by Ahmet Altan
“Most of them probably don’t know, they’ll be thinking that the reactionaries’ mutiny was organized by the Sultan. Only a few people at the top would know, and they will have convinced themselves that this is for the good of the empire.”
Just then one of the Sultan’s aides came in, leaned down, and whispered something into the Sultan’s ear, Reşit Pasha thought he heard the word “sergeant” being whispered, but he wasn’t sure. The Sultan quickly rose to his feet, smiling politely at the doctor, who stood when he did.
“Doctor, it’s chaotic out there, you can ride in one of the palace carriages, your own carriage can follow behind.”
He turned to his aide.
“Arrange for four cavalrymen to escort the doctor to make sure nothing happens to him on the way. Let me know when he’s safely home.”
As the doctor made his way toward the door, the Sultan started moving toward the secret door that led to his office, then suddenly stopped.
“Doctor, you live on the Asian side, don’t cross to the other side tonight, I may need you at any time and you’ll be too far away. I heard your son has moved to Nişantaşı.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Stay with your son tonight.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.”
As they made their way down Yıldız Hill, he saw the Hassa Regiment lined up in two columns, precautions had been taken against a possible attack; the soldiers and the officers commanding them had the swaggering seriousness that came from the idea that they were part of a momentous event. In a land where history was often shredded and rewritten, in the middle of a disaster during which history was being rewritten, these poor souls were only a hundred yards from the Sultan for whom they were prepared to sacrifice their lives, but they would never learn what was really going on, they would never learn the truth. “Even I didn’t know,” Reşit Pasha told Osman later, “I still don’t know, I found what the Sultan said logical, but I’m sure he was up to something, that he hadn’t been sitting still, but he hadn’t told anyone what he thought, he didn’t trust anyone, but now, talking to you, I realize I didn’t trust him either, what do I know, perhaps it doesn’t make sense to look for trust in a relationship with a sultan.”
Evening was approaching, shadows were lengthening, a tranquil coolness descended onto the streets, and in the houses of Akaretler, lined up like meek, yellow cats, in the budding horse-chestnut trees, in the smell of grass that wafted from the vegetable gardens in the back, in the cobblestones that seemed to be fleeing before the carriage, and in the rattling of the wheels there was a wittiness, a lightness, a flirtatiousness peculiar to spring that pleased Reşit Pasha.
The Pasha wasn’t naïve enough to not realize that the dangers the Sultan spoke of also targeted him. If the Sultan lost his head, everyone closely associated with him would lose their heads too, this was a tradition, and even though there wasn’t absolute trust between them, he was known as one of the people closest to the Sultan, but he wasn’t overly worried about this deadly possibility.
Ever since he’d started to believe that he was getting old, he’d secretly become weary of life, he’d detached himself from his passions, he’d begun waiting for the time of his departure with resignation; in spite of the grandeur and wealth in which he lived, he was a man who measured his life with women, since he’d decided he was no longer as powerful and impressive as he’d once been, life had also lost the charm it had once had, this was the secret he didn’t share with anyone, it was his simple but defining secret; he wasn’t interested in what was going to happen from now on, it was like listening to gossip about a distant relative, he listened with momentary curiosity, but he was less interested.
When they arrived at Hikmet Bey’s mansion, the gardener came running when he saw the carriage bearing the palace crest and the mounted escort, opened the large iron gate, and the carriages raced through the garden and stopped in front of the mansion. Hikmet Bey, who had been informed that a carriage from the palace escorted by four cavalry men had arrived, went to the door worrying that something had happened to his father, he was relieved when he saw Reşit Pasha step out of the carriage.
“Welcome, father, welcome . . . ”
“The Sultan has decreed that I will be your guest, Hikmet, I’ve been ordered to stay at your house tonight.”
They dismissed the carriage and the escort and went inside.
“Have you heard about what’s been going on?”
“I know as much as anyone, we heard that the troops have mutinied and are demanding sharia, this morning we heard some gunfire coming from the direction of Taşkışla. But I don’t know what happened after that, friends sent me word that I shouldn’t leave the house because the situation is chaotic, so I stayed home.”
“You did the right thing . . . The soldiers have surrounded parliament and the ministry of war and are waiting, the minister of war has resigned. A delegation from parliament was going to meet the Sultan, I think there’s going to be a general amnesty. This evening it will be clearer where all this is heading.”
Hikmet Bey brought his father to his study. There was a soft peace there, like a fur you would want to caress, and the light that filtered in the window through the half-closed shutters liberated everyone who entered from their sense of alienation. There was a fragrance that combined the English soap Hikmet Bey had used since childhood, tobacco, and books, and which, even though it was masculine, sheltered the loneliness of fragility. A fire was burning in the fireplace and an orange light with a slick shadow emanated from the small lamps in the corners.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“I would, that would be nice.”
Hikmet Bey ordered coffee. He returned to his place and sat, and his father looked carefully at him to determine how his health was.
“You look well.”
“I’m fine.”
