Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature)

by Kulin, Ayse

  When the door remained closed he called out to Mehpare on the floor below:

  “She’s making ayran for you and Mahir Bey. She’ll bring it up in a moment,” Saraylıhanım responded.

  “Mahir, I received a letter from Azra,” Kemal said. “Princess Fehime is going to see the Sultan today. She’s going to send out feelers. I think she may even ask him directly. Sultan Vahdettin has never made a secret of his pro-English sentiments, so why shouldn’t she simply ask him?”

  “You do realize, don’t you, that in these trying times, when everyone is hard up for money, Sheikh Sait is living a life of extravagance?”

  “Are the English funding him?”

  “I’m certain they are, among others. There are pro-English organizations other than Sait’s. The Freedom and Unity Party is unhappy with Sait monopolizing all the funds. The English don’t want to anger their supporters. They must be giving the Sultan a share of the money for redistribution to the others.”

  “Let’s pray that’s the case.”

  When Mehpare arrived with the ayran, Kemal asked her to bring his aunt upstairs. Mehpare ran down to Behice’s room and soon returned with her.

  “Come on, Mehpare, let’s go to your room and let my aunt speak with the doctor in private,” Kemal said.

  Behice sat on the edge of the bed, folded hands trembling in her lap as Mahir broke the news.

  “Congratulations, efendim, we’ve determined the cause of your fainting spells. You’re pregnant.”

  “Really?”

  “Aren’t you pleased? You’d been hoping for a son. God willing, you’ll have one.”

  Behice stared blankly. “Leman’s a young woman, nearly old enough for marriage. I’ll be embarrassed to tell her.”

  “But you’re still young yourself.”

  “We’re at war. Our troubles are many. The child is untimely. It doesn’t matter if it’s a boy.”

  “Of course it doesn’t. May Allah give you a healthy, dutiful child.”

  “Amen.”

  “If you’re able to provide me with some dates, I can calculate when the child will be born.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself anymore, doctor. I’ll be seeing the midwife from now on.”

  “As you like,” Mahir said.

  “Now, by your leave, I’ll be going . . .”

  “Behice Hanımefendi . . .”

  “Yes . . .”

  “If they ask, what shall I tell them? What shall I say to Kemal, Saraylıhanım and the others?”

  “Give me a few days. I’d like to give Reşat Bey the news first, then we’ll tell the others.”

  “In that case, I know nothing. We haven’t received the test results just yet.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” Behice said as she left the room.

  Mahir looked thoughtfully at the doorway. In a city under occupation, news of a husband’s promotion to minister or of a baby is insufficient to gladden a woman. Even the Judas tree and hyacinth seemed to droop; a veil of melancholy had descended on young and old, everyone and everything. Mahir waited in the room a little while longer. He was in a hurry, and when Kemal didn’t return he made his way to the stairs. The tinkling of a piano echoed up the stairs: Leman was playing in the anteroom. At the sound of footsteps she raised her head and smiled. Her light auburn hair spilled over her shoulders. Her head was uncovered. The light from the window fell full across her face, and Mahir noticed the reddish tint in her hair, the honey-colored flecks in her large green eyes. When had this girl grown up? When had she become so beautiful?

  “How are you, Leman . . . Hanım?” he asked, pronouncing the word “Hanım” with some difficulty. It seemed such a strange term of address for a girl he’d once bounced on his knee in Thessalonica. But the young woman seated on the piano bench was no child, that much was clear.

  “I’m fine, doctor. How are you? Have you come to examine Uncle Kemal?”

  “Yes, but he has no need for me. Your uncle has regained his health, young lady.”

  “That’s wonderful! And Mehpare Abla is going to stay here with us regardless.”

  “You’re quite fond of Mehpare then, are you?”

  “Yes. We understand each other.”

  “Keep playing Leman . . . Hanım. You play beautifully.”

  “Azra Abla taught me this piece last week. You know Azra Hanım, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “She plays well too.”

  “I haven’t heard her play for a long time.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Leman, “she’s far better than me.”

