Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature)

by Kulin, Ayse

  They joined the throngs jostling for the door. Mehpare nearly lost her balance as she was shoved and elbowed. After what seemed an eternity, they at last inched ahead several meters, reaching the door, the open air. But when they stepped outside, things were even worse. Hundreds of policemen and firemen swarmed the street. Mahir was holding Mehpare’s wrist so tightly that her hand had become numb.

  “What are you doing here, Mehpare Hanım?”

  “I . . . I was just passing through.”

  “I found you inside. What were you doing there?”

  “Looking for my shopping bag . . .”

  “What bag?”

  “My bag. It’s still inside. Please, can we go get it? I’ve got to have it. Please.”

  “Were you carrying so much money?”

  “No. There were some periodicals.”

  “It’s just as well you lost them. Keep walking . . . Over here . . .. Come on, quickly. Don’t let go of my hand.”

  “You’re hurting my wrist, Mahir Bey.”

  “You’ll be fine. If the police stop us, say nothing. You’re with me. My nurse. Understood?”

  “But I’m not . . .”

  “You’re caring for Kemal Bey, aren’t you? He’s my patient; you’re my nurse.”

  “What’s going on, Mahir Bey? For the love of God, what’s happening here?

  “A bomb was tossed into our building.”

  “A bomb? Why? Who did it?”

  “You came to a dangerous place. Kemal should never have sent you.”

  “No one sent me. I was passing through.”

  “Fine. It’s best you stick to that version of events.”

  “I was passing through, looking for a tobacconist.”

  “And that’s exactly what you’ll tell anyone who asks, Mehpare Hanım!”

  At the sight of a pair of approaching policeman, Mahir released Mehpare’s wrist and they accelerated their pace.

  “Hey . . . Hey you . . . Stop right there.”

  They stopped and a military policeman came up to them. “Go stand with the others, right over there,” he ordered them. Not far from the bombed building a few municipal police were forcing a crowd of people into an orderly line.

  “Where are we going?” Mehpare asked.

  “To the police station.”

  “Oh God!” For the first time that day, Mehpare lost her composure. As darkness descended she felt her legs giving way beneath her. Mahir slid his hands under her arms for support.

  “You can take me in, but let this young lady go.”

  “That’s out of the question. She was in the building.”

  “She was not; she was outside.”

  “And just how do you know that?” the policeman asked.

  “I was inside. I saw her when I got outside.”

  “You can explain all of that at headquarters. Stop wasting my time and start walking.”

  Mahir propped his semi-conscious companion against the wall. She was weeping, she could barely stand.

  “Look here, sir. I’m a doctor. I was summoned here because of a serious heart attack. As you can see, the only woman you’ve detained is this poor young lady . . . She’s nearly fainted. She’s terrified . . . She told me she was walking past the building when the explosion happened . . . I found her crawling on the ground.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Yes, I do. She lives in Beyazit. She’s a relative of Undersecretary of the Treasury Ahmet Reşat Bey, a member of his household. She can’t possibly have any connection to today’s incident. Let her go or you’ll be responsible for her when she faints.”

  “What was she doing here all alone?”

  Mehpare’s face was ashen and her entire body trembled. “I came here to visit relatives,” she sobbed.

  “Her handbag was stolen in all the confusion,” Mahir interjected. “The poor thing was looking for it. A black patent leather handbag. Have you seen it?

  “That’s enough out of you! People are dying and she’s asking after her bag! The lady can go, but you’re coming with me,” the policemen said.

  “How will you get home?” Mahir asked Mehpare as she immediately began moving away. “Would you allow me to give you the fare?”

  As the policeman pushed Mahir into a police van, Mehpare called out, “My aunt lives nearby. She’ll help me. Thank you, sir.”

  Terrified that the police would change their minds, Mehpare found the strength to dash down the hill, turn left, and walk rapidly in the direction of her aunt’s house.

  “Open the door, my hands are full,” cried Saraylıhanım at the top of the stairs, breathless, and bearing a tray of warm poğaça buns and a cup of linden tea. Kemal rose from his desk and opened the door.

