Motherland Hotel Read online

  “This moving and unsettling portrait of obsession run amok might have been written in 1970s Turkey, when social mores after Ataturk were still evolving, but it stays as relevant as the country struggles to save the very democratic ideals on which the Republic was rebirthed.” — Booklist, Starred Review

  “…as Zeberjet becomes increasingly unhinged, we’re drawn into his dark interior life while coming to understand Turkey’s post-Ottoman uncertainty. Sophisticated readers will understand why Atılgan is called the father of Turkish modernism.” — Library Journal

  “An unsettling study of a mind, steeped in violence, dropping off the edge of reason.” — Kirkus Reviews

  “Yusuf Atılgan, like Patrick Modiano, demonstrates how the everyday can reflect larger passions and catastrophes. Beautifully written and translated, Motherland Hotel can finally find the wider audience in the west that it deserves.” — Susan Daitch, author of The Lost Civilization of Suolucidir

  “My heroes are Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar, Oğuz Atay, and Yusuf Atılgan. I have become a novelist by following their footsteps … I love Yusuf Atılgan; he manages to remain local although he benefits from Faulkner’s works and the Western traditions.” — Orhan Pamuk

  “Motherland Hotel is a startling masterpiece, a perfect existential nightmare, the portrait of a soul lost on the threshold of an ever-postponed Eden.” — Alberto Manguel, author of A History of Reading

  “Yusuf Atılgan gives us a wonderful, timeless novel about obsession, with an anti-hero who is both victim and perpetrator, living out a life ‘neither dead nor alive’ in a sleepy Aegean city. Motherland Hotel is an absolute gem of Turkish literature.” — Esmahan Aykol, author of Divorce Turkish Style

  Motherland Hotel

  A NOVEL

  Yusuf Atılgan

  Translated from the Turkish by Fred Stark

  City Lights Books | San Francisco

  Copyright © 2017 by City Lights Books

  All rights reserved

  Translation copyright © 2017 by the Estate of Fred Stark

  Motherland Hotel was originally published in Turkish as Anayurt Oteli in 1973 by Bilgi, and is currently published by Yapi Kredi Yayinlari, Istanbul.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Atılgan, Yusuf, author. | Stark, Fred, 1939-2013, translator.

  Title: Motherland Hotel / Yusuf Atilgan; translated by Fred Stark.

  Other titles: Anayurt Oteli. English

  Description: San Francisco : City Lights Publishers, 2016.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016018905 (print) | LCCN 2016029637

  (ebook) | ISBN 9780872867116 (paperback) | ISBN 9780872867123 (eISBN) | ISBN 9780872867123

  Subjects: LCSH: Single men—Turkey—Fiction. | Psychological fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Urban Life. Classification: LCC PL248.A77 A8213 2016 (print) | LCC PL248.A77 (ebook) | DDC 894/.3533—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016018905

  City Lights Books are published at the City Lights Bookstore

  261 Columbus Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94133

  www.citylights.com

  Translator’s Introduction

  The appeal of Motherland Hotel to the Western reader should be two-fold. First, it presents small-town life in Turkey as something other than a long costumed vendetta. Second, there is a rare marriage of attitudes in the novel—oriental concern, even obsession, with pattern; intellectual assumptions recognizably European and 20th-century; and an “everyday-ness” (each culture has its own) which is thoroughly Turkish, or Aegean Turkish to be exact.

  Exactness is the byword for this novel. As a precise study in mental disturbance it was for a time required reading for psychiatry students in Ankara’s major hospital-university complex. As an exercise in strict purity of form—here that love of pattern finds expression—it came as a statement of artistic integrity at a time of political and social turmoil when very few writers in Turkey dared to veer from overt commentary. Not that Motherland Hotel is devoid of political implications, but they are implied, not brandished at the reader.

  A few things we are assumed to know: Turkey was occupied by various foreign powers during and after the First World War. It was only through the passion and genius of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk that a militia was rallied and, against the heaviest continual odds, inspired to drive the occupying forces out. The “Liberation” referred to in the novel is the final push that ended on September 9, 1922, with the Greek army trapped in the bay at Izmir. The “Republic” is again the work of Atatürk. Given a base of near worship1 by his war successes, he was able to impose Western-style democracy on a people who had known five centuries of autocratic rule under the sultans. Reforms in clothing, the alphabet and women’s rights quickly followed, but of course the cultural patterns of half a millennium are not altered overnight. The extent to which Turkey has and has not freed itself from the past is, in fact, one of the background themes of Motherland Hotel.

