Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature)

by Kulin, Ayse

“That’s out of the question!” cried Saraylıhanım. “Behice Hanım has no desire to get mixed up in your organizations and associations. Why, what was that just the other day, women by the hundreds taking to the streets, speeches in Sultanahmet Square . . . for shame!”

  “Saraylıhanımefendi,” Azra said, “we’re simply being received at the home of Makbule Hanım for a friendly social gathering and to listen to a little poetry. And furthermore, her mansion is very close to yours.”

  Displeased by his aunt’s humiliation of his wife in front of company, not to mention the offence she may have caused their guest, Reşat Bey spoke in a tone of firm certitude.

  “If Behice Hanım likes, she can accompany you tomorrow, Azra Hanım,” he said. “As you know, the streets aren’t entirely safe these days, and I only ask that you let Hüsnü Efendi accompany you.”

  “Sir, can I go as well?”

  All heads swiveled in surprise to the speaker, who was none other than Mehpare, who was gathering the empty coffee cups with eyes lowered. “I’ll escort the ladies. I’ll accompany Behice Hanım . . . Please sir . . . I want so much to go and hear poetry.”

  Saraylıhanım’s open mouth snapped shut at a stern look from Reşat Bey.

  “Very well then. Please don’t keep them out late, Azra Hanım. The women of this household are customarily at home by mid-afternoon prayers. I would hope tomorrow is no different.”

  “It won’t be, efendim,” Azra assured him.

  Suddenly quite dizzy, Behice found herself torn between joy and distress. Even as she wondered what she would do at a meeting where ladies were discussing politics, she was pleased that her husband had so authoritatively informed Saraylıhanım of her right to do so.

  When they reached the garden gate of Makbule Hanım’s house, Behice asked Azra how long the meeting would last.

  “If the recital takes an hour, and conversation and refreshments another hour…” Azra began.

  “Hüsnü Efendi,” Behice said, “you can go home now; come and get us in two hours.”

  The three women marched to the front door, Azra and Behice in front, Mehpare two steps behind. Makbule Hanım’s salon—a series of adjoining rooms containing chairs arranged in rows, as though for an Islamic memorial mevlit service—was crammed with about forty ladies conversing in loud whispers and exchanging sheets of paper. Azra must have spotted many familiar faces, for she greeted, kissed, and asked after the health of everyone she encountered. Behice, Azra and Mehpare found three seats in a row and sat down. Servants circulated with trays of lemonade and sherbet.

  Behice observed that most of the women had removed their maşlah and that locks of hair curled out of their headscarves and onto their foreheads and temples. She’d already seen this modern hairstyle in magazines and vowed right then and there that it was a look she’d attempt to reproduce in front of the mirror the moment she got home.

  The young woman with auburn curls who’d greeted them at the door and who she’d assumed was the lady of the house advanced toward a clearing in the forest of chairs and declared in a loud voice, “Welcome to you all. We have some new guests today. Among those present are the new finance minister Reşat Beyefendi’s wife, Behice Hanımefendi, and their relative, Mehpare Hanım. Let’s offer them a warm welcome before we begin.”

  A wave of whispering rippled through the room. Behice flushed pink up to her ears, uncertain of where to cast her eyes or what to do. Azra must have told Makbule Hanım who they were. Tactless! Behice contented herself with a brief nod of acknowledgement as she glanced at Mehpare out of the corner of her eye. Mehpare was staring at the wall opposite, her mind elsewhere, her face expressionless, her back bolt upright. She seemed nonplussed by the exaggerated and unwanted attention.

  Some of the women got up and came over to introduce themselves to Behice and Mehpare. Avoiding the eyes of the women who were literally at her feet, showering her with compliments, Behice did her bashful best to offer some kind of response. She was aware that the wife of a finance minister, even one who had recently resigned, had a role to fulfill. But she had no idea what that role entailed. With the exception of her immediate family, relatives and close friends, she knew nothing of the world and had cultivated no views, opinions or sentiments that she could truly call her own. The consequences of having surrendered administration of the household to Saraylıhanım were suddenly painfully clear. The little she had managed to learn from newspaper articles and magazines seemed to evaporate from her mind. She was perspiring heavily. Although she did her best to conceal her panic, she felt frightened and besieged.

