Istanbul Was a Fairy Tale Read Online Free PDF Page A

respective changing rooms; the changing rooms, wherein they feared intrusion into their privacy and mirrors, and were more often than not ignored; it was a play enacted by the spectators along with the players, as they could not possibly absent themselves from it. Preparations were always made by someone for someone else, for days properly generated, for nights properly reproduced through the stage, or more precisely, for nights saved.
    For the weekends one spends and shares with others through short incursions to the countryside, with short sallies in measured steps . . . through a tacit understanding known to everybody that nobody dares to question by raising his voice.
    In all probability, that was how it had always been in the past. After all, nothing had changed in the real sense of the word; was it ever possible? You might ponder upon victories, defeats, disappointments, remorse, and separations that would eternally come back to you through all channels. Nevertheless, in order to have a clearer picture of the longing of Monsieur Jacques (more for Olga than for anybody else) not only should one experience all these eventualities, but one should also know how to attain the height of patience required in the telling of a convoluted tale by putting up a spirited defense against the influences of retroactive experiences and future prospects and justifications.
    Attaining such heights in daring to advance toward certain people, even through cautious steps . . . gingerly, to wit somewhat unmanly . . . it was not possible for me, in my capacity as a visitor who had had access up to a certain extent to those lives in my capacity as a stage actor, to guess, during those interminable nights, who exactly was or had been associated with which particular apparition, scent, or sound, and to collate the fragments into a whole in the most perfect manner to their great satisfaction, so long as those individuals lived. It had also been my desire to descend into those labyrinths. Man watches man, but yet is an obstacle despite all his attempts at understanding him. There were also certain visions and feelings that occupied other regions in people’s lives. In time, I was to have an insight into the importance of these regions once I learned how to keep up with them, despite my occasional escapades. What remained to be done, under the circumstances, was to know how to unearth clues, how to discover them and how to live the stories concealed behind appearances, in unidentifiable corners, by trying to live them, or at least, by making as though one had lived them, and, by daring to go on as though one was in pursuit of an elusive image. That was the only way to go beyond a stage play meant to be enacted for other people with scenes performed or represented through dialogue. I believe I have already mentioned the magic of certain outcomes one encounters in other tales as well.
    We had come together for the last time at Juliet’s house to commemorate Madame Estreya, who had lived elsewhere, in a different fashion, in compliance with the requirements of the path that had led her there. She died surrounded by other people, despite having reserved her last moments for herself, for herself alone. Nobody had considered her death as an ordinary death; nobody would be left cold in her absence in the proper sense of the word. Following the funeral, we had, as tradition required, come together for a repast, the procedure of which never changed, and which all the family members were supposed to attend. This was the last duty to be performed. Nobody could usurp this experience from anyone. Nobody . . . Not even life itself . . . Not even the lives that seemed a betrayal to certain people. This togetherness was at least an opportunity to experience anew those private moments we keep inside ourselves without disclosing them to others, trying to fit them into a shorter bracket of time. During the said repast, just like in all such cases, partly because of