Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature)

by Kulin, Ayse

  “I’ll just get my çarşaf . . .”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself, Leman! Get going this minute. It’s an emergency. I don’t give a toss about your çarşaf. Run!” Leman stared at her mother, normally so courteous and such a stickler for propriety. Smoothing back her hair, she headed for the garden gate, thanking God that the midwife was a next door neighbor.

  With Leman gone, Behice turned on Suat, who was still sobbing. “What are you crying about?” she said.

  “Mehpare Abla’s dying.”

  “She’s not dying. She’s having a baby.”

  “But what if she dies?”

  “Stop being ridiculous and make yourself useful. I left poor Sabahat in my room. Go wait with your little sister.”

  “I want to wait with Mehpare Abla. The housekeeper can look after the baby.”

  “She’s helping deliver the baby, boiling water and preparing strips of cloth. She’s got work to do.”

  “But mother, I . . .”

  For the first time ever, Behice lifted a hand against one of her children. “Suat, I told you to go and look after your sister. I left the balcony door open. A cat might come in. Look, if anything were to happen to her, as God is my witness I swear I’ll tear you to pieces with my own two hands!”

  Suat darted off to the house, so eager to avoid the first smack of her life that, for the first time, she was willing to do exactly what she was told. Mehpare’s screams echoed beyond the garden and into the street.

  Ahmet Reşat and Mahir didn’t arrive home until several hours later. He had been at a privy council meeting and they’d waited until it was over to give him the news. All he knew was that Mehpare had gone into labor, meaning the baby, which by his calculations was only five months old, was certain to be stillborn. Why, he wondered, did the children of this family seem fated to arrive in the world before their time. Perhaps there was truth in the saying “an overprotected eye is certain to be pricked.” That is, perhaps the premature births could be blamed on the over-coddling of the women during their pregnancies.

  As Ahmet Reşat considered how he would break the news of the stillborn baby to Kemal, his ears started to burn and his head began throbbing. Pulling himself together, he sent one of his clerks to Mahir’s house, the other to the hospital where the doctor was working. Fortunately, Mahir was working on the European shore at that time and Ahmet Reşat prayed he would be found quickly. He himself dashed down to the street and began looking for a coupe. When none appeared, he jumped onto a passing tram, one hand clutching the metal door handle, his foot on the running board, looking for all the world like a student. He silently prayed no one would see him. When the tram reached Divanyolu he leapt off and began running home. When he arrived at the top of the street, he found Mahir paying a driver.

  His first words were, “The baby’s unlikely to have survived. It’s stillborn, isn’t it?”

  “Just let me get my foot in the door and we’ll see,” said Mahir. “Even at seven months, premature babies can be kept alive these days.”

  Ahmet Reşat didn’t have the heart to tell him that the baby wasn’t even six months yet.

  They quickly walked to the house without speaking. Behice opened the door. Her eyes were red, her face chalk white. As Ahmet Reşat removed his fez he asked:

  “Is the baby alive, Behice?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, sobbing as she threw herself into his arms.

  “And Mehpare? Is she well?”

  Still sobbing, Behice responded, “Yes . . . as well as can be expected.”

  “I’ll go upstairs and see how they are,” Mahir offered. Doctor’s bag in hand, he was heading for the stairs when Behice said through her tears, “Mahir Bey, Mehpare is in the selamlık.”

  Mahir opened the door to the selamlık. A sheet had been spread over one of the divans and Mehpare lay there, arms at her sides in the narrow space, still as a corpse. In a cradle next to the divan lay a tiny infant, obviously premature, swathed in cotton. Its cries were so weak they were barely audible. The midwife sat on a cushion at Mehpare’s feet, reading the Koran. When she saw the doctor she collected herself. “It was premature,” she whispered. “She’s going through a bad time. She doesn’t want to see her son.”

  Mahir went over to Mehpare and asked, “Are you all right, Mehpare Hanım?” She didn’t open her eyes.

