Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature)

by Kulin, Ayse

  “Go ahead.”

  “Mehpare, please!”

  “Tell me. Who or what are you expecting?”

  “Look Mehpare, I’ve had enough of this. Didn’t you come here of your own free will? Weren’t you the one who wanted to make love?”

  “I was. I haven’t been able to sleep, I missed you so badly.”

  Kemal pinned her beneath him again. But she shook him off, sprang up from the bed and stood by the door.

  “I’m going, unless you tell me.”

  “Like that, naked?”

  “Naked. And I’ll lock my door and you’ll never touch me again.”

  Kemal looked at Mehpare helplessly. “Come here,” he said. Mehpare glided over to the bed, and lowered herself onto him.

  “Tell me.”

  And as Kemal rocked beneath her, he told her. “I’m expecting news… I’ll be leaving to join the resistance.”

  “You’re leaving me. You’re going off and . . .”

  Mehpare cupped his face in her hands, kissing his mouth, his nose, his chin.

  Some time later, after gently slipping out from below Kemal, who had fallen asleep with his head on her breast, Mehpare picked up the scattered books and put them onto their usual places on the shelves, slid the suitcase back under the bed, wrapped herself in the blanket that had fallen to the floor, gathered up her clothes, and left the room. As though she believed that order was restored, that nothing, now, could change.

  Mahir wasn’t entirely comfortable as he sat across from Ahmet Reşat, who was still dressed in his Friday best, in the selamlık. Reşat has just returned from the royal procession to the mosque for Friday services, where the Sultan was customarily drawn in a horse and carriage to the accompaniment of the Palace March, his officials following in order of rank. Lined up in the courtyard of the mosque where prayers were to take place were the Grand Vizier, ministers, members of the senate, civilian and military state officials, men who had married into the royal family, ambassadors, and various guests and dignitaries. Traditionally, it was an opportunity for the public to get a glimpse of the Sultan and Caliph, but the occasion had lost much of its pomp and spectacle when the occupying forces had banned the participation of the Ceremonial Guard.

  Ahmet Reşat had been upset that morning to see that only a handful of people had turned out to applaud their Sultan. It could only mean that even the Muslim citizens of the empire, who had always been devoted to the Sultan, had begun to lose faith in his government. Reşat knew that he himself was a leading figure among this despised leadership, and was greatly saddened by the realization.

  Mahir was disturbed for a different reason. He’d concealed the news of Behice’s pregnancy, and as if that weren’t bad enough, had kept secret Kemal’s plan to leave his uncle’s house and join the resistance. How could he have hidden so much from his old friend?

  It had been impossible to persuade Reşat Bey to join them. He still believed that the Sultan would realize, sooner or later, his folly in trusting the English. It would happen any day now, he believed, as a faithful son believes to the end in a wayward father’s reformation. Ahmet Reşat had no choice but to wait patiently, without resorting to betrayal, without turning his back, without doing his Majesty a disservice of any kind, until the Sultan saw the error of his ways.

  Mahir hoped with all his heart that when that day came it wouldn’t be too late for Ahmet Reşat. Taking another sip of his lemonade, he set the glass down on the mother-of-pearl inlaid end table.

  “Delicious. My compliments to whoever made it,” he said to Reşat Bey, who responded, “My eldest daughter made it.” Mahir waited in vain for the conversation to turn to Leman, wondering as he did so how Ahmet Reşat would react if he knew that his closest friend couldn’t help thinking rather frequently of his fifteen-year-old daughter.

  “The lemons are from the back garden. It’s almost as if we’d foreseen the food shortages and planted fruit trees well in advance. We’ve been dining on fruit from the garden all winter long, even sending some to the neighbors. It’s impossible to find anything in Istanbul these days,” said Ahmet Reşat.

  “I certainly do know.”

  “Bless my father-in-law for having sent us supplies so frequently, but the roads are no longer safe; they’re even impassable at times.”

  “So I’ve heard. Even officers find it difficult to travel these days. We’re forever having to produce our papers at checkpoints. Who knows what we’ll come up against before we reach our destinations.”

