Panait Istrati’s Istanbul [A View from Neranțula]

Neranțula, (also known as Nerranțsula), one of Panait Istrati’s most poignant and heartfelt works, is a novella that forms part of his larger literary universe revolving around themes of friendship, love, and social struggle. The story reflects Istrati’s unique ability to blend personal experiences with broader social commentary, set against the backdrop of the Balkans.

The novella centers on the narrator’s (Marco) friendship (and hopeless love) with Neranțula, a fiery and free-spirited Greek girl, and Epaminondas, her equally rebellious lover. They live in Brăila, a port town on the Danube River, where their lives are shaped by hardship, love, and their longing for freedom. Neranțula, a symbol of vitality and defiance, captures the narrator’s admiration with her zest for life and refusal to conform to societal norms. Her lover Epaminondas mirrors this spirit, embodying resilience in the face of adversity.

As the story unfolds, the narrator recounts his memories of their lives intertwined with the struggles of the working-class community in Brăila. Themes of poverty, inequality, and the yearning for dignity permeate the narrative. The novella is both a celebration of the beauty and strength of ordinary people and a lamentation of the harsh realities they endure.

Neranțula also touches upon the idea of impermanence – how time and circumstances inevitably separate friends, leaving only memories of past connections. Istrati’s evocative descriptions of the Balkans, his nuanced characters, and his humanist perspective make Neranțula a deeply moving and timeless exploration of friendship, resilience, and the pursuit of freedom.

This work, like much of Istrati’s writing, reflects his own experiences of wandering through the Balkans and his sympathy for marginalized communities, creating a narrative rich in emotion and social relevance.

In Neranțula, Panait Istrati briefly but vividly mentions Istanbul (Constantinople) during a reflective moment in the narrator Marco’s life. After a period of weariness and disillusionment, Marco decides to leave Alexandria and travel, stopping in Istanbul on his way to Romania. This visit becomes a contemplative and restorative experience for him.

Marco describes Istanbul as a city unlike any other, a rare place that never bores the sensitive soul. He portrays it as both joyful and melancholic, comparing it to a sincere poem that encapsulates life’s contrasts. He admires its beauty and vibrancy, particularly the Bosphorus, which he claims has the unique ability to infuse even a simple melody with heroic fervor.

For Istrati, Istanbul is more than a geographical setting; it becomes a symbol of inspiration and introspection. The city’s rich history, cultural diversity, and poetic ambiance provide Marco with a brief escape from his inner turmoil and a connection to something larger than himself. This depiction aligns with Istrati’s broader literary themes of travel, self-discovery, and finding solace in the beauty of the world.

From Brăila to Alexandria to Istanbul: A Search for Solace in Neranțula

… But one day, when I could no longer stand on my feet, I neatly packed my bags and set off for Romania…

“Come on, Marco,” I said to myself, “let’s relive a little of the past! Let’s refresh our dreams!” Since the news Aurel had received about their escape from Brăila, I had heard nothing about Neranțula and Epaminondas. Not that I ever tried to find out anything. What would be the point?

The dead, twice dead, are those who disappear!

I took the steamer from Alexandria and headed straight to Constantinople, where I decided to stay for a week on business.

And there I was… Like a boy. Wandering a little here and there, because I love Constantinople. It is one of the rare cities in the world that never bore a sensitive soul: it is like a poem -joyful and sad- but sincere in both cases. Only the Bosphorus knows how to fill a simple melody with heroic fervor. And only in Constantinople…

At every step, you can hear the most beautiful, the most profound, the most inexpressible sigh a crushed soul can produce: the famous “aman, bre!” of the Turk and all Orientals who speak his language (see notes 1 below this article).

Yes, this sigh, you hear it at every step, always making you startle, because it always comes from the heart, like the usual melody passionately sung by a cheerful boatman on the Bosphorus. That’s Turkey. Aman, bre!

Istanbul and its soul…

For instance, you see two men, wearing fezzes and European-style clothing, silently strolling along a quay bathed in the glow of the sunset:

“Aman, bre!” exclaims one of them, perhaps knowing why. The other, immediately pointing to the cheerful boatman, says:

“How beautifully he sings! Don’t you agree?”

I like Constantinople very much. And as I stayed that evening to savor my coffee and hookah, I suddenly heard behind me:

“Aman, bre!”

Do you think I flinched? No, but my hair stood on end because it was Epaminondas who had sighed like that!

There he was, standing, one shoulder leaning against the frame of an open door. A shaved, wrinkled, worn-out Epaminondas, looking like a vagabond who sleeps under bridges. Bareheaded, one hand in his pocket, the other twirling a string of prayer beads between his fingers, he stared blankly ahead and sighed once more:

“Aman, bre!”

“Epaminondas!” I shouted, throwing down my pipe.

He slowly turned his head, recognized me, and said, as if we had parted calmly just the day before:

“Ah… It’s you… Marco…”

I rushed toward him:

“Neranțula! Where is Neranțula?”

“Oh!” he said with a dull, vacant smile. “You still call her Neranțula! She’s in there… inside. But now… she’s only called Anicuța.”

That now… It weighed heavier than a thousand gallows.

“Who are you talking to, Epaminondas?” A voice rang out – so familiar that I could barely remain standing. Crushed by Epaminondas now, I had no desire to run, to flee, and to never again see Constantinople, the city I loved so much.