  “Grandmother, you shouldn’t have. You’ve climbed all these stairs.”

  “Mehpare’s not here. I have no choice.”

  “There’s the housekeeper. And the girl who comes to clean. Isn’t Leman at home?”

  “We have things to talk about.”

  “Is something wrong? What have I done now?”

  “You can’t get up to much mischief here in the attic, can you? I’ve come to discuss your health. Praise be your fever is gone and you’re coughing less. You’ll be out on the streets again soon.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “And that’s why I’m worried. You’ve never been content to wander on your own. You’re certain to find yourself in bad company.”

  “There you go again!”

  “It’s true. I know you well. Didn’t I bring you up myself? Ever since you were able to think for yourself you’ve found something to kick against. You simply won’t sit still. Now tell me, what have you been doing at your desk all these hours?”

  “I’m translating a French book.”

  “A book on how to topple kings and sultans?”

  “A book of poetry.”

  “Just who do you think you’re fooling!”

  Kemal burst out laughing.

  “Your tea’s getting cold,” Saraylıhanım said, handing Kemal the cup. “Drink it up. I added some honey.”

  Kemal took a few sips of the linden tea. “Grandmother, if you don’t want me to regain my health and get into trouble, why are you fattening me up?”

  “Because the moment you’re better you’ll be sent to your uncle in Beypazarı.”

  “So you’re decided, are you?”

  “I am. You can’t stay here. Your uncle says there’s a warrant for your arrest. When you were confined to your bed you weren’t in any danger. It would never occur to the police to search the home of Reşat Bey. But the moment you’re out on the streets the Sultan’s detectives will follow you back to this house. I’m not often of a mind with Behice, but here her concerns are justified.”

  “I’ll leave. But I’ll decide where I’m going.”

  “To Beypazarı . . .”

  “No. I’m staying in Istanbul.”

  “Where in Istanbul?”

  “With friends.”

  “Impossible. You need nursing. You’ll need it for years to come. You’ll be well cared for on the farm in Beypazarı. You may even meet a girl from a good family. A virtuous girl.”

  “How convenient for you—you’ll have me married as well.”

  “You’re a young man, of course you’ll marry. And once you’re well, once you’re gone, I’ll marry off Mehpare as well, God willing.”

  “Are there any interested parties?” Kemal asked, looking directly into his aunt’s eyes.

  “Of course there are. She’s a rose of a girl. But she promised she’d stay with us until you were fully recovered. And I promised her aunt I’d attend to her marriage prospects the moment you left the house.”

  “You, a matchmaker? Have you got a basket full of potential husbands?”

  Saraylıhanım laughed dryly. “I’m not a matchmaker, nor do I have a basket of husbands. All I have is my reputation, and a nose for information.”

  “Saraylıhanım” Kemal
referred to his grandmother as Saraylıhanım only in moments of resentment or gravity: “when do you want me gone? Tomorrow? Next week?”

  “I’ve upset you.”

  “I just want to know how long you’ll allow me stay.”

  “This is your home too. Stay forever, if you like. But it would be best if you left as soon as you’re well. That may be weeks, or months—it depends entirely on how you feel. But when you do leave, you’re going to Beypazarı. I hope that’s clear.”

  “In that case, I’m never getting well.”

  “In which case you’re barred from the streets.”

  “Fine then. I’ll stay in my room and write. And Mehpare can take care of me.”

  “Mehpare will not be nursing you indefinitely. She’s twenty now. It doesn’t take long for an unmarried girl in her twenties to acquire a reputation as an old maid. I’ve assumed responsibility for the girl, and I have to consider her future.” Saraylıhanım softened her tone as she changed the subject. “Have a bite of your poğaça. It’s spinach, the way you like it. Behice’s father sent some more eggs and vegetables from the village, and I’ve used the last of them for these. Eat up, it may be a while before you have anything so fresh again.”

  Kemal took the proffered bun from his grandmother’s hand and bit into it, happy that for a few days now his appetite seemed to have returned.

  “The call to afternoon prayers has come and gone. What’s keeping them?” griped Saraylıhanım.