  “I wish you Godspeed on your journey but you’ll be sorely missed here in Istanbul, Mahir Bey,” said Ahmet Reşat. “We’ll need you more than ever now that Behice Hanım is expecting another baby.”

  “I wish I could stay here with you, but the only way to prevent any more outbreaks is to work in the areas under quarantine. Your wife looked perfectly healthy to me. I don’t anticipate any complications.”

  “You know, Mahir, we hadn’t planned to have another child at a time like this. Even so, I’ve been curiously elated by the news. As though a baby were the harbinger of brighter, better days.”

  “God willing. But I’m afraid we’ll have to wait some time for better days. The occupiers don’t have the slightest tolerance for Muslim Ottomans. You wouldn’t know, not being a soldier yourself, but they’ve found a new way to plague us: they expect Ottoman officers of whatever rank to salute any and all soldiers of the allied forces.”

  “I don’t understand. You mean a high-ranking Ottoman officer is required to salute an allied soldier, even if he’s a private?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. Just imagine a situation in which an Ottoman Pasha is forced to salute a common soldier, whether English, French or Italian. Or even Greek.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “For a month. They’ll soon inform your government in writing and request your cooperation to enforce it. It’s an intolerable situation for Turkish officers. Many of them have taken to wearing civilian clothing just to avoid it.”

  Ahmet Reşat was struck by a stabbing pain in his stomach. He felt like vomiting, and unconsciously clapped one hand over his mouth and the other over his midsection.

  “What’s wrong? You’ve gone ashen, Reşat Bey.”

  “A sudden wave of nausea. I don’t know why.”

  “Would you allow me to examine your tongue?”

  “I’m fine, Mahir Bey, just fine. I’m as fine as any of us can be. Don’t worry, it’s passed.”

  The two men sat for a moment without speaking, as though too weak or dispirited for words. Mahir broke the silence. “Believe me when I say how sorry I am to be going off like this, especially considering Behice Hanım’s condition. I’ll leave the name and number of a friend, just in case. Akil Muhtar is a good man, and a skilled doctor.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Leman Hanım has grown up fast, hasn’t she? She seems to be a self-possessed young lady. I’m sure she’ll be a great help to her mother.”

  “She would be, if Behice didn’t insist on treating her daughters like children. She won’t let them lift a finger. I think she’s making a mistake, but the rearing of children is best left to women, and I don’t wish to interfere. Mahir Bey, how long will you be away?”

  “The cholera patients are gathered in Tuzla; those with typhus and venereal diseases are under quarantine at various other locations. And there’s been an outbreak of the Asian flu among the most recent wave of immigrants. I’ll be conducting a tour of inspection in Tuzla first, but it’s not yet clear where I’ll be going after that. I certainly won’t be returning until the situation is under control.”

  “A city with this many immigrants and refugees was bound to suffer an epidemic,” Ahmet Reşat said. “The numbers are staggering. During the Balkan War sixty-five thousand people arrived in Istanbul alone, not to mention some ninety thousand Russians and nearly one hundred thousand refugees from the Crimea.”

  “Well at least we were able to prevent
an outbreak of the typhus brought by the Crimeans.”

  There was some sort of uproar outside the house, and Ahmet Reşat went to the window to see what it was. Hüsnü Efendi was standing in front of the garden gate in heated discussion with someone. The man, whose back was turned, was gesticulating wildly. When he turned towards the window Ahmet Reşat recognized him.

  “Ah, it’s Hakkı Efendi, Ziya Pasha’s man. I wonder what he wants? Maybe Azra Hanım needs something?”

  “Strange.” Mahir joined Ahmet Reşat in front of the window.

  Ahmet Reşat left the selamlık and upon opening the front door nearly bumped noses with Hakkı Efendi. The poor servant was trembling.

  “Sir, the invaders have come. The invaders have come to our house. The invaders.”

  “Invaders? What are you saying, man?”

  Thank God the ladies aren’t home. They’re on the Asian Shore. Come quickly, sir. Do something. For God’s sake . . .”

  “Hakkı Efendi! What are you going on about?”

  “They’re seizing our house. They’ll listen to you, sir, don’t let them do it. I’m begging you, please come with me, come quickly.”

