Portrait of a Turkish Family by Irfan Orga Page A

house.
    So into the new house we went and strange indeed it was that first evening. There was the garden to be explored and the joy of discovering ripe pears and quince on the little trees, to open the garden gate which led to a path to our neighbour’s home and to a big field that was just waste ground, dotted here and there with a few stunted fig trees. Strange it was too to see Feride in the kitchen, to know that never again would one hear Hacer’s laughter or see her fat buttocks straining under her skirts. Strange to play in the dining-room for the last half-hour of the day before bed, although we discovered that a satisfactory ‘house’ could be made beneath the table. And then to go into the salon, with its tall, narrow windows fronting the hilly street, to see my mother and grandmother there, thoughtfully looking round them at the clumsy, heavy furniture made for a roomier house. And strangest of all it was to go up the stairs and see Mehmet’s little bed alongside mine – strange, but comforting nevertheless – and to hear İnci’s breathing all through the night, knowing she was there within call in the little scrap of room that opened off ours and was barely wide enough to hold her bed or the cupboard for her clothes.
    The newness wore off and we became accustomed to the sight of Feride in the kitchen and I still continued at school. One evening when I returned from school I saw that my mother had guests. I flung my satchel on the hall table, washed my hands and went into the salon, where my greater years or the slight relaxation of discipline now gave me the right to enter freely.
    A very elegant-looking lady was seated on the sofa, drinking Turkish coffee, and two children, about my own age, sat demurely with her. My light-hearted entrance was somewhat checked by their presence, for I had not realised children would be there. My mother, however, introduced me before I could turn tail and run to find İnci.
    ‘This is our neighbour, Madame Müjğan,’ she said and I had to step forward and kiss her hand. ‘This,’ continued my mother, bringing forward the girl, ‘is Yasemin and her brother, Nuri.’
    I bowed to them both, then retired a little shyly but my mother rang for İnci and we were told to go into the garden and play together.
    Once out of the presence of our elders, our shyness melted and we talked to each other freely. Nuri, I discovered, was two years older than me and Yasemin one year younger. From then on we frequently played with each other, our friendship being smiled upon by our elders. Nuri was very jealous of his sister and seemed to resent the quick friendship which sprang up between her and me. He would suddenly leave us in the middle of a game and go stalking off by himself to sulk. He was a heavy handsome boy, unable to bear the sight of his sister hero-worshipping somebody else. One day he and I had a fight and arrived at our homes with bloodstained noses and a couple of ripe black eyes. Our outraged parents forced us to apologise but, although we were civil enough before them, we continued the feud in private for many weeks.
    One other day stands out in the memory. Yasemin and I were playing alone together in our dining-room. We were playing the age-old game of ‘husbands and wives’ and I was proudly returning from my ‘work’, greeting her with a passionate kiss when a sharp slap on the backside put paid to that. İnci had discovered us and went to inform my mother, who apparently blushed deeply, locked me in my room and escorted a tearful Yasemin to her own home. It appears that the two ladies talked long and earnestly, later informing their husbands of this dark deed, and the upshot was that Yasemin and I were separated and forbidden to play with each other again.
    So Nuri got his sister back again. I would see them playing in their garden together, and if Yasemin were to catch sight of me she would give a little precocious, flirting tilt to her head, ignoring my