am there, so they would only notice when they woke up. The outage was moving like a line from west to east; half of Europe was dark, the other half still lit. It was 4 am in Turkey, and there had been no power cut there. In Asia, there were no outages. At least not yet.

To avoid getting too scared, we were awakened by the sound of my phone, which I had left on just in case. It was my brother calling from Stockholm. It was 7:30 in the morning there. He was worried about us—and of course about his son. I told him the kids were sleeping, that the power had been out for about 14 hours. I explained that we were taking turns using the phones, so if he couldn’t reach his son, he shouldn’t panic. I assured him that we were all together and that I wouldn’t take my eyes off anyone, then hung up. After that, we went back to sleep.

At 6:30 am, the alarm clock woke us up. The power was still out. I started worrying about the food in the fridge going bad. I thought we should eat the things that would spoil first. I told my husband, “Are you really determined to go to work? There’s no point if the power is out. We shouldn’t waste the car’s fuel.” But he didn’t listen. With a sense of duty, he set off, but less than an hour later he got a message from work telling everyone to stay home, so he came back.

First, I let my nephew call his parents. In recent years, they had covered their villa roof entirely with solar panels and bought a Tesla car. They told us they were generating their own electricity and that as long as the weather stayed good, they weren’t having any issues. Then we all sat down for breakfast. We had breakfast without tea or coffee, just with water and juice. I told my husband, “We need to find a store that’s open and buy a solar charger.”

After clearing the breakfast table, we took the kids and went out. The police were stationed in front of the shops to prevent looting and keep the city safe. So far, there hadn’t been any major problems. Since power outages happen during snowstorms here, I expected there to be more generators around. Since ATMs and cards weren’t working, we went to the bank. They had set up an old-fashioned service to withdraw money. Just in case, we took out the maximum amount allowed.

Apart from the crowds in the shops, there was nothing normal about the situation. Everyone seemed to have had the same idea, and in the electronics store we went into, everything solar-powered—lamps, chargers—was sold out. One of the employees told us even the solar-powered bathroom scales were gone. Unbelievable! Who thinks of buying a solar-powered scale in a situation like this?

We went back home empty-handed. The kids’ phones were dead. We were turning mine and my husband’s phones on every two or three hours, sending short messages to my brother, my mother, and my mother-in-law, then turning them off again.

Around noon, at the 24th hour of the blackout, the police car passed by again making an announcement. They said that China, Russia, and India still had power, but that in countries like Turkey and other western Asian nations, the electricity had also gone out. We already knew that Turkey had gone dark about four hours earlier, starting from Izmir.

My mother was 75 years old. I was worrying about how she would handle this on her own in Izmir. I thought it would be good if my aunt and uncle, who lived nearby, moved in with her since her house was big. Thankfully, they had the same idea and were now staying together.

The police concluded their announcement by reminding us not to panic, saying that police stations and municipal collection points had staff ready to help. Whoever came up with these loudspeaker announcements from police cars was doing a terrible job—they were causing panic instead of informing people properly. We started thinking about how the countries that still had electricity were all BRICS members. Had they sabotaged the world? But soon after, when we realised that Brazil and South Africa—also BRICS members—were in the dark too, we abandoned that theory.

This time, we decided we needed not just solar-powered devices but also dry food, a battery-powered radio, and things like toilet paper that had run out quickly during the COVID period. So again, we took the kids with us and went outside.

Normally, our neighbours wouldn’t even say “Bonjour” in the elevator, but now they had gathered in the lobby, talking loudly. The homeless people in the streets were shouting happily. Maybe they felt a sense of unity and joy that people like us had ended up in such an unusual situation—who knows.

It was Tuesday noon, and the kids’ flight was on Thursday evening. We decided we also needed to find out what was happening at the airport. My son argued that there was no reason for flights to be cancelled, since planes run on kerosene, pilots communicate via radio, and the runways can be lit with generators.

We were a generation dependent on electricity. Even my 75-year-old mother’s generation had grown up with electricity. Maybe they weren’t born with dishwashers, but they had ceiling lights and plug-in radios. We regretted not thinking to buy a battery-powered radio when we were looking for a solar charger in the morning.

We decided to fill up both our cars with gas. To stay together, we took my car first. There was a long queue in front of the gas station. The whole city was in a panic. Everyone was trying to save themselves, just like us.