  “Let me put something on and I’ll be right back,” Ahmet Reşat said. As he sprinted up the stairs he ran into Kemal.

  “Mahir Bey’s come and you haven’t even told me. Uncle? What’s wrong?”

  Ahmet Reşat pushed Kemal aside and continued up the stairs. At the sight of Mahir, who was standing at the entrance to the selamlık with a distraught Hakkı Efendi, Kemal raced down the stairs.

  “What’s happened, Mahir?”

  “They’ve seized Ziya Pasha’s house.”

  “You’re not serious! When?” Hakkı Efendi had begun a disjointed account of recent events when Ahmet Reşat came back downstairs. The two men hurried off together. Mahir and Kemal were left dumbfounded and alone in the entry hall. At the sound of rustling Mahir turned round. It was Leman, frightened, standing in front of the garden door with a basket of blossoming branches.

  “Ah, Leman . . . Hanım,” Mahir said. “Was that you? We didn’t hear you come in.” A smile spread across the doctor’s troubled face.

  “I was in the garden, gathering some branches that have flowered early. I’m going to put them in a vase and sketch them. What’s going on? Uncle Kemal, why do you look so upset? Where has father gone running off to? It’s Friday, the offices are all closed, aren’t they?”

  “There’s been some urgent business. Why don’t you run along upstairs,” Kemal said. “Uncle Mahir and I have something to discuss in the selamlık.”

  Annoyed at having been addressed as “uncle” in front of Leman, Mahir prepared to follow Kemal to the selamlık, but couldn’t resist turning his head for another glimpse of Leman. Delicate and graceful—that melancholy face, those enormous eyes shot with green . . .

  “When you’re finished, come upstairs and I’ll play the piano for you,” Leman said.

  “Do you enjoy playing the piano, then?” Mahir asked.

  “Very much. Especially Chopin, but I haven’t been able to find the sheet music I was looking for.”

  “Write down whatever sheet music you’d like. I’m going to Pera tomorrow, and I’ll stop by the music shops for you.”

  “How kind of you, sir.” She smiled.

  “Enough talk about music,” Kemal said, “we’ve got some important business to discuss.”

  Mahir found himself fairly shoved into the selamlık. The door was closed behind him.

  Having returned to the European Shore to organize her house for surrender to the occupation forces, the Azra who was now staying at Reşat Bey’s house was visibly thinner than the Azra of only a few weeks before. The dark circles under her eyes attested to the toll taken by recent developments, but she held her head high and concealed her sufferings as best she could.

  “I admire you, Azra,” Behice said, “you’re taking this so well. I’d have been confined to my bed long ago.”

  “No you wouldn’t. Calamity brings strength. When father was exiled, and again when I lost my elder brother, I expected my mother to fall ill and take to her bed: she did no such thing. She carried on for my sake. And now it’s my turn to be strong for her sake. Besides, I don’t want the enemy to see how upset I am.”

  “I have some news for you. I’m not a particularly strong woman, but I’m not so weak that a few vigorous speeches at a women’s gathering can knock me out. I was embarrassed by my fainting spell at Makbule Hanım’s house—but it turns out that I’m pregnant. Forgive me for having caused con- cern.”

  “Oh, Behice, it’s wonderful news! Congratulations. I’m as pleased as can be.”

  “Would you like me to come along when you go to collect the furniture from your house?”

  “Absolutely not! If you hadn’t shared your news I’d have considered your offer. But now I think you should stay here, Behice. It would upset you terribly to see my house surrounded by enemy forces. And they’re certain to have an insolent Greek translator with them. It wouldn’t be right to distress you like that. Stay here at home.”

  “Take Mehpare with you, then. I’m sure she’ll be able to make herself useful.”

  “It would be such a help.”

  “I’ll tell her to get ready.”

  Behice found Mehpare in the small room next to the kitchen. She was ironing Kemal’s underwear. “Would you mind accompanying Azra Hanım to her house, Mehpare?” Behice asked. “She needs to write up a list of the furnishings and get her personal belongings before the house is taken over. I’d hoped to go with her… but given my news, it wouldn’t be wise.”