  “Mehpare Hanım . . . Mehpare . . . It’s me, Doctor Mahir. Are you all right?”

  When there was still no response he assumed Mehpare was sleeping and went over to the cradle. He leaned over, took the baby in his arms, set it on the divan and began examining it. To the midwife, who was standing over him, he said, “The chances of survival are good.”

  He went upstairs to say he thought it would be a good idea to keep the baby under observation at the hospital for up to ten days and that, if they permitted him, he would take both mother and baby to the Italian Hospital in Beyoğlu, where some of his close friends were working. He opened the door to the sitting room and poked his head inside. Ahmet Reşat was sprawled in his chair and when the doctor saw the expression on his face he forgot all about Mehpare and the baby. “Reşat Bey!” he whispered.

  Saraylıhanım was sitting cross-legged on the divan in front of the window, hands folded in her lap, rocking back and forth and repeatedly muttering something unintelligible to Mahir. He listened carefully for a moment, but when he still couldn’t make out what she was saying he set his bag on the floor and carefully looked around the room. Behice and Suat weren’t there. It was Leman who stood at her father’s side, massaging cologne into his temples and his arms; it was Leman whose face was as pallid and drawn as her father’s. Leman came up to Mahir, leaned forward as though she was about to tell him a secret, and said, in a near whisper, “We received some painful news today . . .”

  Mahir stared at Leman’s face. She’d aged at least ten years that day and it was only now that he could make sense of Saraylıhanım’s repeated lament: “There’s not even a grave for me to visit!”

  – 20 –

  Broken Wings

  Azra had put down her pen and leaned back in her chair when, in the weak, flickering light, she saw that her tears were smudging the ink. She closed her eyes and waited for a time. Then she allowed herself to sob long and loud.

  She was living in a primitive dwelling—impossible to heat in the winter and maddeningly short of water in the summer—located on one of the narrow lanes in the impoverished outskirts of the city of Maraş. Sitting there at her desk, the shutters still closed against the morning sun, wearing her nightgown, her shawl slipping off her left shoulder, her hair uncombed, the dark circles under her eyes mute testimony to yet another sleepless night, she was the very picture of misery and dejection—she suspected she looked like an actress ineptly performing some melodrama in a provincial theater. And yet, she still seemed completely out of place in the utter wretchedness of that room.

  She’d believed that it was love of country that had brought her to this distant city. That is, she’d believed it until months of hardship had given her the courage to examine her true motives, forcing her to conclude that she had come not for country but to inject excitement into her empty life.

  How envious she had been of Mehpare! And it was only now, as she composed a letter of condolence, that she acknowledged an envy that astonished her. Feeling genuine affection for that uninformed young woman living in the house of Reşat Beyefendi in the role of poor relation, a status so much lower than her own, Azra’s friendship had nonetheless been tinged with envy for Mehpare’s intense love for Kemal, and later, with envy for the fertility God had granted so generously to Mehpare while denying it so completely to herself.

  Kemal, however, had always implied that it was Mehpare who might be envious of Azra. Which was only natural. After all, Azra was well-educated, wealthy, esteemed and independent: everything Mehpare aspired to, but would never attain. Kemal had cited Azra’s many fine qualities as precisely the reason she should be to
lerant of any discourtesy evinced by Mehpare.

  But Mehpare had never been discourteous, had always shown Azra the greatest respect—except for that one day when they’d all gathered at the mansion. And now it was Azra who would give anything to change places with Mehpare—anything. But God disposes.

  Fate had sent Mehpare into Reşat Bey’s house and into Kemal’s arms; it was fated that they would marry, and it was also fated that she would be left a widow before she’d fully learned what it was to be a wife.

  Had Azra’s envy, then, been misplaced?

  No, Mehpare had a child in her arms. And she would always have her great love, even if she yearned for him till the day she died.

  She, Azra, had nothing.