While I was waiting in the gas line with the kids in the car, my husband said it made sense for him to ride his bike and get a battery-powered radio so as not to waste time. He had his own bicycle. Of course, there were also Bixi bikes in the city, but since the power was out, they were all locked in their stations and couldn’t be used. Less than an hour later, just as we had advanced a little in the line, he came back with a battery radio and lots of batteries, and threw them in the trunk.

By the third day of the outage, we had a battery-powered radio, a fully fueled car, lots of candles, and although we couldn’t find pasta, we had dry foods like rice, bulgur, lentils, and chickpeas, plus onions and garlic. With these ingredients, we could cook unique Turkish meals and live without shopping for a month. We even managed to buy a few packs of Evian water, and, because my husband said, “I can’t get through this without beer and wine,” we got those too. Stores were running out of products.

The kids wanted to relax a bit and go to the pool on the terrace, but they came back soon with long faces. Since the cleaning pump wasn’t working, the pool had been closed. Since they couldn’t access the rental Bixi bikes they had enjoyed using for the past two weeks, they decided to take turns using my husband’s bike.

Sometimes we left the kids at home and went out to get supplies. My son stayed glued to the radio and would tell us all the news when we came back. He believed most in the alien invasion theory, while I thought it was some kind of sabotage or war.

On Wednesday evening, we learned that the airport had been closed for security reasons and that flights had been suspended for a while. The kids panicked, saying, “We’re stranded in Canada with a whole ocean between us and home.” My son said he hadn’t downloaded his university materials, so he couldn’t study for his exams now. My 17-year-old nephew cried, “Will I never see my parents again?”

The world wasn’t in full chaos—everyone was trying to manage the situation as best as they could. On Wednesday evening, we went to the Montreal port and found out there were ships leaving for Europe. They planned to reach Rotterdam in the Netherlands in 12 days. Normally this route was used for cargo, but due to the situation, a few tourist cruise ships had canceled their tours and were taking passengers to Europe instead. We could leave on Saturday. Since my husband didn’t want to send us alone, he informed his work and decided to come with us.

While waiting for Saturday, we learned that the city of Montreal had opened a few solar-powered charging stations. On Thursday, the kids queued with their phones. After waiting eight hours, their phones were charged before ours died.

We decided to ship one of our cars—my car—to Rotterdam. Once there, it would help us get home somehow. Anyway, when we permanently moved back from Canada, we had planned to bring this sports car with us. My husband’s car was a company car, so it would stay here. On Friday, he returned it to the company just in case. At home, we started packing our most important belongings. I was also preparing provisions for the road. There was still fresh bread at the bakery on the lower floor of Bonsecours Market—we would queue up early in the morning to get some.

During those days, we realized how dependent humanity is on a regulated life—and of course, on electricity. In Stockholm, the weather hadn’t been great either, so my brother had started using solar energy more cautiously. Even after four days, no clear explanation for the blackout was given—speculations were everywhere.

My sister and her husband’s house was in the southern suburbs of Stockholm, eight kilometers from my brother’s. They said they would sometimes bike over to charge their phones from my brother’s solar panel. In Stockholm, things were more intense; looting had made people uneasy.

In Canada, although some local grids managed to come back online briefly, they would crash again after a few hours. Satellites and GSM were still functioning, and the internet hadn’t totally collapsed. We didn’t know how long this blackout would last. Maybe a few weeks, maybe a few years, maybe forever.

On Saturday morning, we loaded our Saab Cabrio to the brim and went to the port early. Now, with the car below and us on deck, as we slowly set off into the ocean, I looked back. I didn’t know if I would ever see this city again. Some of our belongings were still in our apartment here, but we were happy to be heading home—to the old continent.

Deep inside, I felt that humanity was entering a new era. In this era, there might be no electricity or internet, but love, friendship, and imagination would always remain.

That night, my son, my nephew, my husband, and I leaned back-to-back on the ship’s deck and looked up at the stars. They were still shining.

 

17- Family Reunion (Part 2)

 

As the garden slowly surrendered its suffocating heat to the comfort of the evening breeze, Çiğdem slid back the iron bolt and opened the courtyard gate to a stranger she did not recognize. She shielded the guest so the heavy gate wouldn’t swing back on him. The mysterious gentleman, who gracefully stepped out of a beautiful car, stirred not just her curiosity but everyone else's as well.