The pallor was gone from Hikmet Bey’s face, and had been replaced by a healthy, rested expression, the purple rings that had made his face look like a pansy were also gone. His eyes still appeared grave, but they were livelier, and his handsomeness had changed form, he was now a bit more ordinary, less noticeable. He no longer had the creases of sacred silence seen on the faces of melancholy people who have suffered great agony, and which attracts others with an irresistible charm, or he’d hidden them in a deeper place; that sorrow definitely revealed its presence in some movement, in a glance or a gesture. In his new house, with Hediye, he felt a peace that resembled happiness, even though he couldn’t call it that; his soul was like his office, comfortable, quiet, but introverted and distant from life.
From time to time he visited his mother, got together with friends, talked politics, criticized the Committee, but even his criticism had become more mature, he used fewer rash and destructive words than he used to, he simply told what he believed to be the truth, and saying that was enough for him. When he settled into his armchair in his office at night, Hediye sat next to him, silently watching him read books, she waited carefully to sense if Hikmet Bey wanted anything before he had the chance to ask for it, she could always sense Hikmet Bey’s wants before they even came to his mind.
At that time his life was like a pause after a strong, sharp ascent in a song, an interval during which he could catch his breath, but although Hikmet Bey didn’t tell anyone, he thought his song had come to an end. He didn’t know that this silence was a pause between two ascents, that he was on the verge of a strong, new note.
Father and son had dinner alone together. Hediye didn’t appear at all. Hediye always ate with Hikmet Bey, and she’d freed him from the embarrassment of not being able to invite her to the table, and once again she’d earned the tenderness and gratitude of the man she loved. She was bound to Hikmet Bey by an unconditional love, her every thought, feeling, and instinct aimed to lessen his load and open space for him, there was no room left in her soul for
her, for her own self. She’d given up her own desires, pleasures, and will and attached her own happiness completely to Hikmet Bey’s; this terrifying abnegation that might seem sad to someone else was the only mode of existence that could make Hediye happy, she held on to life with Hikmet Bey’s hands and she’d left herself no choice but to cling more tightly to Hikmet Bey. This terrifying attachment made her capable of sensing whether her presence or absence would please Hikmet Bey, even before he himself knew.
At dinner, Hikmet Bey said, “A very good year,” as he poured his father some expensive French wine, just as it is permissible for a former coquette who’d settled into marriage to be slightly coquettish from time to time, Hikmet Bey also derived pleasure as much from his memory as from his palate as he held on to some of his expensive pleasures.
In this city that was preparing to experience its own Armageddon, father and son, both somewhat detached from life for different reasons, talked about events that would determine their future with a lack of concern that was almost comical.
“What do you think is going to happen, father?”
“I don’t know, Hikmet, but it’s no secret that nothing good will come of it, we have to be prepared for anything . . . My position connects my future to the Sultan, and after what I saw today, I’m not very hopeful about his future either. It seems the end is near for old people like us; I’ve lived what I had to live, to tell the truth, destiny was generous to me, if it’s more miserly from now on it wouldn’t be fair to complain. Now I’m worried about you, what will your future be, what kind of country will you live in, with all this turmoil, how can this country avoid bloodshed? I don’t see any will that suggests security and decisiveness, for a long time the empire is going to be dragged from one hand to another, God forbid, it might even break up. Then what are you going to do, what will you do, what are your children going to do? Maybe the time has come for you to move to Paris, you’ve always loved it there and you’ve always wanted to go back.”
Hikmet Bey didn’t get into the subject of Paris, he thought he was never going to move anywhere again, he no longer had the strength to establish a new life somewhere else.
“Are clashes going to break out between the mutineers and the army?”
“They certainly will, if not today, then tomorrow. If you look at history you can see, once momentous events begin, they don’t stop without bloodshed. Fighting is inevitable. But when and how, I don’t know. It’s not that I’m frightened, if there’s fighting, one side will win, then there’ll be calm again; what concerns me is that there’s no authority in the city, no one knows who’s going to win, then looting could begin at any time then, they might start attacking wealthy mansions and women. Do you have a gun?”
Hikmet Bey tried to hide his smile, it had been a long time since anyone had mentioned a gun to him out of fear of reminding him of his past.
“I have a gun.”
“Good . . . Keep it within reach. There are military barracks on either side of you, unruly soldiers could come this way.”
“I had the doors locked. In any event there’s not much we can do, father . . . We just have to wait and see what destiny has in store for us.”
Reşit Pasha found his own lack of concern natural, but it disquieted him to see that his son was so unconcerned about what was happening, that he gave so little thought to his future, worst of all that he had no interest in the future of the country that he’d joined secret organizations in order to change.
Suddenly he changed the subject and asked, “What are you up to these days?”
Once he himself had become a father, Hikmet realized that this question also contained the questions, “Are you happy, have you come to terms with the past, do you miss Mehpare?”, he’d long since learned that fathers never cease to worry about their children, that this was a curse passed down from generation to generation, he began looking for answers that would put his father at ease.