  “Our previous assembly was graced by Fehime Sultan, who even deigned to play a piano sonata she’d composed in honor of the new constitution. Your presence here today is such a great privilege and source of strength for us all,” gushed the lady of the house. “It is our fervent wish that you honor us with your company at all future gatherings. Is there anything you would like to say to the ladies?”

  Behice thought she would die.

  “Thank you so much, efendim. I’m afraid I’m not prepared to speak. Forgive me,” she croaked.

  “Please get me something to drink,” she implored Mehpare the moment Makbule Hanım left her side. “My throat’s gone dry. They were passing round lemonade . . . I’d even settle for water.”

  Mehpare stood up and craned her neck to find a waiter.

  “Behice Hanım, may I draw your attention to that lady over there—the one walking toward us: it’s the poet, Şükufe Nihal Hanımefendi. She’s going to start reciting in a moment or two. Shall I introduce you?” asked Azra.

  “Later, Azra Hanım. I’m feeling quite dizzy.”

  Azra didn’t insist, for at that very moment one of the ladies strode into the center of the room and, with the silver spoon she gripped in her right hand, began striking the small tray she held in the other.

  “Shhh. Ladies, quiet please. May I request a warm round of applause for today’s speaker, a guest we all hold in the highest esteem: Şahende Hanımefendi. Welcome efendim.”

  As a short, plump woman made her way to the middle of the room, Mehpare handed a glass of lemonade to Behice and sat down again. Behice took two large gulps and immediately felt sick. She handed the glass back to Mehpare.

  “Take it. Get it away from me. It smells awful,” she slowly mumbled.

  “It smells wonderfully of mint.”

  “It’s upset my stomach. Drink it if you like, Mehpare.”

  Şahende Hanım began speaking. Behice did her best to listen, but there was a buzzing in her ears, as though hundreds of agitated flies were swarming inside her head. Words like motherland, country, freedom, and independence pierced the buzzing, but the shapes of the sentences, their meanings, escaped her. She struck an attentive pose and kept her eyes fixed on the speaker, who occasionally glanced directly at her, the wife of a minister, for approval and endorsement. The fiery tone of the woman summoned up unpleasant images for Behice: marching hordes, fists clenched, hands clutching stones and sticks; ugly shouts in a language that, though foreign, sounded like curses; beatings and degradation, fear for her life! She broke into a cold sweat and gave up all pretense of concentration, waiting only for Şahende Hanım to conclude her endless speech. It was all she could do to keep down the two swallows of lemonade. Mehpare noticed the beads of sweat on Behice’s forehead and put it down to the airlessness of the room.

  At last, thunderous applause broke out, at which Behice weakly clapped her hands. The assembled women rose as one to congratulate the speaker. Behice wanted to join the line of well-wishers but her head was spinning so badly she feared to stand. Azra leaned over Mehpare and asked Behice, “How did you find Şahende Hanım’s speech?”

  Behice forced out a one-word reply: “Remarkable.”

  “She would be so very pleased to hear you say that. If you’d like, we can go over to her before Şükufe Hanım begins the discussion. Let’s go.”

  “Take my arm, please,” Behice whispered into Me
hpare’s ear. “I don’t feel at all well.” A bit taken aback, Mehpare stood up, took Behice’s arm and began propelling her toward Şahende Hanım. The salon was crowded and stuffy. Everyone was speaking at once, their voices ringing in Behice’s ears. After a few steps, she was horrified to discover that she couldn’t feel her hands or feet. Her knees were giving way. Mehpare encircled her waist to prevent her from sinking to the floor.

  “Behice Abla . . . Behice Abla, what’s wrong? Oh, Behice Abla . . . My God, you’re collapsing . . . She’s collapsing . . .”

  “She’s fainted. Good gracious, she’s fainted!”

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Get back . . . Out of the way . . . Let her through . . .”

  “Who’s fainted? Ah, it’s Behice. Quick! Get help!” Şahende Hanım took command: after firmly ordering the other ladies to get back she was soon kneeling at Behice’s side. Mehpare cradled Behice’s head on her knees and with trembling fingers began unbuttoning her blouse.

