Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature)

by Kulin, Ayse

  “Ziya Pasha’s wife, Münire Hanımefendi, has just sent word that they’ll be calling to extend their congratulations.”

  “When?”

  “Today, this afternoon.”

  “Tell them they’re welcome,” said Behice, feeling both flattered and uneasy. The second puff of smoke gave her none of the pleasure of the first, because the moment the housekeeper quit the room Saraylıhanım suddenly materialized before her.

  “These visits aren’t going to end with Ziya Pasha’s harem. There’ll be more, plenty of them. Soon enough the house will be overflowing with well-wishers. We’ve got to be prepared with trays of börek and jugs of sherbet. Don’t just sit there puffing on a cigarette; it’s not easy being the wife of a minister, and it’s time to get to work. I’ll send for Zehra. She’s to get started scrubbing the house from top to bottom.”

  “And how are we supposed to prepare these refreshments? The pantry is bone-bare.”

  “A woman of skill can work miracles with nothing. We’ll find a way.”

  Not be outdone, Behice said, “Let me remind you not to ask after Ziya Pasha. He was badly shaken by all those years in exile. He’s never really recovered; in fact, they say his condition has deteriorated to the point where they thought it best to send him to relatives in Bursa. He’s being cared for there.” Behice extinguished her cigarette in the ashtray and slowly rose to her feet. As she swept past Saraylıhanım on her way to the door, she said, sidelong: “Since as you’ve taken such good care of the household affairs, I suppose there’s nothing left for me to do but deck myself out for company. And that’s precisely what I intend to do.”

  Having carefully climbed the stairs to avoid spilling the foaming cup of coffee she was balancing on a tray, Mehpare tapped on Kemal’s door. At the words “come in” she slipped into the room and set the tray on the nightstand next to the bed. Flushing, she whispered, “I was making coffee for Saraylıhanım, and thought you might like one.”

  “It’s not coffee I’d like,” said Kemal, pulling her down into the bed and across his chest. Arms locked around her waist, he silenced her protests with a long kiss. Mehpare finally broke free.

  “Stop it, sir . . . what if someone comes in . . . I’ll be ruined . . . disgraced . . . Don’t . . . Please.”

  As Kemal held her tight with his left hand he undid the buttons of her blouse with his right, and buried his face in her bosom.

  “How do you manage to smell so wonderful, Mehpare?”

  “Stop it, sir, I’m begging you.”

  “If anyone comes we’ll hear their footsteps.”

  “The girls don’t wear heels. We wouldn’t hear Leman or Suat.”

  “They’re not allowed in my room.” Kemal pressed his lips to Mehpare’s chest. With a low moan, she pushed him away. He stood firm, running his tongue slowly from her breasts up to her chin and back. And then he kissed her again.

  “Don’t you want me, Mehpare?” She didn’t reply. Kemal rephrased the question: “Don’t you love me?”

  “I’ve loved you for years. Hopelessly. I love you more than my own life.”

  “Then why do you push me away?” He undid another button, and began nuzzling the breast he’d liberated.”

  “Have pity on me,” said Mehpare, who’d begun to tremble.

  “I’ll release you only if you promise to spend the night with me again.”

  Mehpare’s inner voice wished that Kemal would never leave her, that he would stay like this forever, her nipple in his mouth. Her body was overwhelmed by sensations she’d never known.

  “All right . . . I promise.” I can’t sleep unless it’s here at your side—if I can’t see you, can’t touch you, I can’t live, she thought to herself. When Kemal loosened his grip, she reluctantly rose, smoothed her skirts, tucked her breasts into her camisole, re-but-toned her blouse and picked up her yemeni headscarf, which had fallen to the floor.

  “Your coffee’s getting cold,” she said in a low voice.

  “Well then, bring me a hot one.”

  “Really?”

  Kemal laughed. “I dare say you want to kiss and caress me as much as I do you.”

  “Actually, sir, I came with important news.”

  “And what news is that?”

  “It would be more appropriate if Saraylıhanım told you. She might get angry if I do.”