  As to the rest, the book will speak for itself.

  Fred Stark

  Ankara 1977

  1. Which persists. This was brought home to the translator in a hotel one morning when honking horns and a loud siren made me think war was on. Then I noticed a plasterer down the hall standing at respectful attention. It was 9:05 a.m., November 10th, the anniversary of Atatürk’s death in 1938, and it is with this minute of horns and sirens that the occasion is observed each year throughout Turkey.

  FORMS OF ADDRESS

  Men

  Women

  bey

  hanim

  the mantle of money and position

  abi

  abla

  literally, “big brother, big sister”; very widely used to show a familiar kind of respect

  efendi

  term of formalized condescension

  agha

  term of maximum respect among peasants

  usta

  title bestowed on the artisan

  (auto mechanic, plumber, etc.)

  Thus a peasant named Kerim who settles in Istanbul to be an apartment-house janitor will refer to its residents as Bey and Hanim, as they will refer to each other while calling him Kerim Efendi. If he has to address a cop it will be as abi. All, however, is made up for at home, where his wife speaks to Kerim as agha.

  Note that Agha as an actual title implies a kind of feudal overlordship, and as such has disappeared from western Turkey.

  ZEBERJET, CLERK AT THE Motherland Hotel, let himself into the room where on Thursday, three nights before, she had stayed—the woman off the delayed train from Ankara. Turning the key and placing it in his pocket, he leaned back against the door to survey the room. Everything was just as she had left it: the quilt thrown back, the rumpled sheet, the slippers, the chair, the reading lamp on the bedside table, two half-smoked cigarettes stubbed out in the copper ashtray, the teapot, strainer, tea-glass and spoon, the small dish with its five lumps of sugar (that night he had brought her six Could I have some tea she’d asked and he had brewed it in the three-serving pot then tray in hand had knocked Come in she sat there on the edge of the bed coat off black sweater necklace of large silver balls she’d looked up Sorry for the trouble and asked how to reach that village Then wake me at eight casually saying she carried no ID. The next morning he had noticed the scent on entering and quickly shut the door. She had left the light on. He’d taken note of the towel over the foot of the bedstead, the thrown-back quilt, the rumpled sheet, the slippers, the chair, the reading lamp on the bedside table, two half-smoked cigarettes stubbed out in the copper ashtray, the teapot, strainer and tea-glass, the small dish with its lumps of sugar. Counting, “She takes one.” But that scent was gone now, perhaps was gone the night before, though
ever since her departure [setting down a small leather suitcase that morning to open her purse What does it come to Never mind the change no ring on Well thanks so much then for the tea too picked up her suitcase and left] the door had been locked and the key in his own pocket. Except that after waiting the whole day till midnight when all the guests were in, after locking and barring the main door [the bell had rung he’d opened she at the door coat unbuttoned suitcase in hand Do you have a room and he strode to the key rack] he’d been switching off the lobby light and coming here for three nights now), her towel forgotten on the foot of the bedstead, the gold-fringed maroon curtain, the sink and over it the round mirror (where the morning she had left he caught his face. Everything down-turned there—tips of eyebrows, corners of mouth, nose. He had studied the face, its small, square mustache; though he did shave three times a week This was the face she had looked at that night [easing down the tea tray, leaving to re-lock and bar the main door, he had set the alarm for six—though he always woke up at six—turned off the light and, clock in hand, had gone past her door, carefully treading the linoleum-covered stairs to the attic with its two rooms {the maid’s room, rank with sweat. She sleeps a great deal, turns in early. Every morning he has to shake her awake. At night he’ll come in as a rule and lie with her. To sleep undisturbed she beds with no underthings and with legs slightly apart. When he strokes her, even when he’s on her, she goes on sleeping. Sometimes he’ll bite a nipple and she mumbles “Ow” or “Scat.” When he’s through he climbs off and uses a handkerchief to wipe her dry} and had chosen his own room. He had set the clock within reach on the floor, undressed and gone to bed. A while later, when the bed shuddered from a car passing below, he sat up. He’d forgotten to wash his feet. Every night he washed them before bed. He got up, washed his feet, and came back. Sat on the edge of the bed for a time. “Suppose she hasn’t locked the door. Someone could open it by accident.” He dressed and went to the stairs, descended quietly, and stood beside her door. Keyhole dark. He held his breath listening, heartbeat painful. Slowly, pausing frequently, he turned the smooth round knob clockwise and tested the door with his shoulder. Locked. His breathing steadied and he turned the knob back, again slowly, again intermittently