  “She’s been practicing for many years. When you’re her age, who knows how much more accomplished you’ll be. You’re still very young. A child, really.”

  “Better not let Nana hear you call me a child. She’s trying to get me married off.”

  “That’s absurd! Your father would never allow it. How old are you?”

  “Fifteen, but I’ll be sixteen in a few months.”

  “You’ve grown up, Leman. I hadn’t realized how quickly,” Mahir said. “I ask your leave for now, but I’ll return one day just to hear you play.”

  “If you let me know in advance I’ll play a duet for you, with Azra Abla.”

  Mahir descended to the entry hall, took his black sheepskin cap from the shelf, put on his shoes, retrieved his cape from the coat stand and threw it over his shoulders, and walked out the door. He resisted the impulse to look up at the window on the middle floor. Had he done so, he would have seen Leman watching his departure from behind the tulle curtains.

  Mehpare picked up the jacket Kemal had forgotten to take with him as he hurried back to his room. She shook out the jacket, spread it on the bed and, with slender fingers, stroked and straightened its collar and sleeves. Ever since the arrival of Azra, Kemal had neither visited her room nor summoned her to his. She’d missed him. And every night Azra was in the house, after everyone else had gone to bed, she’d carefully listened for any untoward sounds in Kemal’s room, even leaving her door ajar so she wouldn’t miss the patter of footsteps going in or out. Kemal hadn’t left his room and Azra hadn’t visited it, of that much Mehpare was certain. But Kemal had virtually ignored her for the duration of Azra’s stay. And now, this morning, when he’d waited with her while Doctor Mahir was examining his aunt, he’d confined himself to kisses. Mehpare had trembled inside as she asked him if he’d missed her.

  “Of course I’ve missed you, but Mahir and my aunt are in my room. They might burst in at any moment.”

  “Burst into my room? For goodness sake!” she’d cried as she fought back tears. Was this the same Kemal? He must have tired of her. Once she’d given herself to him, he’d moved along, looking for new and lovelier conquests.

  She snatched up the jacket she’d so lovingly straightened and hurled it against the wall. Unable to stop herself, she stamped on it, again and again. Then, as she felt the tears coming, she picked the jacket up off the floor, held it to her nose, buried her face in the plush fabric.

  Mehpare had no idea how far this love of Kemal would take her, but she was prepared to follow him anywhere. If he remained in this house, she’d stay here until she died. If he were to marry someone—Azra, for instance—she would follow him to his new home as his servant, more than willing to be Azra’s fellow wife as long as she could be a handmaiden, concubine, mistress, slave to Kemal.

  She rose from the floor, spread the jacket on the bed, and was smoothing it again when she heard the rustle of paper in the right-hand pocket. She reached in and found a letter, folded in four. She paused for a moment. After opening and refolding the letter, she held her breath, opened it a second time, and scanned the handwriting. When the name Azra sprang out at her from the bottom of the page, she walked over to the bright light in front of the window. Her knees felt weak and her heart beat so fast that if anyone else were in the room surely they’d hear it throbbing. She began reading.

  Then she folded the letter and sat on the bed. The rel
ationship between Kemal and Azra wasn’t romantic, as she’d feared—that much was clear, and good. But there was something between them that she could never share. Together, they were meddling in some murky business that could mean death for Kemal. That was bad, very bad.

  She put the carefully folded letter back in Kemal’s pocket.