  “Let me put away the iron, Behice Abla,” Mehpare replied, “and I’ll be ready to help in any way I can.”

  Deciding there was no need to take Kemal’s laundry up to his room, she stacked it neatly on the chiffonier, grabbed her cloak and raced off.

  The most recent letter that Azra had sent to Kemal rested on Ahmet Reşat’s knee. He’d put on his reading glasses and studied it carefully from start to finish. Other than one particular detail, everything conveyed at some length to Azra by Fehime Sultan was already known to him.

  “ . . . Sheikh Sait, in particular, enjoys close relations with the Association of Anglophiles, many of whose members are influential Armenians. A portion of the substantial payments he receives from them are spent on his own extravagant lifestyle while the rest is being used to fund the formation of a pro-English cabinet. The first duty of this cabinet would be the elimination of the Nationalist movement . . . Ferit Pasha is preparing a counterinsurgency against the Nationalists and has accelerated the frequency of his meetings with Kurdish tribal leaders, which are being arranged by Sheikh Sait, himself the head of a Kurdish tribe . . .”

  After re-reading the letter, Ahmet Reşat returned to a particular sentence, which he read aloud, as though for confirmation: “Our Sultan is fully aware of these circumstances.”

  With a mild oath, he removed his glasses and looked at his nephew.

  “You see, uncle!” Kemal said. “That’s our Sultan for you! Had Mahir been able to summon up the courage he would have told you about this long ago, but he was disappointed in his efforts to find an appropriate opportunity.”

  “Intimately familiar as I am with your lunacy, I’m not surprised to find you in the thick of all this; but as for Mahir—he has a career! I’d never have expected him to get involved in an underground organization.”

  “Everyone in his right mind is on our side now, Uncle. And it’s not just the patriots among us, even the French are supporting the uprising taking root in Anatolia.”

  “If the French support us it isn’t for love of our black eyes. They’re settling old scores with the English,” Ahmet Reşat countered. “The Greeks are now demanding territories given to the Italians. English support for the Greeks has driven the French and the Italians, in particular, towards the Turks. I heard as much from Caprini Efendi himself.”

  “But it doesn’t change
anything, does it? The Sultan is on the wrong path; you see that, don’t you?”

  Ahmet Reşat was unable to respond. I see everything clear as day, were the words he couldn’t bring himself to utter. The Sultan to whom he had pledged his allegiance had, upon falling into the sea, chosen to embrace a serpent in the form of the English, a nation whose ruthless designs on the Ottoman Empire were unmatched. But the Sultan’s choice of serpent was unfathomable. It had for some months been so obvious to Reşat Bey that the English planned to establish a Kurdish state under the puppet government of Sheikh Sait on lands seized from the Ottoman Empire that he was truly astonished that the Sultan and the Freedom and Unity Party seemed unable to perceive what was happening under their very noses. No—in fact, he was no longer astonished: backed by money or propaganda or whatever else it took, Sait the Kurd had managed to enlist the services of a sizeable number of Ottoman intellectuals, and it was these intellectuals who were leading the Sultan astray. With each passing day, Ahmet Reşat found his faith slipping further as His Majesty invariably responded to disastrous news by closing his eyes and losing himself in mediation.

  On numerous occasions he’d discussed this very matter with Home Minister Ahmet Reşit, and while neither man had been happy with the Sultan’s blindly pro-English stance, they had at first found some justification for it in Sultan Vahdettin’s emphasis on religion over country. It had become painfully apparent, however, in the days immediately following the occupation, that they had been wrong on that count: every one of their Christian subjects had toadied up to the state sponsors of their religions. The Bulgarians, Serbians and Orthodox Armenians had turned to Russia; the Catholic Armenians to France. And when it came to the Americans, they’d been thronging to Anatolia seeking converts from among the Ottoman Christians for years. Religion was like concrete, and it was the Ottomans who had failed to harness its adhesive powers to their own ends: had the Muslim tribes of Arabia hesitated to stab their co-religionists and Caliphate in the back?

  Ahmet Reşat stood, ignoring the ash that tumbled from his cigarette onto the carpet as he wearily paced the length of the room.