Portrait of a Turkish Family by Irfan Orga Read Free Book Online

be the first to go to the doctor.
    Then a clown appeared, dancing in and out between tables and chairs and playing a flute. Presently a second one came to join him. This one juggled deftly with oranges, and they both looked so funny with their exaggerated eyebrows, their white faces and red noses, that soon we were all laughing merrily and even I was beginning to forget my cowardice. An orchestra could be heard tuning up in the salon and then a woman’s voice broke out in a little plaintive melody that reminded me of Hacer.
    Suddenly I began to laugh louder than any and the clowns were delighted and redoubled their efforts to amuse us. But they did not know that I was laughing because I had had a vision of fat Hacer’s leaping, merry breasts. More and more clowns appeared and we eagerly crowded round them and they played gay little airs on their flutes and we children jigged light-heartedly about the room. The eldest of us, the son of the İmam, was very fat and pasty-faced and wore huge, disfiguring spectacles and suddenly one of the others snatched a clown’s hat and put it on his head. He looked so solemn and funny, with his eyes blinking owlishly behind the thick lens of his glasses, that we roared with spiteful laughter. He looked immeasurably silly and he just stood there quite still, whilst we shouted with laughter until the tears poured down our aching cheeks.
    The Colonel appeared in the doorway and told us to go upstairs. Clowns, laughter, excitement were all forgotten and even the orchestra no longer played from the salon. We all held our breaths and looked a little fearfully around us. My father came over and took my hand and we followed the others up the stairs. How slowly I took each stair! And how each one passed seemed to seal my doom inevitably!
    The fat boy was just in front of us with the İmam, his father, and he was saying: ‘Now there is nothing to be afraid of. You are the eldest boy here, therefore you must be the bravest and set an example to all the others.’
    But the poor fat boy only trembled violently and looked slack with fear. The room we entered was at the far end of a long corridor, a large room that overlooked the gardens. I remember that I looked out of one of the windows, across to our garden, and I saw İnci and Mehmet playing together on a rug which had been put out for them. I wished to run to them but there was no escape. My father’s hand held mine reassuringly. He had seen my involuntary glance through the window and I think he wanted me to know that he understood.
    In the room were eight beds, arranged dormitory-wise, four down each side. Each bed was covered with fresh linen, lace-edged pillows and a blue silk coverlet. In the centre of the room was a large table, loaded with sweetmeats and fruit and glasses for drinks. All the clowns had followed us and were dancing and tumbling all over the floor, playing their flutes, juggling with oranges and throwing their absurd, tall hats into the air. My father showed me my bed, for I was to sleep in this house for a day or two. It was under a window and I felt momentarily happier, for from here I could watch the garden and see İnci and Mehmet at their play. The doctor came in.
    Instinctively I glanced away from him and over to the fat boy. His cheeks were wobbling with terror and his knees trembling so violently beneath the long robe that I wondered how they ever supported him at all. His fear communicated itself to me. I wanted to run, to shout, to call for my mother, to feel the comfort of İnci’s arms about me. I looked at my father and felt my lower lip begin to quiver uncontrollably. He stooped over me and I still have the memory of his face, that kind gentle face, that lonely, shut-away face I loved so dearly. He was willing me to be brave and his fingers closed tightly over my icy hand.
    ‘It’s all right,’ he comforted me softly, so that the others should not hear. ‘Just be brave for one little minute more and then it