Anicuța appeared, and I collapsed into a chair.

She had aged… That was all I could grasp at a glance.

Seeing me, she let out a scream and disappeared back inside.

Like an automaton, I followed to find her. She was crying, face buried in her hands, sprawled across the “workbench” in the back of the shop.

“Is it true that he’s dead?” she groaned, her head buried in the pillow.

“Dead… Anicuța… Once and for all… He.”

In my gloomy hotel room, I couldn’t close my eyes all night. Neranțula’s words, as she told me about Epaminondas, echoed endlessly in my ears:

“He’s never slept with me. And he still believes he’s stopping me from going with clients. But, since he no longer has the money he had in Brăila to pay the landlady, I give it to him. It’s amusing to watch him paying her fifty centimes when she charges at least two francs. Of course, I always convinced him that he was still stopping me from ‘doing wrong,’ as he says. But I do whatever I want because he doesn’t notice anything – he’s so dulled by his constant ‘aman, bre…'”

Epaminondas had dulled himself completely, as our beautiful Neranțula used to say…

“Aman, bre!” I sighed in turn… Constantinople…

Constantinople…

At her request, I had promised to return the next day around noon, even though, at the very moment of parting, I had resolved to disappear without seeing her again. But, in the morning, through some terrible and devilish will, I fell into a deep sleep and didn’t wake until violent knocks rattled my door. It was five in the evening. I opened the door: Anicuța and Epaminondas! I have no idea how they tracked me down. Then again, it wasn’t too difficult, since I was staying in Galata, not far from them.

“So, that’s it, huh!” she shouted, loud enough for all the neighbors to hear. “You’ve been out all night, having fun!”

I dressed and left the hotel. Outside, Anicuța insisted I go see Constantinople. I let myself be dragged along like a sheep to the slaughterhouse, hearing and seeing nothing but this Epaminondas, dressed as if it were Sunday. With the air of a retired asylum inmate, his silence, and his dull smiles, he drew everyone’s attention.

Only once, during lunch, did he open his mouth, braying like a donkey:

“Marco! Isn’t Anicuța lovely?!”

“Yes, my friend, she’s lovely. But shut up already!”

“Why are you scolding him?” Anicuța intervened. “He loves me so much, the poor thing!”

“Of course! That’s why I told him not to shout her name out loud, so people wouldn’t stare at him, bewildered!”

And so, here we were, at last, standing on the edge of fate’s preordained script, waiting for it to unfold.

“Come on, Marco!” she said to me. “Let’s take a boat ride on the Bosphorus… It’s so beautiful in the evening!”

I eagerly agreed, fearing she might instead invite me to some theater. We climbed into the boat without a boatman – I rowed.

The Bosphorus was as silent as a graveyard. Along the Golden Horn, tiny lights flickered, like shivering souls… A few voices could be heard… But no songs… No laments…

We rowed far, in silence. They both sat at the stern, entwined like two lovers. Epaminondas, especially, held her tightly around the waist. I could barely make out their faces.

“Marco!” she said… “Do you remember this song:
‘On the seashore, on the pebbles, Neranțula fundoti!
A girl rinses her skirt, Neranțula fundoti!'”

“Aman, bre!” I shouted. “Help!”

But around us, there was no living soul. Only endless darkness and lights flickering in the distance.

“Why are you shouting for help, Marco?!” she asked, puzzled.

I’m certain she stood up, intending to come and kiss me. She took just one step in the boat.

With a sudden motion, like the swing of a scythe, Epaminondas wrapped his arm around her waist and vanished with her into the black water.

He never resurfaced. Fearful that someone might take the chosen one from his heart, he disappeared forever.

[End of the novella Neranțula]

Panait Istrati

Panait Istrati (August 10, 1884 – April 16, 1935) was a Romanian writer celebrated for his vivid portrayals of the struggles, hopes, and humanity of the working class. Known as “The Maxim Gorky of the Balkans,” Istrati wrote in both French and Romanian, achieving international recognition for his heartfelt and honest literary voice.

Born in Brăila, Romania, to a Romanian mother and a Greek father, Istrati’s early life was marked by poverty and hardship. His father died when he was young, and he grew up in humble circumstances. Istrati worked a variety of jobs -carpenter, porter, and wanderer- while traveling across the Balkans, experiences that deeply shaped his worldview and writing.

His literary career began in earnest when French novelist Romain Rolland encouraged him to pursue writing after reading his autobiographical novella Kyra Kyralina (1924). Istrati’s works, including Neranțula and The Thistles of the Baragan, often focus on themes of friendship, resilience, and the social struggles of ordinary people. His direct, emotionally charged style and compassionate portrayal of marginalized individuals made him a powerful voice for the oppressed.

Despite political controversies later in life, Istrati’s works remain a testament to his enduring belief in human dignity and the value of solidarity.

Notes

1. ‘Aman bre’ can loosely translate to ‘Oh, come on,’ ‘Oh, my,’ or ‘Alas,’ depending on the context. It’s a versatile expression used to convey a wide range of emotions, including surprise, frustration, longing, or despair. While it is not commonly used in modern Turkish, it has evolved into ‘aman be,’ which typically carries a more negative connotation like “alas”.

Sources

• Panait Istrati on Wikipedia