  “Tell me anyway, and I’ll pretend not to know.”

  “Beyefendi has been appointed minister.”

  “My uncle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ahhh!” Kemal exclaimed.

  “Aren’t you pleased?”

  “I’m not, Mehpare. Minister of the Treasury?”

  “Yes.”

  “God help him,” Kemal said. Then he was lost in thought.

  As Mehpare crept silently from the room she decided she was in love with a very peculiar man indeed.

  Behice received Münire Hanımefendi and her daughter, Azra Hanım, in the rarely used salon overlooking the back garden. Even with the moss-green velvet curtains fully drawn and the slatted shutters flung wide, the room was poorly lit, thanks to its northern exposure and the garden’s numerous trees. The gloom, however, lent the room an air of respectable sobriety. In contrast to the selamlık and the bow-windowed sitting room facing the street, it was decorated not with divans and cushions but with gilded, crushed-velvet sofas and matching armchairs. The glass case sitting between the two windows exhibited fine Ottoman porcelain, Beykoz glassware and lead crystal dessert bowls. On the walls hung three antique china plates and two oils signed by the painter Civanyan. The room was decorated in the western style—more typical of a prosperous Christian or Jewish family. Behice was gratified to observe Azra Hanım glancing at one of the paintings. Nodding in the direction of the canvas, the young woman spoke in tones at once bold and gay: “I’m a devotee of Civanyan’s night-scapes, too. I see you have discerning tastes. Do you paint?”

  Saraylıhanım had opposed the hanging of pictures, and Behice reminded herself to recount the visitor’s enthusiastic appraisal at the first opportunity. “Unfortunately no, but my eldest, Leman, is terribly fond of art. She paints and embroiders wonderfully.”

  She silently thanked Reşat Bey for having acquired the paintings some years earlier, and blushed at the memory of her words at the time: “For goodness sake, you could have bought a few carpets instead of paying so much for a pair of paintings!”

  Until Saraylıhanım entered the room to offer around a tray of refreshments, the women occupied themselves in discussion of the difficulties faced by the wives of men of high station. As the wife of a former minister herself, Münire Hanımefendi took it upon herself to warn Behice of the tribulations that awaited her in the days ahead, the long separations from her spouse, the burden of sole responsibility for the children’s wellbeing.

  “I have been accustomed to nothing else for some time now,” Behice contented herself with saying. “I have followed my husband, children in tow, to Damascus, to Rhodes and to Thessalonica. At least we’re no longer in rented lodgings; we have our own house. We live near our friends and relatives. I have no right to complain.”

  Once Saraylıhanım appeared, the conversation turned to other topics. The elderly woman said she’d learned from the neighbors that Muslim women frequently faced insulting behavior at the hands of the occupying forces, for which reason she’d taken to doing her shopping at the local greengrocer’s instead of at the marketplace, a sad turn of events which explained the substandard flavor not only of the meals prepared daily by the cook, but of the very börek she was offering her guests, with her deepest apologies for the lack of either spinach or cheese fillings.

  “Hanımefendi,” Münire Hanım consoled her, “it’s no longer possible to find anything at the marketplaces either. Food shortages have broken out across the city. With the roads blockaded, deliveries of provisions from Anatolia have stopped almost completely.”

  “I had good reason to urge my son Reşat Bey to lay
in provisions, but he paid me no heed,” sighed Saraylıhanım. “If those reports about the occupiers, their harassment, hadn’t reached my ears, I wouldn’t hesitate to go to the Spice Bazaar myself. It’s quite far, but I’m certain everything is still available there.”

  Münire Hanım had just opened her mouth to inform Saraylıhanım that these days even the Spice Bazaar was short of supplies when her daughter leapt into the conversation. “They’re not foreigners at all! They’re Greeks and Armenians wearing the uniforms of the invaders—that’s why I’m out in the streets every chance I get. I dare them to harass me! They’d be made to answer for their insolence!”

  “Young lady,” responded Saraylıhanım,” what could you possibly do? Surely you don’t expect to thrash them yourself?”

