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Save this storySave this storyDefne and Mete were at the Moda promenade when they saw their old friend. It was so strange to run into him there that they didn’t immediately recognize him. They were with other people, about to find a bar where they could watch the Euro Cup semifinal.It was their first summer in Istanbul since they’d moved back the previous year. They’d gone to the waterfront in the late afternoon with Defne’s cousin Sinan, who had invited some of his friends, and the friends had brought along others. Soon, the group had taken up most of the grassy stretch behind the walkway, their beer cans, bags of chips, and pouches of tobacco scattered all around. A conservative-looking man had said something disparaging in their direction as he passed. “All right, uncle, you go on home now,” Sinan shouted at his back, much to Defne and Mete’s shock—both of them were still far too polite, as if they were visitors. But, instead of getting into a fight, the man simply continued walking. At one point, after the group had got flatbreads from a nearby bakery and more beer, someone suggested playing a game, and Mete downloaded Taboo on his phone; by the end of all the guessing, they had the feeling of having completely bonded, just as they used to at the parties of their youth.Read an interview with the author for the story behind the story.This was one reason that Defne and Mete had wanted to move back—for their families, of course, but also for the sake of a community that seemed more robust, far-reaching. Already, they’d met many new people; they could show up at any place in Cihangir and run into someone they knew. It was still the good times. Turks they’d known in the U.S. were also returning, with something like pride—as if they had chosen a noble path—though it was also true that many of them were from well-off families and were coming back for what looked like a prolonged holiday. Later, many of those acquaintances would leave again, some through their jobs, others by making investments in European countries which secured them citizenship.For half a decade, Defne and Mete had lived in and around San Francisco. It was a slight embarrassment to both of them that they’d met at a Turkish Society fund-raiser. They detested such events—the organized camaraderie, the explicit homesickness. They were both doctoral students in social sciences; they’d read far too much theory to be earnest about such things. They had mostly untangled the dogmas of their national education, and that meant doing away with any sentimental nationalism as well. But it was a fact that they were lonely—the researchers in their departments were engrossed in their own lives, and the city was impenetrable, intoxicated with its style. And so, whatever their misgivings, they had turned up at the event to be close to their countrymen.They’d stood next to each other during the welcome speech. Mete caught a sarcastic look on Defne’s face and leaned in to follow up with a joke. During dinner, they realized that they had both grown up in Etiler and that they had attended sister high schools. But they were careful not to make too much of these coincidences—they resisted nostalgia. Anyway, they both knew that these were not really coincidences at all but, rather, the rigid order of the world. Everyone from Turkey who ended up at a graduate school in the U.S. was bound to have attended one of four schools; it wasn’t impossible that their families were acquainted. This, too, was something of an embarrassment, as if it proved that they hadn’t ventured very far. But it was their cautious attitude that warmed them to each other, a sign that they were aligned in deeper ways than mere geography.There was a lot of food left over from the picnic, and Defne gathered everything in a bag to give to a homeless person, though there were not so many here, unlike in San Francisco. Besides, she was not entirely sure whether such a gesture was appropriate. But it was perfectly good food; it would be a shame to throw it away. Soon, she saw a man approaching her on the boardwalk, with many bags and many layers of clothes. She hastened toward him, an arm outstretched with the leftovers. The man lifted a hand, as if he were greeting her. Then he stopped and spoke.“Hey,” he said, “it’s you.”Her first thought was that the man was deranged. It was not so much his words but the calm look on his face, as if he were talking to someone in a dream. She had an instinct to turn away, but then the face of the stranger shifted.“Oh, my God,” she said. “Oh, wow. Aleksi.”Still, she could not shake off the bizarreness of the situation. More than the fact of seeing him after such a long time, it was the way he had spoken, as if he had known that she would be there.“What’re you doing here?” she asked.From the corner of her eye, she could see the rest of the group waiting for her. One of them said something to Mete, who started walking quickly toward them. He must have thought she was being held up by a homeless man, she realized, and he was coming to rescue her.“Mete,” she shouted preëmptively. “Look who I just found.”Aleksi raised his arm once again in greeting.Defne saw the look of bewilderment on Mete’s face, though he quickly composed himself.“Hey, man,” he said. “What the hell.”“I was wondering if I’d see you,” Aleksi said, maintaining that air of calmness, almost foreknowledge.The three of them stood in silence, trying to determine an appropriate next step.“Do you want to come watch the game?” Mete asked after a moment. “We’re with some people.”