The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

Memed Pasha ignored the remark and turned to Halil. “Is it true that death’s arrow pierced my brother, but he refused to fall? Well?”

  “I’m not sure I understand your question, Uncle.”

  He looked at me.

  “Our father has lost the power to speak, Uncle,” I muttered. “Otherwise he is well again, though he will always need help to walk.”

  “I don’t regard that as a complete tragedy. He always talked too much. Do you know what your mother has ordered for supper? Is there any champagne in the house? I thought not! We’ve brought a few cases from the Baron’s estate. I spent too many melancholy evenings in this wretched house when I was your age. Never again. Is there any ice in the pit?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Have them cool a few bottles for this evening, child, and tell Petrossian to prepare our rooms. I’m sure they haven’t been aired for thirty years. And you, young man, take me to see my brother.”

  Father did not much care for Memed Pasha, but he was never impolite to him, and for a very good reason. When my grandfather died, Memed Pasha, being the oldest son, inherited the family residence in Istanbul as well as this house, which he had always disliked. We had never understood his antipathy. How could any person be unhappy in these surroundings? We never discussed the matter in too much detail because Uncle Memed’s prejudice had benefited us greatly. Our curiosity was overtaken by joy. We loved this house. We loved our Stone Woman. I remember the excitement when our father told us that Uncle Memed had given us this house as a present. Halil, Zeynep and I had clapped our hands and hugged each other. Salman had remained grave and asked an awkward question. “Will it revert to his children after you’re dead?”

  Father had glared at him in silence as if to say, you imbecile, we’ve just been given this house and you are already thinking of my death. My mother had attempted to suppress a smile. None of us would have known the reason for her merriment had Zeynep, aware of my mother’s routine, not hidden behind a rock after sunset that day and heard Mother talking to the Stone Woman.

  ‘What should one tell the children these days, Stone Woman? How far can we go?

  Poor Salman. All he wanted to know was whether he would ever inherit this house. My husband looked at him as if he had attempted a murder. Even though I’m not his mother, I feel fond of the boy. I wish his father would talk to him. Tell him how much he really loves him. It’s not Salman’s fault his mother died giving birth to him. He feels his father’s indifference. Most of the time Iskander Pasha sees his first wife in the boy’s face and loves him, but there are moments when he looks at Salman with hatred as if he had consciously killed his mother. Once I asked Iskander Pasha about his first wife. He became very angry with me and insisted that I must never question him on this matter again. I had asked so that I could console him, but he was very strange. It did make me wonder whether he had anything to hide. What is it with the boys in this family, Stone Woman? Once they have reached puberty they seem to become aloof, look on their mothers and sisters as inferior beings. I hope Halil never becomes like that. Even though I’m not his real mother, I will do my best to stop him.

  As for Memed Pasha, what can I say? Nobody would have objected if he had also married and produced children, but he refused and his father punished him severely for his disobedience. He was kept under permanent watch and special tutors were hired to educate him. Who could have known that this young Baron who came here over fifty years ago to teach Memed and his brothers the German language would become so attached to Memed? Not even the servants suspected. Petrossian’s father was questioned in some detail when the whole business was discovered, but he swore in the name of his Allah that he had not known.

  If only you could speak, Stone Woman. You could tell Salman that his uncle Memed will never have children and that Salman will one day inherit this house.’

  Zeynep told me. I told Halil. Halil broke the news to Salman and Salman began to laugh. He would stop, look at us with a serious expression, but could not maintain his composure for more than a few seconds. He would collapse. His laughter became uncontrollable. The room had filled up, with Petrossian and even the maids—normally very quiet, but now infected by the strange mirth which swept through the house like a summer storm. Everyone wanted to share the joke, but Salman could not bring himself to speak.

  Halil, Zeynep and I became quiet and even a bit frightened, especially when Iskander Pasha came down the stairs. At first he smiled, but Salman, on seeing his father, laughed even more. The atmosphere became tense. Petrossian, alert to his master’s moods, shepherded the maids out of the room. It was only after they had left that Iskander Pasha asked in a deceptively soft voice, “Why are you laughing, Salman?”

  Salman suddenly stopped laughing. He wiped the tears off his face and looked straight into our father’s eyes.

