Love in the Days of Rebellion

by Ahmet Altan

  And indeed Reşit Pasha had found a peaceful life. He rented a large mansion by the sea, close to the Alatini mansion where the former Sultan resided, he settled in, he’d brought his cook and butler from Istanbul and he’d restocked the harem he loved so much with new and beautiful girls. He woke early every morning, strolled in the garden, picked flowers, and then, after breakfast, went to see the Sultan, who was already up and waiting for him.

  It was as if the friendship he’d longed for had been established between them. When the Sultan, confined to a mansion surrounded by a battalion of guardsmen, suffered a breakdown brought about by being a prisoner after having possessed great power, experiencing occasional panic attacks and fits of hysterics, the doctor calmed him down, they established something beyond friendship, almost a father-son relationship, the doctor treated his former master as if he was a child, he calmed him down by speaking softly and reassuring him.

  That morning he found the Sultan sitting pensively in the great hall. He’d become quite an old man, he’d lost almost all his teeth, he had only two teeth remaining. Because he had so few teeth, his jaw had caved in, his mouth was puckered like a drawstring sack, and this made him look more like an old man; despite his missing teeth, he was very careful about the way he spoke and the words he emphasized, he spoke in his magnificent voice without slurring any words.

  He was happy to see the doctor.

  “Come, doctor, I was waiting for you, Müşfika Kadınefendi had crisis of nerves last night. She was nervous when she was young too, what can she do, it’s not her fault, that’s her nature, she gets more irritable when she has her period, but her nerves are much worse here. I’m worried, doctor . . . In the old days she used to eat with me, she hasn’t eaten with me since we came here, I suppose she’s not being as careful about what she eats, she’s put on weight, her body produces fat, it produces too much blood, then she becomes ill like this.”

  As he spoke he stroked the cat on his lap, a snow-white, silky-haired cat he’d brought from Istanbul.

  “There are mosquitoes here too, I imagine you have them where you are, they’re as big as my finger, they suck your blood all night, it’s impossible to sleep. Lack of sleep makes her ladyship’s nerves even worse.”

  He lit a cigarette, he chain-smoked all day, he offered the doctor a cigarette, then he offered one to Captain Atıf Bey, who made a point of being present every time they spoke.

  “As you well know, doctor, these mosquitoes carry all kinds of diseases, they’re full of microbes, and what we refer to as microbes are the diseases themselves. Tuberculosis, for instance, is spread by microbes.”

  Reşit Pasha had learned that the Sultan always liked talking about medicine, illnesses, and treatment, and that this calmed him down; he was never boring even though he repeated the same things over and over, because even though he repeated it several times, he always added new details.

  “The pine tree, it’s a gift from God, it’s very good for tuberculosis. Once they told me that there was no tuberculosis in the vicinity of Kastomonu, when someone contracts tuberculosis, they bring them to the pine forest and leave them there in a tent for some months. There’s a substance that oozes from the bark of pine trees, they give this to the patient and if the disease hasn’t progressed too far the patient is always cured.”

  He stopped and thought.

  “Why am I talking about this, because a few days ago I was thinking to myself, and it became clearer as we talked, you see, the cure for many diseases exists in nature, we boil cinnamon, we boil lemon flowers, we use the juices of many plants, if you’re seeking a cure for tuberculosis, you might suddenly find that it’s hidden in a pine tree . . . This is what comes to mind, God created diseases, isn’t it possible that he concealed the cure for each disease in nature, if the doctors look for it, can they find the remedy in nature?”

  As was his wont, he stopped abruptly, turned to Captain Atıf Bey, and changed the subject.

  “I asked for bergamot leaves, it’s been more than ten days and they haven’t arrived yet, can’t something that basic be found in a city as big as Salonika . . . Even if it had been ordered from Istanbul it would have been here days ago. I see now that I’m not taken at all seriously.”

  With his complaint about the bergamot leaves he was returning to the subject that was really upsetting him, he didn’t bother to establish connections between the topics he spoke about, he jumped from one topic to another with an almost pampered ease.