  “I don’t, not on my own. But I would raise such a ruckus that the entire neighborhood would rush to beat the offenders black and blue.”

  “My dear young lady, you shall do no such thing. You’d only be asking for trouble. You should simply avoid them.”

  “I don’t agree at all,” said Münire Hanım. “Turning a blind eye and cowering has got us nowhere. This is our city, even if it is under occupation.”

  “You’re really agreeing with the girl?” Saraylıhanım asked Münire Hanım, looking directly into her eyes.

  “Azra belongs to a women’s organization dedicated to opposing the invasion. They hold conferences, make speeches, all to enlighten the Turkish woman.”

  “What organization is this?” asked Behice.

  “The Association for the Protection of Women’s Rights. Are you a member of any organizations, Behice Hanımefendi?”

  Saraylıhanım stepped in before her daughter-in-law could answer. “She is not. Behice Hanım is rearing two daughters. She’s also responsible for running the house. She has no time for organizations.”

  “Many of the women at our association are married with children. Domestic duties don’t preclude membership,” said Azra Hanım.

  Behice shot an irritated glance at Saraylıhanım and turned to Azra Hanım: “My mother-in-law spoke the truth, but my children have grown up—they’re at school now. As far as running the house, my mother-in-law, God bless her, is far more adept at that than I am. She won’t so much as allow me to place my hands in cold water after hot. I would greatly appreciate it if you would permit me to accompany you to your association one day.”

  “Behice Hanım! Without so much as asking the minister! I’d certainly like to know what he’d say!” objected Saraylıhanım.

  “He’d be pleased, I’m sure. My husband approves of industrious women,” said Behice. “Hasn’t he demonstrated as much by hiring a private tutor for Leman and by sending Suat to school at such an early age? You know what they say about ‘keeping up with the times.’”

  Mehpare was all ears as she served the tea. The visiting ladies continued to mind their manners, but they allowed their facial expressions to indicate, ever so subtly, that Saraylıhanım was not be taken seriously. But the Cunning Circassian was not going down without a fight: “Some of your organizations are also engaged in charitable activities. If Behice insists on becoming a member of a society, a charity would be more appropriate; like the Red Crescent, for example.”

  “My dear,” smiled Münire Hanımefendi, “the contemporary female is nothing like us. She’s educated, she speaks foreign languages, reads literature from Europe.”

  “We too received education and instruction,” snapped Saraylıhanım, drawing herself up in her chair.

  “Of course we did,” agreed Münire Hanım. “We learned to pluck the lute. We committed the Koran to memory. But neither we nor our mothers were equipped for the demands of modern life. Until a short time ago, we spent our days shut up behind four walls. We’re only now—slowly—learning the ways of the world.”

  “There’s also something called experience,” said Saraylıhanım,” and it’s every bit as precious as raw knowledge. And, unfortunately, it’s something youth does not possess. Mehpare, dear girl, pour our guests some more tea, would you? Can I offer you another slice of börek, my dear . . . do help yourself to shortcake.”

  As Azra Hanım passed the platter back to her hostess, Mehpare carried off the empty tea glasses, her mind occupied by the discussion underway in the drawing room. When she returned, Azra and Behice were sitting side by side speaking in subdued tones. As she placed a glass of tea on the end table next to Azra Hanım, she overheard, “We’re fighting for more than our rights, now—we’re fighting for the homeland. Nesibe Hanım and Saime Hanım are going to speak on this next week. Would you like to come and listen?” Behice looked dumbstruck.

  Having passed the guests sugar, Mehpare placed the bowl back on the table and stood with arms folded beside the door. She had barely retreated into thoughts of her beloved when the sound of his name shook her out of her reverie and made her prick up her ears.

  “Kemal Bey, may God protect him, has penned some wonderful articles on this subject,” Azra Hanım was saying, “but unfortunately he now writes nothing at all.”

  “My nephew suffered a long period of convalescence upon his return from Sarıkamış,” explained Behice.

  “I do hope he’s fully recovered.”