While Çiğdem and her husband Jacques greeted the guest, Uncle Ayhan had also risen from his seat, quickening his steps toward the gate until he was out of breath. The guest handed Çiğdem a Dom Perignon champagne he brought in a cooler bag. Ayhan embraced him tightly and for a long moment. “Sinan, my old friend, welcome,” he said. That was when Çiğdem realized this was the famous Lawyer Sinan Bey. “Mr. Sinan, how thoughtful of you,” she said, thanking him for the gift.

Çiğdem had a bit of a role in his arrival. She had only spoken to Sinan Bey on the phone, so this was the first time she saw his face. Truth be told, she hadn't expected him to suddenly show up like this. In the 150-page family book she had written, she had only devoted two pages to her mother’s and uncle’s years in Istanbul. She had only learned about this old love story of her mother’s during a visit in November — her mother, a deeply reserved woman, had never mentioned it. She had learned the story thanks to her Aunt Hale. For years, her mother hadn't said a word about that romance. In fact, while writing the book, she hadn’t been helpful at all — always responding with “I don’t know” or “I forgot,” which had driven Çiğdem crazy. One day, she even told her, “Mom, you should have been a KGB agent.”

Her main sources had been her eighty-year-old Aunt Ayla and her younger, sharp-minded Aunt Hale, who was nine years younger and had an elephant’s memory. Aunt Ayla was her connection to the 1950s and 60s. She had vividly described their mother’s youth, their grandfather’s love for vinyl records, and daily life in those times. But in 1971, Ayla had met her future husband, a man from Denizli living in Munich, through a newspaper ad. They married and moved to Germany, had daughters Pelin and Selin, and returned permanently to Turkey in 1985, settling in Denizli. That’s why the 1970s were Aunt Hale’s domain.

When Çiğdem visited Aunt Hale in Istanbul, she had shared every detail down to the tiniest bits. Hale was like a living encyclopedia of family history. She had told her everything from Çiğdem’s childhood 4K project, to the mischief she caused at school, to the burrs that clung to her hair walking through courtyards. There was enough material to write a whole book just on Aunt Hale. But out of fairness to the other siblings, Çiğdem hadn’t included even a tenth of it in her family book.

Once she had learned Sinan’s full name, tracking him down hadn’t been hard. Despite being over seventy, he still had a law practice. In addition to being a corporate attorney for several family-owned businesses, he also provided free legal aid to women facing domestic abuse. Çiğdem had visited his office in hopes of collecting photos and stories from her mother’s and uncle’s university days. The secretary told her Sinan Bey was in Antalya for a case but could be reached by phone immediately.

From the emotional tone of his voice on the phone, it wasn’t hard to tell how deeply attached he still was to her mother. When he said he’d be doing a historical tour of Amasra with his daughters that summer, Çiğdem, more out of politeness than intent, had said, “Well then, feel free to join our family gathering in Filyos.” No date, no formal invitation. In fact, she had regretted the offer the moment she made it and had promptly forgotten about it. Apparently, Sinan Bey had not. He had called Uncle Ayhan and managed to get himself invited.

Leman Hanım, seated midway down the table, stood slightly and grasped her chair as if undecided whether to walk toward the gate, instead choosing to wait as the guest entered the garden. She had recognized him but didn’t want to act hastily without being certain.

Seeing Sinan flustered her and brought a blush to her cheeks. Though she blamed Ayhan for being inconsiderate, her dimples and sparkling eyes betrayed her excitement. Still, she did not approve of her brother inviting Sinan, his old university friend, to a family event.

Ayhan had met Sinan on his first day at Istanbul University’s Law Faculty — a random seating arrangement sparked a friendship that lasted the entire first year. They were inseparable.

When Ayhan started his second year, Leman was accepted into the university’s Literature Faculty and moved to Istanbul. She lived with her brother in their modest apartment in Fatih and walked with him to school. She had met Sinan on her first day, and the spark between them had been instant. That spark had made her shy and timid around him ever since.

Sinan came from a well-established, well-off Istanbul family, but like Ayhan, he embraced the ideals of the 1968 movement and spoke of dismantling the bourgeoisie. Despite this, his elegant demeanor, perfect Turkish, pressed shirts, and Galatasaray High School friends revealed his bourgeois roots.

Five months after registering at the university, Leman’s father passed away. Ayhan was already on the brink of being expelled due to student activism. With the loss of their father and financial strain worsening, he dropped out in the middle of his second year to work at a law office as a clerk. He paid rent and supported Leman through school until she graduated and became a literature teacher in Ankara. Leman would never forget her brother’s sacrifice.