  “They’ll be home soon,” Kemal reassured her.

  “I’m going down to my room to perform my prayers,” said Saraylıhanım. “You’ll finish the poğaça, won’t you?”

  “Yes. They’re wonderful—did Mehpare make them?”

  “She’s much too busy waiting on to you to roll dough. Gülfidan baked them.” Saraylıhanım set the remaining poğaça on the writing desk, put the empty tea cup on the tray and left the room.

  Alone, Kemal allowed the anxiety he’d hidden from his aunt to bubble over. Where can she be? She should have returned by now, he said to himself. Standing on tiptoe, he craned his neck for a glimpse of the street through the dormer window. The snow had begun drifting down again.

  Until late that night—when, accompanied by Hüsnü Efendi, Mehpare finally came back to the house with a torn çarşaf and terrified eyes—Saraylıhanım sought to avoid the accusatory glances of Behice by keeping her own eyes firmly on her lace- work. With so many streets closed, the tramways delayed for hours, the avenue stretching from Beşiktaş to Tophane being watched by the municipal police, few residents of Istanbul made it home on time that day. And Reşat Bey was not among their number. The members of his household hadn’t heard of the bombing in Akaretler, and thus had no plausible explanation for Mehpare’s delay. Perhaps her aunt was critically ill and she’d decided to spend the night? Or maybe the girl had finally grown sick of her duties and run home for good? But Hüsnü Efendi was missing as well. Had there been a tramway accident? Behice and Saraylıhanım spent long hours in worried speculation.

  Eager to escape her rival, Saraylıhanım retired to her room early, and it was there that she interrogated Mehpare when the girl finally returned; it was there that, on the pretext of a headache, she climbed into bed without even going down to dinner.

  Behice sat directly in front of the window, waiting, determined that her husband would hear her version of the dreadful events of that day before Saraylıhanım could speak to him; determined to kill two birds—both of them relatives—with a single stone. She would cite Saraylıhanım’s advanced age, her failing faculties—clearly to blame for the day’s disasters—and call for an end to her dominion over the household; and she would point to the terrible consequences of allowing Kemal to remain with them. Her husband may have been able to overlook the fatal disease his nephew was probably carrying, but Reşat would never be able to forgive Kemal for using the young girl under his protection as a courier. Of that Behice was absolutely certain.

  When Reşat Bey arrived home that day at his usual late hour, he found his wife sitting in front of the window in the second-floor sitting room.

  “Why aren’t you in bed,” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you. We need to talk.”

  “This late? It must be urgent.”

  “Impossible to catch you in the morning. You leave so early. When else do I have the chance to see you?”

  Ahmet Reşat sat down on the divan next to his wife and stroked her hair. “I know I’ve been neglecting you, all of you. But if you knew what I’ve been doing, you’d pity me.” He fixed his wife’s eyes with his own. “I have something to say to you, as well . . .”

  “Reşat Bey, hear me out first, please. This is important.”

  “I’m listening. Who misbehaved today, Leman or Suat?”

  “For God’s sake, Reşat. Would I have sat up until this hour to complain about that? Be serious. A letter supposedly arrived for Mehpare this morning, and she insisted on visiting her aunt. She asked Saraylıhanım for her consent, and received it . . .”

  “So?”

  “Naturally, I objected to letting the girl go off without consulting you. But, as expected, Saraylıhanım ruled the day. Anyway, off the girl went, with Hüsnü Efendi. Afternoon came and went and they hadn’t come back. Late afternoon prayers passed. It got dark, and we were worried sick. It turns out that Mehpare was passing through Akaretler when a building was bombed . . . I don’t know whether she was inside the building or not . . . She was able to get home only long after the evening call to prayers, and in a sorry state. I saw her whispering with Kemal. I suspect she was delivering information. She denies it, of course. I thought you might like to know what happens in this house when you’re not here.”

  As her husband’s scowl deepened, Behice rose lightly to her feet, drew her shawl tight across her shoulders and, the skirts of her dressing grown trailing in her wake, stepped across to the door, confident that her work was done. She was just slipping into the hallway when Reşat Bey broke the silence. “Send Kemal to me immediately. I’ll be waiting in the selamlık.”