  “And I don’t understand why they don’t give me newspapers here. What law prohibits me from reading newspapers? I’m a man who’s interested in the state and future of the nation.”

  He hesitated for a moment and then, in fear of being misunderstood, offered an explanation at once.

  “In fact I no longer have any political ambitions. But I want to know about the state and condition of the nation. It is my right to be pleased by uplifting news or, God forbid, to be saddened by bad news. Not even murderers and felons are denied this right, why are they denying me this right?”

  The Sultan, who throughout his reign had banned foreign newspapers and Turkish newspapers that had been printed in Europe, who had not allowed his subjects to read what they wanted, was now complaining sincerely about not being allowed to read newspapers, he’d realized how painful this was.

  Reşit Pasha tried to calm the Sultan.

  “No one is being disrespectful to you, your majesty, I can see that every effort is being made to grant you even the smallest thing you ask for . . . Perhaps this is being done to protect you from criticism in the newspapers rather than out of disrespect.”

  The Sultan smiled faintly.

  “I’m sure they’re protecting me, and they’re doing it very thoroughly . . . ”

  After they had lunch together, the doctor examined Müşfika Kadınefendi, wrote a few prescriptions, then he returned to the Sultan and continued the endless conversations about medicine. The Sultan told him about his youthful adventures and about how he hadn’t lost even an inch of territory throughout his reign.

  Reşit Pasha saw that someone who had lost power was fond of talking about his past successes and couldn’t refrain from defending himself and trying to prove he was right even though he knew there was nothing to gain from this, he listened to all of this with sincere sadness, feeling somewhat sorry for the Sultan. Throughout his life the doctor had faced occasional insults and threats from the Sultan, but he didn’t feel even the slightest sense of justice that his master had fallen into such a state of powerlessness, it would be considered human for him to feel even slightly pleased, but on the contrary he was genuinely saddened.

  A few days ago he’d witnessed this old man being forced to sign a document handing over a million in gold he had in German banks over to the army, he’d lost his teeth, he’d been imprisoned in a mansion in exile and had lost his wealth after abdicating, but the doctor was more moved by what he said as they parted that evening than by anything else.

  “Will you come tomorrow, doctor? Please take good care of my wife . . . I’ve been living with her for twenty-three years, she’s never once been mean or hurt my feelings. I want to do everything I possibly can for her.”

  He sighed sadly.

  “Though in fact we don’t have the power to do good deeds anymore . . . At least . . . ”

  The words were stuck in his throat, the doctor saw his lips tremble in the fear that something might happen to Müşfika Kadınefendi.

  The man who’d been able to endure losing an empire couldn’t endure the thought of losing his woman.

  Without finishing his sentence, the Sultan extended his hand to the doctor.

  Reşit Pasha shook his hand and left without saying anything.

  As he walked away, he thought the man would die if he lost his wife. He repeated these words all night until the Sultan’s pain mingled with his own.

&n
bsp; 22

  On the ninth of June the city, which had abandoned itself to a soft heat that smelled of the sea, recoiled and tensed when a gun was fired in Bahçekapı.

  Ahmed Samim, the twenty-six-year-old chief columnist for Sada-yı Millet newspaper, with his wire pince-nez, his thin moustache that was slightly twisted at the ends, thick hair that he combed back to reveal his gleaming forehead, this young journalist who had earned the love of his friends with his cheerful conversation and his stern articles, was shot and killed by a murderer who approached him from behind. He wrote the harshest criticism of the Sultan during the mutiny, he didn’t hesitate to criticize the way the Committee governed after the mutiny either.

  As was always the case, the killer fled and was never captured.

  The city, accustomed to unsolved murders, turned to try to see the murderer’s silhouette, they looked at the government and the Committee members in it with hatred, but, because its courage was not as great as its hatred, it bowed its head with a shame particular to cowards just as it did after every murder.

