Silent House by Orhan Pamuk Read Free Book Online Page A

felt as kids, but it didn’t last. We went downhill without saying a word, and made our way through the noisy sunburned crowds in their shorts and bathing suits. As Metin was opening the garden gate, Nilgün said, “Honk the horn, Faruk.”
    I put the car in the garden and looked glumly over the house, which seemed older and emptier each time I came. The paint on the woodwork was all peeling, the vines had crept from the side wall to the front, the shadow of the fig tree fell on Grandmother’s closed shutters, and the wrought iron on the downstairs windows was completely rusted. I had a strange feeling: it was as if there were terrible things in this house that I had never apprehended before owing to familiarity but that I was now recognizing with surprise and anxiety. I peered into Grandmother and Recep’s damp, deadly interior darkness, which was visible between the decrepit wings of the big front door they’d left open for us.
    “Come on, get out, Faruk, what are you sitting there for?” said Nilgün.
    Walking straight toward the house, she saw Recep’s little figure pop out of the small kitchen door and waddle eagerly toward us. They exchanged hugs and kisses. I turned off the radio that nobodywas listening to and got out into the silent garden. Recep was in that jacket he always wore to hide his age and that same weird tie of his. We embraced and kissed as well.
    “I was worried,” said Recep. “You’re late!”
    “How are you?”
    “Oh,” he said, bashful about being asked, “I’m good. I made your beds and prepared your rooms. Madam is waiting. Have you put on some weight, Faruk Bey?”
    “How’s Grandmother?”
    “Fine … as long as she can complain … Let me take your bags.”
    “We’ll get them later.”
    We followed Recep upstairs. As I was reminded of the dusty light inside the house that seeped through the shutters and the smell of mildew, I felt somehow happy. When we came to Grandmother’s door, Recep stopped for a minute, caught his breath, then, with his eyes gleaming calculated cheerfulness, he called out:
    “They’re here, Madam, they’ve arrived!”
    “Where are they?” said the irritated old grandmother voice. “Why didn’t you tell me, where are they?”
    She was lying under a blue flowered quilt, leaning back on three pillows propped one behind the other, in the bed whose brass knobs I used to tap to make them ring when I was a child. One by one, we kissed her hand, which was white and soft, the familiar moles and spots on its wrinkled skin like old friends. The room, Grandmother, and the hand all had the same smell.
    “God give you long life!”
    “How are you, Grandma?”
    “Terrible,” said Grandmother, but we didn’t say anything. Her lips twitched a little, as if she were a shy young girl or pretending to be. Then she said, “Okay, now, what have you got to say for yourselves?”
    As we three siblings looked at one another there was a long silence. The room smelled of mildew, furniture wax, old soap, maybe mint candy, a little lavender, cologne, and dust.
    “Well, don’t you have anything to say to me?”
    “We came here by car, Grandmother,” said Metin. “It’s exactly fifty minutes from Istanbul.”
    He says this every time, and every time Grandmother’s stubborn face seems distracted for a moment before resuming its expectant expression.
    “How long did it used to take you, Grandmother?” said Nilgün, as if she didn’t know.
    “I just came once!” said Grandmother with triumphant pride. She took a breath and added: “And today I’ll ask the questions, not you!” She seemed to like this phrase she used habitually but then struggled for a moment, unable to think of anything as clever as she wanted.
    “So how are you?”
    “We’re fine, Grandmother!”
    As if she’d suffered some defeat, her face turned furious. And I remembered being afraid of that face when I was little.
    “Recep, put a pillow behind my back!”
    “You have all the