Their widowed mother and unmarried sister Ayla took over the household responsibilities. Luckily, the two middle sisters were in a boarding school on full scholarship. But there were still three younger siblings at home between the ages of 10 and 14. They were difficult years, and Ayhan had sacrificed himself for the family. Later, he married Gül, Leman’s classmate.

During those university years, Sinan would often visit their home. Leman and Sinan had never expressed their feelings beyond a few stolen glances and brief conversations. That was until Leman’s graduation ceremony. Sinan, who had graduated the year before, came with flowers. While Ayhan and his wife were in the kitchen, Sinan had pulled Leman aside, kissed her, and said, “One day I will marry you — don’t disappear.”

But life took a different turn. Shortly after Leman was posted to Ankara in 1972, she met Serdar, her teacher colleague’s older brother. Within a year, they were married. Serdar came from a family similar to hers. He had studied economics at the Faculty of Political Science and had a good job at the State Planning Organization. At the time, Leman found Sinan too bourgeois and believed his family would never allow him to marry someone from the provinces like her. After a heated argument beginning with “Lawyer Sinan Bey,” she became angry and requested a transfer to one of Ankara’s more prestigious schools.

She and Serdar had what could be called a happy marriage, and three children. When their daughters Çiğdem and Deniz were 7 and 5, the 1980 military coup took place. It ruined Serdar’s political career and forced the family to seek asylum in Switzerland due to his political activities. Their son Onur was born in Basel. Years later, after the children had grown, their 30-year marriage ended in divorce. Leman moved to her summer house in Izmir, devoting herself to her garden and her vast library. Around ten years ago, she had published a poetry book.

Now Ayhan and Sinan were walking toward her. With a theatrical but familiar flourish from the past, Sinan took Leman’s hand and gently brought it to his lips with a light kiss, saying, “Enchanté, madame.” Then, to avoid further embarrassing Leman, he followed Ayhan’s lead and walked with her toward the head of the table.

Leman remembered the argument they had when they parted ways half a century ago, and also how they reconciled fourteen years earlier at the funeral of Sinan’s mother, Jale Hanım. With those thoughts, she returned to her seat, deciding to give the two friends some time and join them later.

Çiğdem had left Jacques by the E-type and returned to the table, taking the seat across from her mother. About ten minutes before Sinan’s arrival, she had distributed the booklet she had prepared about the family history. Her cousin Selin had also scattered handmade bookmarks with personalized designs across the table, and guests were now eagerly and playfully trying to find their own. They were chatting about the patterns on the bookmarks and the contents of Çiğdem’s booklet, joking about the mini skirts Aunt Hale and Aunt Nejla wore in the 1970s, praising their beauty. The aunts, now with wavy white hair and sweet grandmotherly smiles, had once been striking women — one brunette, the other blonde — like Turkish versions of Charlie’s Angels.

Uncle Ayhan seated his guest at the head of the table, between himself and his sister Ayla. “Set a place for our guest, kids,” he said to the younger ones as if speaking to waitstaff.

The young people were wearing white t-shirts that Çiğdem had printed. On the front was a mulberry tree with “1915” written above it, and on its branches, starting from the grandparents down to the smallest twigs, the names of the grandchildren. At the top, it read “Filyos Reunion 2024,” symbolizing the hope for future gatherings.

Sinan took off his hat and laid it beside him on the table, running his fingers through his graying, wavy hair. While filling Sinan’s glass with raki, Ayhan said, “Leave the car here, sleep at Yeni Konak tonight — or the kids will take you, wherever that campsite was... Was it Amasra?” Then without waiting for an answer, he added, “Never mind, you’ll stay with us. I’m not letting the kids drive around at night.” Then they dove into a long conversation about old times.

Ayhan said, “My friend, I was just thinking... in the summer of 1968, when I came here on vacation, my father seriously considered tearing down this wooden house to build a new concrete one. He was constantly sketching out plans. Thankfully, he never started. We lost him that December. What would we have done then? An unfinished house, middle sisters just starting boarding school, three small kids at home, my mother, my older sister... tough days. But my mother managed to get by in this house. She even sold produce from the garden and eggs from the chickens. Anyway, the girls finished school, and things got better.”

Listening to all this, Sinan felt a bit ashamed. Back in those days, he would escape his parents’ grand waterfront mansion and come eat at their modest home, only to return to Bebek from Fatih by bedtime. Of course, he wasn’t a freeloader — he always brought something when he visited. When they went out drinking, he would cover the bill, but to him, those were small expenses. Ayhan ended with, “Those were hard days.”