  It was whispered from ear to ear that the murderer was Abdülkadir Bey, one of the Committee’s infamous gunmen, but no one repeated this aloud.

  That day Tevfik Bey returned earlier in the afternoon than usual, struggling to keep the tears from rolling out of his soft eyes, he broke the news of his dear friend’s death to Mihrişah Sultan.

  He had visited her waterfront mansion a few times, and Mihrişah Sultan had liked this courageous young man’s talk and his perspective. She bit her lip when she heard the news of his death.

  “This country is like a funeral home, death and more death . . . The dead change, but the mourning never changes. And it will never change. I can’t bear this smell of death, this fascination with murder . . . ”

  She ordered her ladies in waiting in a stern tone.

  “Start packing at once, we’re returning to France on the first ferry. This country is killing itself, and my heart can’t take watching any more of this. You too, Rukiye, get ready, start packing, we’re leaving, I’ll never come back here again!”

  Rukiye remembered the young journalist talking about death mockingly during conversations in the waterfront mansion’s garden as if it had happened yesterday. She’d listened to those words as if they were a joke, it had never occurred to her that such a lively young man would actually be killed. Just like anyone who hears unexpected news of death, she couldn’t believe this unexpected news of his death, more precisely, she couldn’t grasp the meaning of death, a person departing, never to return, never again to be seen among them. With the sudden arrival of death, the ground on which the meaning of life and of words stood had suddenly trembled, a gap appeared between words and their meaning, she experienced a strange semantic shift, yes, Ahmed Samim was dead, she understood that part, but she was unable to accept that he would never come to the waterfront mansion again. It was as if death and disappearance were two different concepts; people could die, but they didn’t disappear; a person died, but then continued meeting his friends. Among all these shifting meanings, her heart could still feel the pain and meaning of death; the pain found its way through the blurred words and meanings.

  Experiencing the deaf dizziness of the vibration of clusters of scattered, misty meanings and the pain whose sharpness increased in contrast, Rukiye didn’t at first catch what Mihrişah Sultan had said, it was when she repeated it for the second time, mentioning her name and talking about leaving, that she realized they were going to leave and, just like Ahmed Samim Bey, she would never see Tevfik Bey again either; when the concepts of not seeing again and death were absorbed into the slippery, vibrating pile of meaning, she felt a strange feeling that made her tremble in terror, the feeling that Tevfik Bey would die as well, and she was seized by a kind of nervous crisis.

  Either because of a nervous crisis, or the power of true love that continued to exist under all circumstances, or that in the midst of all this her curiosity was so strong she couldn’t bear not getting an answer, she ran after Tevfik Bey, who was just going out the door on his way home.

  At the main gate she caught up to Tevfik Bey, who’d been walking sadly through the garden that smelled of jasmine, raspberries, melons, and seaweed under a sky with reddish, lilac, and purple waves that was preparing for a summer night.

  “Tevfik Bey!”

  Tevfik Bey stopped, somewhat surprised, and turned back to see who had called him.

  “Yes, Rukiye Hanım?”

  Rukiye brushed back her hair.

  She asked what she wanted to ask in a single breath, as if she was afraid she might change her mind.

  “Do you love me?”

  Tevfik Bey blushed in surprise and shame. Sheikh Efendi’s daughter, the stepgranddaughter of the former Ottoman Sultan’s physician, had done something that had perhaps never been seen before in any of the waterfront mansions of the capital of the Ottoman Empire, she had asked a man if he loved her. This was something that was difficult to speak about in the bedroom, let alone at the garden gate, but the young girl asked the question on her mind as if it was very natural, without hesitating, without giving a thought to what might be said about her.

  Tevfik Bey, who was already bewildered by his friend’s death, gave Rukiye a pleading look but didn’t know what to say; for such a long time he’d loved this strange young girl who didn’t recognize rules and traditions, who placed her will and her wishes at the center of her life, and who couldn’t bear for any word, feeling, or subject to remain vague, but his upbringing would not allow him to speak of this openly, to open his heart to the girl of the house in which he was a guest.