“I’m fine, father, I really am. I have a peaceful life, I’ve come to terms with the past, it’s just that I no longer think that a person can control his destiny or change his future, I think my frustration changed the way I think. I once had a great deal of trust in the Committee. But later I realized that anyone who enters politics has a bit of Sultan in them, to me it makes no difference whether it’s Enver or the Sultan in the palace. I don’t see any difference between them. And I’ve begun to think that our traditions aren’t compatible with true freedom. I suppose the reason I’m not excited about what’s going on is that I was dreaming of an Ottoman Revolution like the French Revolution. I haven’t read history carefully, this is not a land of revolutions but of rebellions. Whatever you do, whatever you call your form of government, you end up with a sultan at the top.”
He picked up his wine glass and sniffed at it before drinking.
“What a lovely aroma it has, doesn’t it? It seems that if you can’t make a country’s wines you can’t make its revolution.”
He took a sip of wine and, before swallowing it, held it between his tongue and palate and waited for the fruity perfume beneath the acrid taste to spread to his nasal cavity.
“But I imagine you were asking about my personal life. My answer regarding this is the same, I’m fine. I’ve forgotten about what happened. As my mother would say, it’s just that I’m a bit weary of life. You could say that I’ve retired in a sense, but don’t worry about that, it’s a nice life, and at least it’s not dangerous. I no longer ask myself every day what I expect from life, it’s shown me what it’s capable of giving and I saw what I’m capable of taking. I no longer meddle with life, and I don’t want it to meddle with me. I’ve created different, more pleasurable troubles for myself, I read Cervantes and Rabelais, I read Fuzuli and Baki, who lived in the same century, I’m curious about why they’re so cheerful and critical when everyone here, now, is so melancholy and hopeless, I find this interesting.”
Before he was able to finish this comment, they heard gunfire and shouting, it didn’t seem as if there was fighting, they realized that soldiers were firing into the air.
“They must be mutineers,” said Reşit Pasha, “normally soldiers would never shoot around here, I wonder if they’re returning to their units in Zincirlikuyu.”
“If they’re shooting in such an unconstrained manner, the mutineers must have forced the loyal units out of the city.”
Even though they didn’t think they had a strong relationship with life and the future, when the truth confronted them in the form of gunshots and shouting soldiers, both of them realized that the poverty, denigration, and death that were easily dismissed from a distance could be more scorching when they drew nearer. For a moment, the same image passed through both their minds, the image of them being dragged and humiliated by soldiers who’d broken down the door, of the furniture being looted, of the women becoming victims to boorish lust; they also remembered that there were worse things than death.
Reşit Pasha asked his son to turn off the lights. After Hikmet Bey had doused the lamps in his study, he ordered the servants to douse all the lamps in the house, to close the shutters and bolt the doors. For a moment he considered getting his gun, then dismissed the idea because he thought it might be too dramatic.
They stood before the window together in the darkness; because neither of them knew the aims of either side in this conflict, neither was certain which side they would choose. While Reşit Pasha wanted the mutineers who supported the Sultan to win, Hikmet Bey thought it would be better if the army and the Committee won.
They stood and waited in silence.
The sound of gunfire receded. Reşit Pasha said, “I think that’s enough for today, we’ll see what tomorrow brings.” Then he said, “I’m going to bed now, I’ll be getting up early and going to the palace in the morning.”
As Hikmet Bey escorted his father to his bedroom he realized how strange it was that he hadn’t asked
anything about Mihrişah Sultan; even with the city was in such turmoil, he hadn’t wondered how his former wife was.
When Hikmet Bey returned to his study and continued drinking wine, he didn’t know that as soon as the mutiny broke out his father had sent someone to Kanlica at once to see how things were there, once he’d learned that there were no mutineers on the Asian side and once he’d learned that guards had been assigned to protect those close to the Sultan, he felt reassured. Of course fathers don’t tell their sons everything, just as sons don’t tell their fathers everything; even though they were father and son, there were dark gardens that men didn’t speak of to each other, where another man’s light should never shine, the ghosts of women wandered there, poisonous fruit that no one else should know about grew in these gardens.
As he wondered why his father had behaved this way, he thought back to his own past, to his former wife, even though he didn’t mention her name, to this garden in which he attempted to hide from everyone, even from himself, and the memories he’d buried in the tunnels of forgetfulness came pouring out. Even though he knew how much pain they would leave behind when they went, Hikmet Bey welcomed them with an almost pathetic delight. Hikmet Bey, absorbed in his memories, had forgotten about what was happening on the streets of the city in which he lived and what kind of morning was awaiting them, but Reşit Pasha’s prediction had proven correct; at the end of the day the mutineers had been the victors because of the commander of the First Army Muhtar Pasha’s indecision and had seized the capital for what would prove to be a short time.
The following morning Hikmet Bey would be very surprised, he would be deeply shaken to realize that his soul was still receptive not just to memories but also to dreams about the future.
12
Ragıp Bey realized that the city would surrender to the mutineers three or four hours before Hikmet Bey and Reşit Pasha heard the gunfire.