pausing, and let it go; then climbed deliberately up the stairs, went into the maid’s room, and switched on the light. The quilt lay motionless. From under it poked her feet, big, the soles black. He snapped off the light and withdrew, shutting the door on his way out, then went back to his room and lay down fully clothed: awake all night long, alarm might fail, might sleep through] and the same face she had seen that morning. Toward eight he had put the kettle on the kerosene burner. At eight exactly he approached her door but paused to let her sleep the extra minute. Then knocked. “That’s fine, I’m getting up.” He brewed the tea, straightened his tie, sat down in his chair. The thick register lay before him. He could hardly ask her name now that she was about to leave. She had pulled her door shut and was coming toward the desk. Black hair, unbuttoned brown coat, smoke-gray stockings, low-heeled shoes. She set down the small leather suitcase to open her purse asking, “What does it come to?” Then, “Never mind the change.” No ring on. Long, palely pink nails. “Well thanks so much then. For the tea, too.” She picked up her suitcase and left. As she was going through the doorway that man came in, small leather suitcase in hand. His face looked boneless. “Do you have a room?” “Yes.” “A good one if possible. The room that woman had, who just left.” “She hasn’t checked out, sir. She’s staying on.” “All right, another one then.” He fished an ID from his pocket, the standard birth certificate booklet, and laid it on the hotel register. “Occupation?” “Put down retired officer.” Zeberjet took a key from the rack and handed it across. “Room 2, second floor. On your left at the top of the stairs.” For the past three days this man had spent his afternoons and evenings in a corner of the lobby, reading books and newspapers, smoking, glancing up whenever the door opened. After eleven p.m. he would go up to his room. Last night, as Zeberjet was emptying the ashtray at his side, the man had seemed to have a question. Tonight it had been asked. He had come in late and stopped on the way up, breathing the boozy licorice fumes of raki. Their eyes had met. “You looked better with a mustache.” Was he being funny? That morning Zeberjet hadn’t been able to bring himself to shave it off. He smiled. “Doesn’t she ever leave her room?” “Who?” “You know, that woman the day I arrived. Friday morning as I came…. ” “Oh, her. She’s checked out, sir. Yesterday morning.” “Checked out? Where was she going?” “I wouldn’t know, sir. She didn’t say.”) with hand-stitched flowers at top and bottom, the hotel towel on a hook to the mirror’s right, the lampshade at the end of a lead pipe that hung from the ceiling, the baroquely framed painting centered on the right-hand wall: a full-hipped, well-endowed woman all in lace reclining on a wide, highly ornate couch while two half-naked black girls stood on either side of her with fans. “A choice bit of harem-snatch,” the Dentist had said. Zeberjet’s father had brought it home from the flea market one day long ago and hung it up. “Son, when I’m dead and gone I don’t want you giving this room to just anyone who comes along. Every hotel needs a room like this.” He pulled himself away from the door and went over to the picture where he stood awhile looking. As he turned back toward the mirror there were stirrings from the room up above where that fellow was staying. He listened. Creak of floorboards, sound of water. ‘Must be washing his face. Has he thrown up?’ He looked at his reflection, mustached as usual, but with the effect of a slight tilt now to the nose. Turning again he went to the bedside. There were darkish stains on the pillowcase. What was she doing in that village? His knees felt shaky and he reached for the foot of the bed, but steadied and moved away. He left the bulb burning as he went out, locked the door, and headed upstairs. Some man was snoring in the double on the second floor. Putting out the hall light he stood by the door of Room 6 and listened. Not a sound. When he reached the top of the stairs to the attic there was a pair of eyes gleaming at floor level across from him. They belonged to the hotel cat.

  The Town

  or city. By day a westbound rail passenger, absorbed in the newspaper or chatting with his seatmate, when the train slows will wonder where they are and, glancing left, be startled. A mountain, its upper half sheer granite, is like a wave about to break over the train. The town (or city), with its minarets and broad, shady streets, spreads across the gentle slopes at the foot of this mountain. (The broad streets, parks and parade ground all date from the Fire. In early September of 1922 the Greek army had set this town to the torch before withdrawing. Old-timers say that if just one gunman in each neighborhood had shown his face, then nothing would have burned. Almost everyone fled to the mountain, where all that day and night they watched the great Fire.) A green and yellow plain stretches away north of the town. Along it flows a river, winding sluggishly in the summer months, murkily swelling in the winter. The plain boasts vineyards, cotton and wheat fields, and villages of some size.