Why had one of the wealthiest families in the region before 1940 become so poor that they had to sell eggs in the market within thirty years? While WWII raged across Europe and Turkish men were drafted amid war fears, the only difference between this family and the peasants they once looked down on was that they didn’t starve.

Over the following two decades, the family steadily lost its former wealth — they became poorer, but more enlightened. In the 1960s, they had led the way in educating girls in the district. Çiğdem’s grandfather, Rıza Bey, had become a progressive figure who read Ulus newspaper columns by Çetin Altan to the children by lamplight. Leman and her brother Ayhan had been sent to university in Istanbul, while the middle sisters, Hale and Nejla, were enrolled in a boarding teacher’s college. Leman had been the first woman in the entire town of Filyos to attend university.

Now, Aunt Nejla and Aunt Hale, whispering to each other in the middle of the U-shaped table arrangement, lived in Istanbul and had for many years. But they had first come to the city as teenagers, 15 or 16 years old, tagging along insistently when their father brought Leman to enroll in university. They later spent a few winter breaks in Istanbul. Back then, they had teased and joked about this man who was always around their older sister at the time. Now, fifty years later, they were whispering, “Why has he come here now?” In the background, the song “Don’t think I’ll be fooled twice…” by Nilüfer was playing.

In the aftermath of the 1980 military coup, Ayhan was arrested for union activities and organizing workers. Sinan served as his lawyer but couldn’t prevent him from spending two years in prison. That same year, Sinan lost his father in a tragic accident, and never having quite recovered from the heartbreak caused by Leman’s marriage, he fell into a deeper depression. In 1981, he moved to Paris to pursue a PhD in Commercial Law at the Sorbonne. He never married Estelle, whom he met five years later, but they had twin daughters together. When the girls were ten, Estelle married an American and moved to the U.S., leaving the girls in Sinan’s care.

“How old are the twins now?” Ayhan asked. “Camille and Chloé are 38,” Sinan replied. Ayhan’s eyes welled up. “Well, the years fly by. My eldest just turned 50 the other day. Hasn’t spoken to me since I separated from his mother. I raised a glass in his honor.”

Ayhan spoke of his divorce from Gül, his retirement, and move back to his hometown, and of his son’s long silence. Then, realizing he had interrupted his friend, he said, “So, you were saying — the girls. Last I saw them, they were still young. What are they up to now?”

“They’re doing well. Both married. I’ve got four adorable grandkids. So sweet, I could eat them up!” Sinan laughed. “You know, my sister never married. She’s helped raise the girls like they were her own since they were little. Remember how you used to call her ‘Snobby Suna’? We used to laugh so hard. Suna plays the piano beautifully — so did my mother. Remember? She loved La Bohème by Aznavour.” He paused, then added, “We last saw each other at my mother’s funeral.”

Both men fell silent for a moment, remembering Jale Hanım. A true lady, she had remained elegant until her death at 79 from Alzheimer’s. “Of course, Suna studied classical music,” Sinan continued. “She practically raised the girls — art, painting, ballet, piano. And now she’s onto the grandkids. But it’s good for them. I’m the playful grandpa, she’s the strict aunt.” He laughed. “These days, the girls are seeing their mother more often, too. That makes me happy. And me? Just living a retired life now, taking on the occasional case.”

Ayhan had never met Estelle. But he said thoughtfully, “It’s good the girls are reconnecting with their mom…” He remembered how much he had disliked Suna in their youth. He even recalled how Gül had been jealous of this love-hate dynamic and chuckled to himself. Changing the subject, he pointed to Çiğdem and Jacques sitting at the center of the table. “Leman’s son-in-law is French… Well, no — Belgian, but he speaks French. I think he really liked your car. Hasn’t left it alone for ten minutes. His name’s Jacques. Çiğdem’s husband. She even called you about that book project — tracked down the entire family tree like a detective. You’ll talk later, I’m sure. Now, let’s raise a glass to our reunion!” he said, lifting his glass.

To be continued in Part 3. Next week.

The Guest from the Past

The table set in the family home’s garden is shaken by the unexpected arrival of a long-lost guest: Lawyer Sinan, Leman Hanım’s university sweetheart. This surprise visit opens doors to both youthful memories and buried family history. As Çiğdem’s family research and book bring old relationships to light, the family gathered around the table begins to reconnect not only with their shared past but with each other. This reunion, blending old friendships, loss, regrets, and a hint of hope, will carry the traces of the past into the present.