  She and Necdet had married because their families had deemed it suitable. It was a sensible marriage with benefits on both sides. When she looked back and tried to remember their happiest moments together, she’d see the docile, hazel eyes of her husband looking at her with great tenderness, if not great love. There had been moments of deep contentment: sitting side by side listening to music or reclining on lawn chairs under the chestnut tree in the garden discussing books they were reading.

  But passion?

  If there were moments of erotic desire, they belonged to Necdet alone. Lying under her husband’s strong, youthful body, her legs parted, her silk nightgown hitched to her waist to spare the lace, she’d surreptitiously wipe away the drops of sweat falling from her husband’s forehead onto her face and, if there was enough light, study Necdet’s face with disgust. When his eyes began rolling behind half-closed lids she’d know the end of her torment was near. And that’s when she’d begin the work of murmuring ah’s and oh’s to hasten his climax. She sometimes wondered if her failure to conceive had been due to her inability to give love to her husband, to take pleasure from him. On that day when Kemal and Mehpare had hidden at the mansion, Azra had been staggered at the raw desire she noticed in the girl’s eyes every time she looked at him. The act of sitting in the same room as Kemal was enough to produce an intensity of feeling in Mehpare that far surpassed anything Azra had ever felt for her husband, even in their most intimate moments. Azra had observed their every move; she’d taken their measure. She’d seen how Kemal would “inadvertently” brush against Mehpare’s hand, her arm, her hair, even her breasts and her thighs. And as for Mehpare, she was forever gazing at him, lingering over his eyes and his lips, and Azra had recognized the look of a woman recalling private moments. And when Mehpare wasn’t actually looking at Kemal, she would still drift off to thoughts that were, no doubt, of Kemal, always of Kemal.

  She’d been envious. But it wasn’t them she’d envied—it was that heightened emotional and physical state, one that she recognized while realizing it was something she herself had never experienced.

  Now, as she dipped her fountain pen into the inkwell and struggled to compose a letter of condolence, she had no idea what to say.

  I am greatly saddened, dearest sister. May God grant you the patience to endure. Your husband was martyred for the motherland. Be proud of him. Try to find solace in your son.

  Azra crumpled up the sheet of paper and started again.

  Dearest Mehpare, my beloved and most unfortunate sister,

  Would you take consolation in an account of the last two days I spent with Kemal? We were both excited by having arrived in Ankara to learn a new skill, one that would be helpful in driving the enemy from our lands. Kemal was elated. He had married the woman he loved, he was awaiting the birth of his child, he had been given an important duty he was thrilled to discharge, and he was, in his own words, “of use at last.” Once the Greek advance was repulsed, he planned to return home with his head held high. Neither of us had any idea how the Greeks would be driven off, but we’d both dedicated ourselves to just that end, and we believed, with every fiber of our being, that a miracle would happen . . .

  Mehpare, on that night in Ankara, Kemal and I talked until dawn. We returned to our childhood. We were both moved to tears. By what we’ve lost, by what we’ve lived, by our mistakes…

  No, she could never send that to Mehpare. Another crumpled ball of paper tossed into the waste bin . . .

  She began again.

  You’re absolutely determined to learn more of that horrific event. I don’t know of what use such knowledge will be to you, but I’ll do as you ask nevertheless: Kemal was traveling with a bag of telegraph conductors when he was detained by the military police near Eskişehir. He refused to open the bag. He tried to send them on their way, saying he was a traveling salesman, and producing the relevant papers. They insisted he open the bag. Left with no choice, he agreed. But instead of opening the bag he flung it into a nearby ravine. The Greek police looked down at the bag at the bottom of the ravine. Then they pulled out their guns and emptied their bullets into his slender, defenseless body . . .

  Why am I writing this, Mehpare? Am I out of my mind? Another sheet of paper was crumpled and tossed. No, this would be more than a letter of condolence. Azra wanted to confess her love. She needed to unburden herself. Perhaps by confiding her love to someone else she would free herself from this nightmare. That was her real and fervent desire.