  For her part, Rukiye had no intention of being content with Tevfik Bey’s pleading expression.

  “Why don’t you say anything? If you don’t love me, tell me now and I’ll go pack my things, we’ll never see each other again anyway.”

  Tevfik Bey knew that Rukiye was decisive enough to do whatever she said; unable to endure the thought of never seeing her again, he sighed deeply and spoke in an almost moaning tone.

  “I do love you.”

  “Enough to marry me?”

  Tevfik Bey closed his eyes when he answered.

  “Yes.”

  Rukiye took the young man’s hand and they walked toward the house.

  “Then come and ask Mihrişah Sultan for my hand in marriage.”

  Tevfik Bey immediately pulled his hand back out of fear of being seen.

  “What are you saying, Rukiye, do you want Mihrişah Sultan to banish me from the house? I can’t ask a lady for your hand in marriage right away, that’s not the way it’s done.”

  “Then how is it done?”

  “I should send my mother.”

  “Then go and tell her to come.”

  “Rukiye, please, I beg you, don’t behave like this. Let me speak to my mother so that she can come and ask for your hand in marriage in the morning, let’s do everything the way it should be done.”

  Rukiye looked at Tevfik Bey, thought about what he’d said, and nodded.

  “Fine, they can come in the morning, I’ll go tell Mihrişah Sultan now.”

  Even though Tevfik Bey’s mother remonstrated with him and told him how inappropriate it was to be in such a rush, she didn’t deny her son’s request. Of course Rukiye’s father’s fame and Mihrişah Sultan’s wealth and the powerful social circles in which she traveled had an important role in influencing Tevfik Bey’s family, despite the shameful shadow cast by Mehpare Hanım.

  When Mihrişah Sultan heard the news she surprised the young girl by kissing her and saying, “You should have been my daughter,” then she pulled herself together and said, “We should ask your mother and father as well.” Rukiye immediately objected to this.

  “Your permission is enough for me, if you give your approval, there’s no need for me to ask anyone else. Do you think tha
t my decision is fitting?”

  Mihrişah Sultan smiled.

  “Do you love Tevfik Bey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think that you can’t live without him?”

  “I can’t countenance the thought of not seeing him again.”

  “Then I think it’s fitting.”

  In the end Rukiye’s will overcame all traditions and customs; with unprecedented haste, Tevfik Bey’s mother asked for Rukiye’s hand in marriage, and Mihrişah Sultan consented. Because her ladyship didn’t want to remain in Istanbul too long, it was decided that they would hold the wedding in a week’s time.

  After she’d spoken with Tevfik Bey’s mother, Mihrişah Sultan called Rukiye, told her that the wedding would be held in a week, then added:

  “There’s one thing I ask of you.”

  “Please.”

  “Go to the tekke and tell your father you’re getting married, get his blessing. Will you do this for my sake?”

  “Of course, if you wish. I was going to go talk to him in any event.”

  Hasan Efendi returned from Aleppo on the night Ahmed Samim was shot. There, he had presented Yusuf Efendi’s gifts for a Rufai Sheikh’s son’s wedding, attended the wedding in his sheikh’s name, and then had spent several difficult days travelling back to Istanbul. He wanted to tell the Sheikh at once about what he’d seen but the Sheikh, in his usual forbearing manner, said, “Go rest now, we can talk tomorrow.”

  Hasan Efendi went to the harem weary from the long journey and terrified by what he’d seen in Anatolia, after taking the bath his wife had ordered be prepared, he put on a clean nightshirt, withdrew to his room, and found what he feared waiting for him in the bed. His dwarf wife, uncontrollably randy because he’d been away for days, attacked him, ignoring his objections of, “Stop for a moment, I’m exhausted.” She climbed onto the gigantic man’s body like a monkey, she moved all over him and once again Hasan Efendi experienced the horrible pleasure that was mixed with disgust and that filled him with hatred whenever he remembered it.