  “Get me some lemon cologne, is there any in the house? Please bring me some immediately if there is,” ordered Şahende Hanım. “And kindly open a window. Let in some fresh air.”

  Turning to Mehpare, she asked, “You came here with Behice Hanım, didn’t you? You’re relatives I believe?

  “That’s right, efendim.”

  “Is she prone to fainting spells?”

  “No. I’ve never seen her faint before today.”

  “Is she pregnant?”

  “No . . . Well, I don’t know that she is.”

  “Why do you think she fainted? Has she caught a chill? Is she ill? Is she having digestive problems?”

  “No, she’s not ill,” Mehpare assured her.

  “She may have been overexcited by your speech,” Azra speculated.

  “Don’t be absurd!” snapped Şahende Hanım as she poured some of the cologne hurriedly brought by Mehpare Hanım into her cupped palm, splashing a bit onto Behice’s temples and waving a cologne-doused palm under the patient’s nose. Using Behice’s silk headscarf, she wiped away the cold sweat on the patient’s temples and upper lip. Then she lightly slapped each of her cheeks. Behice was coming round, and a moment later she surveyed her surroundings through astonished eyes. At the sight of Şahende Hanım’s anxious face hovering above her own, she closed her eyes, certain she must be dreaming.

  “Don’t worry my dear, you’re fine. You’ve had a turn, that’s all.”

  When Behice realized where she was and what had happened, she could have died of mortification. Here she was in a strange house, surrounded by strange ladies, and she’d dropped like a stone. Such a disgrace! She nearly burst into tears. Mehpare helped her to a chair.

  “Let’s take her to one of the bedrooms; I’ll examine her there,” Şahende Hanım said. As the poet strode off, Behice asked Azra, “Is she a doctor?” She immediately realized how silly her question was: how could a woman be a doctor? But Şahende Hanım seemed so sure of herself . . . she certainly carried herself as though she were a doctor.

  “Şahende Hanım is a practiced midwife,” Azra told her.

  Behice was stricken with panic. The color, which had only recently been restored to her cheeks, drained away once again. “Behice Hanım, you don’t have to submit to an examination if you’d rather not. I’ll explain to Şahende Hanım,” Azra said.

  “Wouldn’t it be bad manners?”

  “No, not at all.”

  Behice slowly struggled to her feet. Her head was still spinning. Propped up on either side by Mehpare and Azra, she stumbled towards one of Makbule Hanım’s bedrooms. Şahende Hanım was already inside the room, drying her freshly scrubbed hands with a scrap of linen towel. She smiled and came up to Behice. “Don’t be frightened, my girl,” she said, “I’ll just listen to your pulse. Have you eaten anything today?”

  “Yes.”

  Clasping Behice’s slender wrist, the midwife carefully counted the thumps of the arteries beneath her finger.

  “Stick out your tongue.”

  Feeling like a helpless little girl, Behice opened her mouth and did as she was told.

  “Normal,” pronounced Şahende Hanım, “which can only mean one thing: there’s only one reason young women your age faint . . .”

  “And what is that?”

  “The obvious one.” Behice reddened. “If I’m right, I’d like to be the one who delivers your baby.”

  “I strongly doubt that I’m with child, but I do thank you, nevertheless, for your kind attention,” Behice said as she turned her own attention to Makbule Hanım. “I’m afraid I’ve been a great deal of trouble and have spoiled your gathering. It’s time Mehpare and I went home. Azra Hanım can return later, when the discussion is over.”

  After profusely thanking the ladies gathered at the front door to enquire after her health, and rejecting her hostess’s offer of a carriage on the grounds that some fresh air would do her good, Behice slowly walked home, leaning heavily on Mehpare’s arm.

  What had possessed her to go along with Azra? What did she care for liberty, justice and equality? She hadn’t yet managed to seize the reins of her own household. Was it up to her to save the motherland? Free as she was to remain peacefully at home with her ud and knitting needles, why had she gotten mixed up with a band of overbearing women? And to make matters worse, she’d disgraced herself by fainting. She would have burst into tears right then and there if she’d been on her own. “For goodness sake, don’t tell anyone what happened to me today. Especially Saraylıhanım,” Behice begged Mehpare.

  “I won’t, Behice Abla,” said Mehpare. “You collapsed. Don’t you think you’d better see a doctor? Don’t you wonder why you fainted?”