  Azra had gone home, thank God. But it was obvious that they’d continue to correspond, and that that appalling blonde, blue-eyed woman would continue to lead him into danger. What should she do? If she told Saraylıhanım, would it do any good? Should she go directly to Reşat Bey? But when had either of them been able to make Kemal listen! Perhaps she should knock on Azra’s door and have a word with her. She’d explain that Kemal had been critically ill and only just recovered from his terrible fever, and request that Azra leave him in peace. There must be hundreds of fit young men prepared to endanger themselves in this way. Azra could choose any one of them for her games. If Kemal were arrested again or—God forbid—relapsed, it would the end of him. Yes, that would be best: go directly to Azra and talk to her. Were Kemal to find out what she’d done, she couldn’t rule out a beating, even though the men of this house were not in the habit of resorting to violence. Well let them beat her. If he found out, he’d never look at her again. So be it! It was enough that he survived. But hadn’t Azra written that she was going somewhere? She withdrew the letter and scanned its contents once more. Azra had gone to the Asian shore yesterday. Would she be able to persuade Behice Hanım to allow her to visit Azra at home in Erenköy? Even if she failed with Behice Hanım, she might succeed with Leman: Azra was a skilled pianist, and Leman had grown to like her. They’d become friends. And if Leman set her mind on something, there was no stopping her. She’d nag and cajole until she got her way. Yes, she’d work on Leman until they were allowed to go to Erenköy.

  After dinner, Behice retired to her room and put on her paçalık for the last time. It was a tight fit, but she knew she’d never wear the faded pink gown again. She brushed and re- brushed her hair with her ivory-handled hairbrush and lightly pinched and slapped her cheeks to bring out the color. Reşat Bey was late, as usual. Lighting the night lamp, she stretched out on the bed and lightly strummed her ud.

  When Ahmet Reşat returned home that night he found his wife sound asleep on the bed. The ud had slipped from her hand and onto the floor.

  “You’ll catch cold, why aren’t you using a blanket?” he asked. When his wife opened her eyes he added, “Your gown is so thin.”

  “I’ve worn my paçalık.”

  “You should wear something warmer in this weather.”

  “I wanted to give you the news wearing this.”

  Ahmet Reşat started. “I don’t understand, Behice.”

  “I wore this gown the other times, and I hoped it would be auspicious . . .” Behice looked straight ahead, her lips trembling.

  Her husband came over and sat by her side. “Behice, has something happened? What news? What is it?”

  Taking a deep breath she spoke with her eyes on the floor. “Reşat Bey, I’m pregnant. Perhaps it’ll be a boy this time.” Her husband was silent for a long moment. When he failed to speak, Behice whispered: “You’re not pleased?”

  “May it be for the best,” said Reşat. “It’s a bit untimely, but Allah will help provide for its care.”

  “Of course He will! You’re a minister, aren’t you?”

  “We’re at war. Under occupation. These are difficult days and they’re only going to get worse. All I can do is hope and pray for a healthy birth. And yes, God willing it will be a boy this time.”

  Behice realized she’d been foolish to expect the displays of delight that had greeted news of her earlier pregnancies.

  As Ahmet Reşat stood up and undressed he asked: “Does my aunt know? Who have you told?”

  Behice hadn’t told her husband about her fainting spell or the doctor’s visit, so she lied: “No one knows.”

  “In that case, we’ll tell the other members of the household tomorrow. Mind your health and your diet, Hanım, you tend to have difficult pregnancies.”

  “I feel fine,” Behice protested.

  “Mahir shall come and examine you tomorrow.”

  “There’s no need. I’ve called for the midwife.”

  “Behice Hanım, times are changing. Seeing as we have a family doctor there’s no reason not to benefit from his services. The midwife can of course attend the birth, but do go and see Doctor Mahir.”

  “When I went to that gathering of women last week I made the acquaintance of Şahende Hanım. Of Recep Bey’s family. She’s a most enlightened woman.”

  Reşat Bey’s expression soured and he said, “I’ve heard of her but I still think it best you apply to our neighborhood midwife.”

  Before Behice surrendered herself to Şahende Hanım, one of those women who meddle in men’s affairs and caterwaul from behind lecterns, word would be sent—first thing in the morning—to Doctor Mahir, so that he might arrange a suitable time to examine her at home. His wife’s previous pregnancy had ended in miscarriage. She was delicate. She required careful attention. He would also have to find a way to suggest to his aunt that she show special consideration for Behice and not upset her in any way. Reşat Bey knew that his aunt, although basically goodhearted, firmly believed that that the duties of mother-in-law necessitated the adoption of a critical stance towards the family’s bride.