  . . . and so, as I wrote to you earlier, I’ve at last found a love like the one you shared with Kemal, the love I so envied and admired. But Mehpare, I’m afraid I’ve bungled things badly, yet again. There was a desperate hopelessness to your early love for Kemal and I, too, am now hopelessly and passionately in love with this man . . . This man . . . This man . . .

  In the letter you wrote to me, you said how pleased you were that I had found love at last. Don’t be pleased for me, sister. There is nothing pleasing about this love of mine . . .

  As Azra stood up the chair tipped over. She began a frenzied circling of the room. What to do with this man and this love? Could she accept the offer he’d been making day after day? Could she run away with him? Obliterate her past, dismay and disgrace her mother, her relatives and her friends . . . Could she abandon her homeland?

  The night before, she’d come to Jean Daniel’s house dressed like a local villager, thrown herself into his arms, too enraptured to make sure the curtains were drawn, felt his weight pressing down on her, been maddened by his exploring lips and later, lying in his arms, released and fulfilled, had promised to leave with him. And then came morning and a cool head and now, as she sat writing to Mehpare, she realized how agonizing it would be to tear up roots… She couldn’t decide if the tears streaking the page in front of her had been shed for Kemal or for herself.

  Perhaps the only solution was for Jean Daniel to die fighting for his cause, just as Kemal had. That way, she would be free. But what was she doing? Was she really hoping for her lover’s death? For the sake of her own peace of mind? She would never amount to so much as the nail on Mehpare’s little finger, Mehpare who was ready at any moment to give up her life for Kemal! Azra paced back and forth, the whole length of the room, wide-eyed and waving her arms as though deep in argument.

  Mehpare, if you only knew what a fortunate woman you are! You’ll be loving the ghost of Kemal for the rest of your life. Which means that he’ll always be yours. He won’t be there to see you age and fade and grow old. But if I abandon my country and my family to pursue this love for a French officer, and if he betrays me . . . If he leaves me one day . . . How could I return across a bridge of ashes? And to whom would I return?

  Azra poured water into her cupped hand from the pitcher on the desk and splashed her face. She pushed up the guillotine window and opened the wooden shutters. She drew aside the calico curtain, blinking in the morning light and attempting to draw fresh air into her lungs. But her chest was tight and soon enough she’d have to get dressed and leave. She was to report to the provincial governorship and edit the Turkish commanders’ correspondence with the French. When the Greeks had defied the Allies by continuing their advance into Anatolia, there had been a subtle but perceptible change in the attit
ude of the French and the Italians towards the Turks, a shift that accelerated after the Ankara Government had signed a friendship treaty with Soviet Russia in March If only Kemal were alive to see these developments for himself. If only. But just as Azra knew that a life full of “if only’s” wasn’t really a life worth living, she also knew that the rest of her days would be spent in regret. If she left, one day she’d wish she’d stayed; and if she stayed, one day she’d wish she’d gone.

  She rolled a cigarette and lit it. When she’d smoked it she felt marginally better, well enough to sit down, place a clean sheet of paper on the desk in front of her, and write a letter of condolence to Mehpare.

  – 21 –

  September 1922

  My Dearest Sister, Mehpare,

  I’m writing this letter to you from İzmir. Please send all future letters to the new address that I’ll forward to you. I read your most recent letter with close attention. Believe me when I say that I know as well as you that grief and longing will be with you forever. Try to accept the painful truth. It’s true that death didn’t take my lover from me, but the pain of separation is as acute as the pain of losing a loved one. And furthermore, I don’t have a baby binding me to life.

  Dearest Sister, life goes on. And while you rear Halim and Sabahat in Istanbul, I’ll be occupying a position at a school in İzmir, where I plan to settle. We have no other choice. This is our lot in life, the way the women of our land have always lived. Let’s pray that our children have happier lives than ours.

  Believe me, sister, your letters are a source of great comfort to me here in the uproar and upheaval. They bring me the colors and smells of my city. But I’m afraid the letters I send to you are always accounts of fighting, of the war.