“Sure,” Aleksi said. “Who’s playing?”This was a surprise. Aleksi had always been more informed about football than any Turk. Back in San Francisco, he would get up in the middle of the night to watch European games, often persuading Mete to do the same.The group looked at them a bit quizzically when they introduced Aleksi as an old friend from California. Defne thought about her first impression, when she’d seen Aleksi walking toward her. His clothes were torn, unwashed. His hair had grown long, though not in any groomed or deliberate style. His skin was thick, like that of sailors or farmers, so tanned it looked dirty. But, more than this, it was his tranquillity that made him appear different, as if he were looking at them from another plane. Defne couldn’t recall whether he had always been like this, or whether he had indeed changed considerably.Defne and Mete had decided to move in together a few months after the fund-raiser. They were old enough to skip a prolonged courtship; they’d known from the very beginning that they were perfectly harmonious. They had no need to play games or tease things out. They were excited about getting a place of their own, putting up bookshelves, cooking meals, reading and writing together. But it was tricky to leave their separate tiny studios, which had been so difficult to find in the first place—the city and all its surrounding towns were expensive beyond belief.Quickly, they’d realized that there was nothing they could afford for just the two of them, so they began to look for shared houses, with some resignation. Even then, the options were few. They were about to settle for a dingy carpeted apartment with depressingly civilized house rules when they saw an ad for a room in a condo behind the Menlo Park train station. They were the first to arrive for the viewing; they wouldn’t have had a chance otherwise—what was on offer was too good to be true. The previous tenant, Amal, had been a Middle East scholar who’d moved to Lebanon for research. Defne knew her peripherally, because their areas overlapped. The remaining occupant, Aleksi, talked about her at some length—the little-known Sufi order that she was studying, how she would read every morning under a tree, her eclectic taste in music—as if trying to initiate them into her cult. Defne and Mete had the feeling that they had to live up to this woman their prospective housemate held in such esteem. Perhaps this was the reason they were so friendly with Aleksi from the outset, trying to prove themselves.Aleksi had lived in the condo for several years, though the place was mostly empty. There were no chairs or curtains, nothing in the living room on which to place a mug. Still, it wasn’t at all gloomy, like the other places they’d looked at. The few items of pottery in the kitchen cupboards were handmade. A wooden dining table had been painted white. When they came for the viewing there was a jar of daffodils on it, although it did not seem that Aleksi was precious about any of this; he seemed simply to have a natural sense of order and beauty.Most of the furniture that had once been there had belonged to Amal, they found out, and she’d put it all in storage when she’d left for Lebanon.“Isn’t that weird?” Defne said to Mete some weeks later at IKEA, after they had moved in. “Why not just let him keep it until she’s back?” She was already protective of their housemate, and suspicious of this other woman.Aleksi said he would split the cost of anything they bought, but he couldn’t come with them—it was his shift that afternoon at the bookstore where he worked. He said he trusted them with whatever they decided to buy, which endeared him to them even more. He’d cooked dinner for them their first night there; he’d said to help themselves to anything in the fridge. Defne and Mete couldn’t help but remark that Aleksi was just like a Turk, even though he had grown up in California. They’d never had such a friendship in their years in the U.S., though perhaps this was because they had been so focussed on their studies, on figuring things out.Aleksi had been a graduate student in philosophy, but he had taken a leave of absence the previous year and started working at the bookstore down the street. He wasn’t clear about his reasons for leaving school. He had obviously been very passionate about his area of study—their late-night conversations often turned to philosophy, particularly the question of subjective experience. If one could learn every possible property of a bat, the famous inquiry went, would one know what it felt like to be one? Aleksi was good at providing the various sides of an argument in order to ground them in the debate, though he would quickly skip ahead to his own convictions, which seemed untethered from academic frameworks. He’d been disillusioned by academia, he told them, but he never quite explained what, exactly, this disillusionment amounted to. Defne and Mete were aware of the problems, of course—the competition and inflated egos. In principle, they were all for Aleksi pursuing this other sort of life. He often commented on the fact that his work brought him face to face with “real” people, rather than the strange, inbred species that populated higher education. Still, Mete and Defne thought it would be best for Aleksi to get back to his doctorate. They were academics through and through; they could not envision another way with which to come to terms with the world.It had nonetheless been a shock for them when they started teaching in Istanbul. They were so used to the comforts of their graduate programs—the resources, the luxury to explore in a pure intellectual vacuum, detached from practical worries—that the everyday concerns of Turkish academia, its lack of funding and its political precarity, seemed an affront. Their colleagues were either exhausted or jaded; they appeared more concerned with getting through each day than with their research. Perhaps this was how it was everywhere—the longer one stuck around, steeped in hierarchies, the less noble the pursuit of knowledge became. Six months after they’d moved back, Defne was offered a position at a development agency. Of course she’d had some misgivings; the whole point of her training was to investigate without agenda, but she’d had so little time to do that at the university. And the salary was a relief. It was one thing to be graduate students in a house share and another to adapt to adult life in a metropolis. Defne hoped that Mete might consider a similar change—it saddened her to see how much he was struggling with the bureaucracy, how ardently he fought for his students and for grants, with so little in return.On their way to the bar, one of their group stopped to buy an ice cream, and everyone else decided to get one, too. The historic Ali Usta shop was a little farther down the street, but this was a new Italian place, with many unusual choices and toppings. The city had changed so much in the years they’d been abroad; it was a little disappointing that it now had all the same kinds of trendy businesses as San Francisco. While they were standing in line, Defne’s cousin, Sinan, asked how the three of them knew one another.“We lived together,” Defne said. “We must’ve told you about Aleksi.”“We had the best time,” Mete added. He was going to say something more but checked himself.“And what’re you doing in Istanbul?” Sinan asked Aleksi.