  “He’s not in Istanbul. He’s gone to his uncle’s, where he’s resting.” Azra turned an incredulous look on Behice, who flushed pink and bowed her head.

  “If you’re corresponding with Kemal,” Azra said, “do write and tell him that we’re all eager for more of his work. And please convey our greetings and our best wishes for a full and speedy recovery.”

  And who are you, anyway? Mehpare thought. What are you doing here? She was prepared to cope with consumption, with kidney pains and nightmares; she could handle bombs, police interrogations if need be; but she was utterly unequipped to deal with the young lady sitting over there, so full of herself, a lock of hair hanging over her high forehead. Mehpare unfolded her arms and silently left the room. She began climbing the stairs. If she dared to ask him, would Kemal Bey answer her questions? Would he tell her what his relationship was with the know-it-all down in the drawing room? Sophisticated, impeccably dressed, well-read, opinionated, the daughter of a former minister. Next to her, Mehpare was a nobody. She’d learned to read by sitting in on Leman’s lessons, but her handwriting was abominable, her knowledge of current affairs negligible. She was pathetic—what did she know of the world but this house and its immediate vicinity? How could she possibly interest Kemal? He’d appreciate her for as long as he was confined to his room. And then? After he’d grown strong, after he’d gone on his way, would he remember she’d even existed? The kisses, the lovemaking—she couldn’t allow them. Never again.

  Just as Saraylıhanım had predicted, the well-wishers weren’t limited to Münire Hanım and her daughter: the house overflowed with callers. For ten long days, Mehpare and the others members of the household didn’t have a single free moment. Saraylıhanım was care ful to conceal from Reşat Bey the sale of three braided gold bracelets that had once adorned her arm, the proceeds of which were devoured by particularly distinguished guests in the form of tartlets from the patisseries of Pera, box after box of chocolates and—again, unbeknownst to the master of the house—refreshments prepared with ingredients acquired on the black market. Neighbors, friends and relatives were served freshly-baked trays of börek and bite-sized fritters soaked in syrup. All available chairs were hauled in to the selamlık, the middle salon and the anteroom, which did service as a dining room.

  Important guests and foreigners were received in the velvet drawing room, while male visitors congregated in the selamlık and close friends gathered in the front room with the bow window. Once the guests were gone, order was restored, dishes scrubbed and preparations made for the next day’s gatherings. Day blurred into night, and everyone was utterly exhausted. Even in the midst of such bustling activity, Behice found time to have Katina over to the house to fit and sew new dresses, skirts and blouses, t
he allowance urgently requested from her father defraying the cost. The left over fabric was used to make matching dresses, complete with piping and frilly collars, for Leman and Suat, and the girls were sent to the best photographer in Beyazit to pose with their father.

  Naturally, ceremonial prayers were conducted as well.

  Being the wife of a minister was tiring, expensive, but it had its enjoyable moments too. At Saraylıhanım’s insistence, Behice invited her father to visit. Saraylıhanım had calculated both that İbrahim Bey would arrive for an extended stay laden with provisions, and that when he returned home he would be more than happy to take Kemal with him to Beypazarı. However, her plans were spoiled when İbrahim Bey cited work and declined the invitation. Though filled with pride, he considered it opportunistic and in bad form to arrive on the doorstep so soon after his son-in-law had been appointed minister. Meanwhile, the onslaught of visitors had severely depleted their resources, and Saraylıhanım was growing increasingly distraught. If guests continued to pour in, how was she to protect the reputation of her household? With the sacks of flour and other staples nearly gone, what were they to serve? There may have been a war on, but the neighbors were not under any circumstances to know that within the minister’s family dined morning and night on nothing but soup—which often enough consisted of little more than dry bread and broth.

  Ever since the confrontation with his uncle, Kemal had largely kept to his room. He had descended to the entry hall a few times hoping to extend his congratulations, but, having failed to encounter his busy uncle there, settled for sending a card, and was actually quite pleased to have avoided a guilt-stricken meeting. He spent his days at his writing desk, working at his translations and reading. Mehpare would bring up his meals, administer his medicines and enquire, several times a day, if master needed anything else.