  The Hotel

  is one of the buildings, spared the torch because wealthy Greeks had lived in the district, that stand opposite a street connecting the main avenue with the square behind the station. Three-stories, it was originally a manor house. (When Rüstem Bey of the Kecheji line—the “cloth-merchant” family—settled in Izmir after the Fire he turned his house into a hotel at the insistence of Ahmet Efendi, who was formerly a clerk with Vital Statistics. In time a washstand came to be installed in each room, a toilet on each floor. The lobby, halls, stairs and wooden flooring of the rooms were meanwhile being carpeted with linoleum. As the years went by and that small-town-hotel odor seeped into the walls and woodwork, Rüstem Bey’s old manor house turned into a real hotel. According to him it had been his grandfather, Melik Agha, who built the house in the previous century. On the doorway arch now covered by the hotel sign there was supposed to be an inscription in relief on white marble. Conforming to neither classical nor syllabic meter—some local hac
k poet, cadging a livelihood by churning out rhymes whenever a death or birth among the town gentry required, must have hit a creative snag when the manor house was ready—the jingle etched into the stone under that sign was, as reported, somewhat odd:

  One two and a double face

  Kecheji’s son Malik’s place

  In Arabic numerals one followed by two and then two circles reads twelve fifty-five; eighteen thirty-nine by the modern calendar.)

  The front of the hotel on the avenue side is painted ochre. Three marble steps rise to a double door with their glass upper halves protected by iron bars. Flanking the door are two large windows, also barred—unlike those on the other floors. A tin sign hangs on the arch above the door, in white lettering on a dark green background: THE MOTHERLAND HOTEL. (An emblem perhaps of the shamefaced patriotic zeal to be found, during the years just after Liberation, in those towns and cities where very little had been done about the enemy.) Across from the door as you go in there is a stairway to the second floor with a carved wooden banister, and to its left a room that serves as a combination pantry, linen closet and tea galley. (In the village to which the woman off the delayed train from Ankara asked directions, Rüstem Bey had an acquaintance whose son, the same age as Zeberjet, used to stay in this room during the winter while in secondary and high school. Later, with Zeberjet in the army, his father had moved in down here, and in fact it was the handiest room for the clerk. But when his father died Zeberjet hadn’t moved down. He kept his old quarters where at one time he had made a habit of reading library books and jerking off to visions of high school girls’ gym class.) Between this cubicle and the foot of the stairs, a wooden armchair and a high half-moon-shaped desk stand on a platform. (The burly, loquacious dentist who stays for a couple of nights every year when the Party convention brings him from a distant county calls this Zeberjet Efendi’s rostrum.) Next to this is a long, narrow table and on it, flush with the wall, an iron safe. Beneath the stairs a windowed door opens onto the back yard. The lobby has a pair of low square tables hedged round with black leather-upholstered armchairs, four to a table. Two lead pipes hang from the ceiling and end in lampshades. A full-length portrait of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk on the righthand wall, and just as you start upstairs, a door on the right bearing the numeral 1. Walls and doors alike are done in off white—paint, not limewash. To the right of the main door a rectangular placard: Door Locked After Midnight. One flight up on the left are a single and a triple, and on the right a double, a triple, and the toilet. The third floor is a replica of this. At each side of the three midway landings a window looks out onto the yard. The attic has a bathroom and kitchen on the right, and two slope-ceilinged rooms on the left with small lights and their view of the neighboring roof. In the enclosed yard, an open shed on the left runs along one of the three high stone walls. Here the maid does her weekly wash. If it’s raining she drapes her sheets and other laundry over two thick lines strung the length of the shed. A large iron gate, rusty and discolored, opens from the yard onto a street. Next to the righthand wall are a stable and quarters for coachman and groom. (At the head of the street leading from the station square hangs a dark green tin arrow with HOTEL lettered in white, nailed to a pine tree. But one of the nails—eroded through over the years—has sheared off, so the sign points downwards giving the impression that the hotel lies underground.)