[IMG: Three children painting stilllifes of flowers while concerned teacher watches one child whose painting includes ghosts.]
Cartoon by Edward SteedCopy link to cartoonLink copiedShop“Nothing much,” Aleksi said. “I’m sort of wandering around.” He explained that he had been to India, Jordan, and Lebanon on this same trip.“Oh,” Defne said. “Did you see . . . what was her name? The old roommate. The one who took all the furniture.”It was a little awkward to talk in the register of their old friendship, though just as awkward not to.“Amal,” Aleksi said. “I saw her in Beirut, but it was brief.”“Did she rob you of any belongings?” Mete asked.“Grand theft furniture,” Defne jumped in. It was a joke they’d settled on soon into their cohabitation. At first, Aleksi had been defensive of the woman; later, his loyalties shifted.“No, she didn’t,” Aleksi said earnestly. “But she was a different person.”It was their turn to order, so they didn’t have a chance to ask him how this was so. Defne and Mete got a single scoop each. Aleksi declined their offer to get him one, too. Perhaps there was the slightest note of sarcasm in his demeanor—something about that shop, the exorbitant sum they’d just paid for those tiny cups. And perhaps it was to make up for this that, when Sinan led them all to a chic bar, Mete suggested going to the run-down place across the street instead, where the neighborhood men were gathered.Aleksi accepted the beer Mete bought him and watched the game with silent interest, though in the past he had offered commentary throughout. At halftime, he rolled himself a cigarette—or a joint, Defne couldn’t tell—from a large plastic bag, then walked away to smoke it.“Is that a grocery bag full of herbs?” Defne asked. “What on earth is he smoking?”She was increasingly startled by Aleksi, but Mete did not exactly acknowledge her alarm. He even seemed a little hurt that Aleksi hadn’t invited him to join, though it was true that he rarely smoked these day

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[IMG: The Fear Driving “Well, I’ll Let You Go” and “Othello”]
A new Off Broadway play and Shakespeare’s tragedy hinge on a universal anxiety: How well do you know your partner?By Emily Nussbaum
[IMG: The Redemption of “Vanessa,” a Neglected Operatic Masterpiece]
The Theatre
[H3] The Redemption of “Vanessa,” a Neglected Operatic Masterpiece
[IMG: The Redemption of “Vanessa,” a Neglected Operatic Masterpiece]
Samuel Barber’s 1958 opera was in disrepute for decades. A remarkable new production is the latest evidence of its rightful resurgence.By Russell Platt
[IMG: “Schmigadoon!” and “The Lost Boys” Are Killer Revamps]
The Theatre
[H3] “Schmigadoon!” and “The Lost Boys” Are Killer Revamps
[IMG: “Schmigadoon!” and “The Lost Boys” Are Killer Revamps]
Camp has become the go-to aesthetic for Broadway musicals. These two new shows dare to be sincere.By Emily Nussbaum
[IMG: Sharp Claws at “Becky Shaw” and “Cats: The Jellicle Ball”]
The Theatre
[H3] Sharp Claws at “Becky Shaw” and “Cats: The Jellicle Ball”
[IMG: Sharp Claws at “Becky Shaw” and “Cats: The Jellicle Ball”]
Gina Gionfriddo’s zinger-filled sex farce and the celebratory ballroom-culture adaptation of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s confounding musical are cathartic catnip.By Emily Nussbaum
[H2] Music
[IMG: Chaya Czernowin Gives Voice to a Wounded World]
Musical Events
[H3] Chaya Czernowin Gives Voice to a Wounded World
[IMG: Chaya Czernowin Gives Voice to a Wounded World]
The composer’s work, featured at a recent festival in Germany, includes a howling denunciation of war crimes against children.By Alex Ross
[IMG: Rostam Batmanglij Wanders to the Edges of American Sound]
Pop Music
[H3] Rostam Batmanglij Wanders to the Edges of American Sound
[IMG: Rostam Batmanglij Wanders to the Edges of American Sound]
The polymath musician, formerly of Vampire Weekend, likes to push our idea of what a pop song can be.By Amanda Petrusich
