Gokcen Ergene

I can’t remember your name. We must’ve been around 4 or 5 as my brother wasn’t born yet. You lived across the hall and our mothers would meet for tea daily, sometimes even twice, chatting about what Turkish mothers used to chat about in the early 80s; should there be another coup? Does it matter? Do their jeans still fit after all those years? How does the Greek moussaka differ from the Turkish? How much sugar for the baklava?

I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t like days when we came over and we had to play in your room while they had their little tea party. Your room was full of girl stuff and light colors. You’d tell me the names of your dolls. (What were you thinking?) I also remember you had a bunkbed which confuses me to this day; you didn’t have any siblings. But I learned something incredibly important and precious then; I would make such a fuss and constantly bother our moms, yell and scream about how I didn’t want to play with your toys and that your room was boring. Once I created enough of a commotion, they’d eventually take you and me to our apartment so they could continue their festivity in peace at yours. So on such lucky days, my obnoxious behavior would lead me to get you alone, at my place!

Once we got to our place, I’d learn my second precious lesson; girls do NOT care about cars. My impressive line of Matchbox BMWs and Mercedes could not even make you pretend to care, even when I’d line them up on dad’s expensive record player and make them turn, you didn’t care, you just didn’t, little stupid cars are turning on a record player; how great!

Then came the third precious lesson and it was for both of us: Once I’d run out of ideas on how to make you remotely interested in my life and what I liked doing, perhaps combined with your prediction that I didn’t care if your favorite doll was Ayşe, Barbie or Leyla, a little light appeared to both of us.

Dear, I can’t ever forget that moment; the door. Look at the door: pairs of shoes, many pairs, my mother’s, my father’s, grown up shoes! Within seconds, you and I rushed to the door and before I could even have a chance to pick ones I like, you had my mother’s heels on and I was standing in my father’s dress shoes. It felt good! So good, so fair that we didn’t even question what was next. This was it; we had found it, a little door to reality, an understanding of how we can actually spend time together. So simple; we had to play the same game. Nothing would ever be that simple again. You looked so good in heels.

After that moment and with our grown up shoes on, everything was easy, the rest came by itself. We moved to the living room, sat by the window, your legs crossed like a lady and mine crossed like a man; ankle to knee. “Tell me dear, how was your day at work?” “Oh it was fine, you know how it is these days. How are the children? Did they do their homework?” I know it sounds funny but I can’t laugh right now. That revelation of reality, pure, straightforward authenticity stops my ability to laugh at it. Eventhough the shoes were not ours, eventhough our children were fake, our marriage secret and uncertified, one never finds such honesty in life like we did that day. I was a dentist of course, just like dad and we had one son and one daughter but I remember discussing it; I was set on one son, you added the daughter. “Bi de kızımız olsun.”

Hours went by that window, watching the world go by and conversing so lightly, so necessarily easy. I remember you going to the kitchen and getting two coffee cups, asking if I would take it with sugar tonight. You brought our coffee and the conversation went on and on as we sipped the imaginary coffee. I must admit you made great coffee, dear. I can’t even begin to count how many times we did this; different shoes, different stories from the dentist’s office, I think you even cooked me an imaginary moussaka once. The Greek and the Turkish recipe made no difference to us and your baklava tasted incredible. We never had to invent another game and each time was as good as the first, that was love.

Then time past and my brother was born; it ruined everything. We had to move to a bigger apartment, just down the same street but I never saw you again. I thought I fell in love once more in 3rd grade; she was a redhead and would wink at me from across the classroom; I felt very special and forgot about you. Few months later, I caught her winking at another boy. I didn’t care that much really. After all, it was just a flirt; nothing real. I forgot about her quickly. I am 31 now and the rest of my story is irrelevant so I won’t bother you with it.

Well dear, I just wanted to tell you I haven’t forgotten our marriage despite I can’t remember your name. I hope I never do remember your name and you don’t read this and we never find each other. You probably didn’t tell your husband you were married before. I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.