  “It was the discomfort.”

  “No one faints from discomfort.”

  “The lemonade disagreed with me.”

  “The lemonade was fine. No one else got sick. Why would you?”

  “I have a sensitive stomach.”

  “Look, I’ll keep your secret on one condition.”

  “What is it?”

  “That you’re examined by a doctor. We can send word to Mahir Bey, tell him what happened and ask for his opinion. He can examine you in Kemal Bey’s room.”

  Behice looked thoughtful. Actually, she did wonder if anything was wrong, but she didn’t like the idea of taking Kemal into her confidence. Mehpare seemed to read her mind. “Kemal Bey wouldn’t tell a soul, believe me,” she said. “He knows better than anyone what a hypochondriac Saraylıhanım can be.”

  “All right then,” Behice finally agreed, “Now can you tell me what Şahende Hanım said? My ears were buzzing so terribly I missed her entire speech.”

  “It was a wonderful talk. Anyone listening to her would grab a gun and race off to fight the enemy. She called on us all, men and women, to join the Anatolian resistance movement.”

  “So we’re expected to run off to Anatolia, children and all?”

  “We don’t have to go anywhere. We can raise funds. We can send blankets, sweaters, shoes and food. We can roll bandages and buy medicines. That’s what she said, anyway.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t mention a word of this in front of Reşat Bey. If he found out that Azra had taken us to such a gathering he’d send her packing immediately.”

  “I think Reşat Bey loves his country too,” Mehpare said. “So he wouldn’t get angry with us, don’t worry.”

  “What a peculiar girl you are,” Behice said. “Is Kemal responsible for teaching you all this?”

  “No one is teaching me anything, efendim,” Mehpare said. “We’re all born with love: love for our country, for our children, for our parents . . . for a man. When the time comes, the love inside sprouts and grows. At least that’s what I think.”

  “And since when have you been thinking all this?”

  “Since all those nights I spent at Kemal Bey’s sickbed, alone with my thoughts.”

  “Blessed Mehpare! Stop thinking so much and take care to sleep at night
. You’re growing paler by the day. At this rate, you’ll fall ill. You might even faint like I did,” Behice said.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Mehpare smiled. “Nothing will happen to me. We Circassians are used to suffering. Just look at Kemal Bey, returning safe and sound from Sarıkamış, when thousands froze to death. That’s when I truly believed that God is looking after us Circassians.”

  “I vividly remember Kemal’s condition the day he returned, and you would probably have to be a Circassian to describe it as ‘safe and sound,’” said Behice.

  As the new Grand Vizier, Damat Ferit Pasha, set about forming his new Cabinet, he retained the old finance minister. The position required technical expertise and experience, and Ahmet Reşat had not only served well for many years, he had never exhibited partisan leanings. After Ahmet Reşat learned that his dear friend, Ahmet Reşit, would be serving as minister of home affairs in the new government, Ahmet Reşat was rather less reluctant to accept a cabinet position under a Grand Vizier for whom he had little affection.

  When Doctor Mahir arrived early one morning to congratulate his old friend on his reinstatement as minister, as well as in response to the letter of invitation sent by Behice Hanım, he first made his customary visit to Kemal’s room. Shortly afterwards, Behice and Mehpare crept upstairs as well. Eyes on the floor in obvious embarrassment, Behice mentioned a recent fainting fit, nothing serious but perhaps it would be prudent to have a doctor’s advice. She wondered if Kemal wouldn’t mind waiting for a moment in Mehpare’s room.

  “Of course not, I’ll just go downstairs,” Kemal complied.

  “No, no, don’t go downstairs. Let’s not attract the attention of Saraylıhanım. There’s no need to worry her. Just go and wait in Mehpare’s room.”

  When Kemal left the room Behice got to the point. As she’d mentioned in her letter, she had a special request to make of the doctor: it was to be kept strictly confidential, with no one else in the house to know.

  With the examination completed, Doctor Mahir asked leave to go and wash his hands. Once he was gone, Behice sat up in Kemal’s bed, rearranged her veil to cover her hair and turned her attention to Mehpare, who waited at the bedside. “Tell Kemal Bey that he can return to his room, would you,” she said.