[IMG: The Death of Afrika Bambaataa and the Afterlife of Hip-Hop]
Critic’s Notebook
[H3] The Death of Afrika Bambaataa and the Afterlife of Hip-Hop
[IMG: The Death of Afrika Bambaataa and the Afterlife of Hip-Hop]
One of the originators of the genre now haunts it.By Doreen St. Félix
[IMG: The History of Jazz Has Instantly Expanded]
The Front Row
[H3] The History of Jazz Has Instantly Expanded
[IMG: The History of Jazz Has Instantly Expanded]
Newly released archival live performances by Ahmad Jamal, Joe Henderson, and Cecil Taylor illuminate their legacies and the art form at large.By Richard Brody
[H2] More in Culture
[IMG: “Greater New York” Takes the Pulse of the City]
Goings On
[H3] “Greater New York” Takes the Pulse of the City
[IMG: “Greater New York” Takes the Pulse of the City]
Also: the megawatt hip-hop of Baby Keem, the buzzy period reimaginings of Scottish Ballet, the time-capsule documentary “With Hasan in Gaza,” and more.By Zoë Hopkins, Brian Seibert, Sheldon Pearce, Hilton Als, Richard Brody, and Taran Dugal
[IMG: The Revolutionary Force of Sonny Rollins]
Postscript
[H3] The Revolutionary Force of Sonny Rollins
[IMG: The Revolutionary Force of Sonny Rollins]
In a career that spanned more than sixty years, the legendary jazz saxophonist’s name became synonymous with the art itself—and he never stopped pushing the genre forward.By Richard Brody
[IMG: Mark Ulriksen’s “Kings of New York”]
Cover Story
[H3] Mark Ulriksen’s “Kings of New York”
[IMG: Mark Ulriksen’s “Kings of New York”]
A historic season for the Knicks.By Françoise MoulyArt by Mark UlriksenListen
[IMG: Dana White Thinks Everyone’s a Fighter]
The New Yorker Interview
[H3] Dana White Thinks Everyone’s a Fighter
Listen
[IMG: Dana White Thinks Everyone’s a Fighter]
The U.F.C. president on his decades of friendship with Donald Trump, his relationship with Joe Rogan, and his “awesome” night at the White House Correspondents’ dinner.By David Remnick
[IMG: What Gets Kept]
The Weekend Essay
[H3] What Gets Kept
[IMG: What Gets Kept]
More than half a century after “On the Road,” Jack Kerouac is still a literary celebrity. But fame undid the man I knew.By Joyce Johnson
[IMG: What’s Missing from Belle Burden’s “Strangers”]
Page-Turner
[H3] What’s Missing from Belle Burden’s “Strangers”
[IMG: What’s Missing from Belle Burden’s “Strangers”]
One of the biggest books of the year weaves a tale of financial peril—but a review of court documents complicates the narrative.By Jessica Winter
[IMG: The Verve and Confrontation of Lisa Yuskavage’s Naked Ladies]
Critic’s Notebook
[H3] The Verve and Confrontation of Lisa Yuskavage’s Naked Ladies
[IMG: The Verve and Confrontation of Lisa Yuskavage’s Naked Ladies]
The women pop up again and again, in canvas after canvas, like a random intrusive thought that refuses to go away, or a masturbatory fixation that both disturbs and excites.By Naomi Fry
[IMG: How Raghu Rai Captured an India in Transition]
Photo Booth
[H3] How Raghu Rai Captured an India in Transition
[IMG: How Raghu Rai Captured an India in Transition]
The photographer, who died last month, at the age of eighty-three, spent his life chronicling the highs and lows of the country’s post-colonial evolution.By Taran Dugal
[IMG: Summer Culture Preview]
Goings On
[H3] Summer Culture Preview
[IMG: Summer Culture Preview]
What’s coming this season in TV, theatre, music, movies, dance, and art.By Inkoo Kang, Jillian Steinhauer, Richard Brody, Rhoda Feng, Marina Harss, Sheldon Pearce, and Jane Bua
[IMG: How Good Is This World Cup Squad, Really?]
The Lede
[H3] How Good Is This World Cup Squad, Really?
[IMG: How Good Is This World Cup Squad, Really?]
After a strong showing in Qatar, things seemed to fall apart for the U.S. men’s national team. Now the Yanks, led by the international star Christian Pulisic, have to find their footing before playing host this summer.By Leander SchaerlaeckensNext Page