  Behice slowly ascended the stairs and tapped on the door opposite Kemal’s room.

  “Mehpare, tell Kemal Bey that Reşat Bey is waiting in the selamlık. He wants to talk to you, and then to Kemal Bey,” she said.

  Mehpare sprang out of bed, got dressed and ran down to the selamlık, where she hastily lit a fire in the brazier while attempting to respond to the dozens of questions being hurled at her. Then she climbed back up to the attic. When she entered Kemal’s room she found him fully dressed in trousers and a sweater.

  “I heard,” he said, “and I’m going straight down.”

  “Wait here a moment longer, sir. It’s still chilly down there.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Mehpare rushed after Kemal carrying several blankets. Not a peep came from Saraylıhanım’s room. Other than the creaking patter of footsteps on wooden treads, the house had been plunged into a funereal silence.

  Ahmet Reşat sat bolt upright on one of the divans lining the walls of the selamlık; on the divan opposite sat Kemal. The brass brazier wasn’t up to the task of heating the room, for which reason Kemal had finally consented to Mehpare draping his shoulders and knees with blankets. Under the wan light cast by the ceiling fixture, Kemal’s face appeared even paler than usual.

  “Mehpare has been with us for many years, and this was her first attempt to visit her old home. And, for the first time, her family has communicated information not to me, not to my aunt, not to your aunt, but to a girl who is still, in many ways, a child. Her aunt taken ill! Do you expect me to believe that?” thundered Reşat Bey.

  There was no response from Kemal.

  “As if the harm you’ve done yourself wasn’t enough, now you’ve started endangering your family. How could you send Mehpare to a safe-house? How could you? Do you know what you’ve done? Speak up, man!”

  “I have nothing to say in my defense, unc
le. I know there’s no point.”

  “So you acknowledge your guilt.”

  “It’s not that uncle . . . please . . .”

  “Shut up! How could you, Kemal? She could have been killed. Maimed. What’s happened to your conscience? She could have been arrested. Could have led the police right to you. That would have been the end of us all. What kind of a man are you, anyway? Just who do you take after?”

  Ahmet Reşat got up and began pacing, his entire body shaking with frustration and rage. He had no idea what to do. Sitting opposite was an invalid swathed in blankets, a pathetic figure with waxen skin, bloodshot eyes, trembling hands. An invalid who continuously threatened the safety of his family . . . a madman… a fool! Reşat Bey tossed his burning cigarette onto the glowing embers of the brazier. Stopping directly in front of Kemal, he waved his index finger in front of his nephew’s nose.

  “You’ve taken leave of your senses, Kemal. I understand now what I should have realized from the start. How can I be angry with you, when you’re clearly out of your mind? I intend to surrender you to the doctors. Psychiatrists. It isn’t your lungs, but your mind. The doctors will do whatever is necessary to prevent you from harming yourself, from harming us. I can’t protect you any longer.”

  “Uncle . . . please . . . listen . . .”

  “I’ve listened to you. Every time. And every time I forgave you. He’s learned his lesson, he’ll mend his ways, I told myself.”

  “Uncle . . .”

  “You sent an innocent to Karakol with absolutely no thought of the consequences. The girl is so intimidated, or so mesmerized, by your powers of persuasion that she is prepared to sacrifice everything for you. Just passing by! On her way to a tobacconist! Don’t you dare try to find consolation in the fact that Mehpare wasn’t injured, killed or arrested. You’ve made that innocent girl into a bald-faced liar.”

  “Uncle, punish me. Throw me out of the house. It’s true, I’ve gotten involved in a dangerous business. Yes, I’m working with Karakol. Because I believe that we need to do more to defend the homeland. I won’t sit idly by and watch things fall apart. If you want to banish me, so be it. But for the love of God, don’t punish an innocent girl, a bystander, someone who happened to be passing in front of Karakol when a bomb went off. I’m begging you. Mehpare was looking for Kerem Efendi’s tobacco shop. I gave her the directions myself. That’s her only crime.”