  “I’m sending word to Mahir Bey,” he said, stroking Behice’s hair.

  Behice felt alarmed. She didn’t know whether to tell her husband that she’d already seen the doctor without his knowledge, or to keep it a secret. She felt quite flushed and attempted to mask her confusion and high color by murmuring, “Reşat Bey, I’m mortified at having to tell Leman about her new sibling.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s nearly of marrying age herself.”

  “In my house, no matter what Saraylıhanım says, no girl is going to be married before the age of twenty.”

  “But Reşat Bey, who would take a bride of over twenty? Everyone prefers a fresh-faced maiden. Did you wait for me to turn twenty?”

  “If your father had refused your hand until then, I’d have waited. Let’s keep the girls here with us for as long as possible. In fact, when they do marry, let’s have them settle here with their husbands. What do you say to that?”

  “I had no idea you were so fond of your daughters.”

  “For all these years of work, I’ve been missing them—when I retire I’d like them to be here with me. And I think it’s important they’re old enough to choose a husband wisely. Tell me, Behice Hanım, you were a mere girl when you were sent to me: Have you ever regretted it?”

  “Never. I’d choose you again, at this age.”

  “Don’t throw out that pink gown just because it’s old, Behice,” Ahmet Reşat said as he leaned forward and buried his nose in the hair spilling down her shoulders. “It will bring us luck if we have any more children. And it suits you perfectly.”

  Mehpare tapped on the door and stepped into the room without waiting for Kemal’s invitation. Kemal was putting books in a suitcase he’d laid open on the bed. Mehpare quickly scanned the room before resting her eyes on the books.

  “Sir?”

  “What is it, Mehpare?”

  “You summoned me?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “If you’re packing your bags I’ll help you.”

  “I can do it myself.”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “Yes, you can go.”

  Mehpare walked over to Kemal and snatched the book he was putting into the suitcase. “Why are you packing them up?”

  “I’m removing them.”

  “But these are the books you always read.”

  “I’ve finished with them.”

  “Well in that case I’ll put them on the top shelf of the bookcase tomorrow. You don’t need to put them in a suitcase.”

  “St
op meddling, Mehpare!” Kemal snapped as he tried, and failed, to retrieve the book she was pressing to her chest.

  “What’s going on, sir? Are you going somewhere? You’ve had all your laundry done, and ironed. Why?”

  “I thought it’d be nice to have clean clothes.”

  “You’ve never worried about that before.”

  “Look, it’s late—leave me alone and get to bed, in your own room!”

  Mehpare stood her ground. Kemal stared at her in stunned silence. She had placed the book on the bed and was slowly unbuttoning her blouse.

  “Stop it. I’m not in the mood.” When she ignored him Kemal grew angry. “I told you to go to your room, Mehpare.”

  Mehpare came directly up to Kemal. “You’ve been so distant. You don’t even look me in the face. You don’t care about me anymore. Maybe there’s someone else.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “Then why are you sending me away?”

  “You can’t force these things, Mehpare,” Kemal said. “I’m out of sorts, confused. I’m expecting some news and it just won’t come. I’m feeling a bit low and there’s nothing I want right now.”

  “Well then tell me all about it. Tell me the news you’re expecting.”

  “Some things are private.”

  “You can tell me anything.” As they spoke Mehpare undid the final buttons, stripped away her blouse and camisole; Kemal found himself looking at her breasts, their tracery of blue veins. They seemed even fuller than he remembered. Mehpare’s thick brown hair had fallen across her face. She was unfastening the clasp of her skirt. A moment later Kemal had pulled off his trousers, shoved the suitcase to the floor. He pressed against Mehpare until he was inside, all else forgotten.

  “Tell me,” she said, squirming free.

  “What?” panted Kemal.

  “What you’re expecting.”

  Ignoring her, Kemal struggled to get back inside—and each time she wriggled away. “For God’s sake, Mehpare, hold still!”

  “Tell me and I will.”

  Kemal barely suppressed an oath as he tried to mount her. She slipped free again.

  “I’ll give you a good pummeling in a minute.”