  “I’m laughing, Ata, at my own blindness and stupidity. How could I have been so foolish as to ask you about Uncle Memed’s heirs? I mean barons, even of the Prussian variety, have not yet been known to bear children.”

  My mother took a deep breath. Iskander Pasha could not contain his rage. All I remember is his predatory profile as he clenched his fist and hit Salman on the face. My brother staggered backwards, horrified.

  “If ever again you refer disrespectfully to your uncle in my presence or that of your mother, I will disinherit you. Is that understood?”

  Salman, his eyes filled with tears of anger and hurt and bitterness, nodded silently. Iskander Pasha left the room. I was not yet nine years old, but I really hated my father at that moment. This was the first time I had ever seen him strike anyone.

  I took Salman’s hand in mine, while Zeynep fetched him some water before stroking the cheek that had sustained the blow. Halil’s face had become pale. Like me, he was greatly dismayed, but for him it went much deeper. I don’t think he ever respected our father again. I was very young, but I never forgot that afternoon.

  It was not simply the act of violence against Salman that had upset us so much, but the explosion of a frustrated bitterness that had lain concealed below the surface. The mask had been torn aside to reveal a twisted face with heavy and coarse features. Salman was twenty-six that year. All four of us, all Iskander Pasha’s children, had left the house together as if in a delirium. We walked to a flat rock, not far below where the Stone Woman stood, hidden from us by a grove of pine trees.

  Each of us had our own favourite place on this rock, but this was the first time we had all come here together. The surface of the rock was dented, but completely level. Nature had played little part in this process. Petrossian insisted that it was here that Yusuf Pasha sat to compose his more lyrical verses with the sea stretching out before him. Several stonemasons had worked hard to flatten the rock and smooth its surface.

  We sat down in silence and stared at the sea, till the sight had soothed the turbulent waves tormenting our hearts. We remained there for a long time, waiting for the sun to set. Halil had been the first to speak. He had repeated those selfsame words concerning Uncle Memed that had caused the offence. Then Zeynep repeated them, but when it was my turn, Salman put his hand on my mouth to stop me.

  “Little princess, you should never speak of what you still do not understand.”

  And we had all begun to laugh again, to exorcise the memory of what had happened that day. Salman, touched by our response, had confessed that he wanted to leave home for ever. He would never visit this house again or return to Istanbul. He would travel to Aleppo or Cairo or perhaps even further away, to lands where there were no Ottomans. Only then would he feel really free.

  We were heartbroken. At least get married first, Zeynep had pleaded. Why not join the army, Halil had suggested. They talked of their hopes for themselves and their children, who were yet to be born. They became engrossed in their own lives. All this was new to me. I was still too young to join in or even understand much of what they were saying, but the emotional intensity was such that the day remains vivid in m
y memory. I had never seen them like this before. Their faces wore animated expressions and they sounded happy and I remember how that had made me happy. It was almost as if the tragedy of that afternoon had become a turning point in their lives and filled them with hope for the future. Even Zeynep, whose placid temperament was a joke in our family, was angry and excited that day. None of us wanted to re-enter the house that evening. We were in full revolt against Iskander Pasha and his whole world. When Petrossian, who always knew where we were, arrived and informed us it was time for the evening meal, we ignored him completely. Then he sat down next to us and with honeyed words of conciliation, he gently cajoled us to return. Salman provided the lead and the rest of us reluctantly followed him back.

  I’m not sure exactly when Salman left our home. I think it could not have been too long after being struck by Iskander Pasha. All I remember is the panic that gripped the whole family when Salman announced at breakfast one day that he had decided to leave his job and see the world for the next few years. Since he worked in Uncle Kemal’s shipping company there would be no real problem in returning whenever he wished.

  Zeynep and Halil’s mother had looked after Salman soon after he was born, since his own mother had died during childbirth. She was a distant cousin and had always showered me with affection. Her marriage to Iskander Pasha had been arranged in a hurry. He was desolate at the time, but had bowed to family pressure and married her to provide Salman with a mother. She looked after him, tended to all his needs and did become his mother. She loved him as if he were her own son and always defended him fiercely, even after the birth of her own children, Halil and Zeynep.

  She rarely stayed in the summer house and had not been present to witness Salman’s humiliation, but the news had been relayed to her in Istanbul and my mother was sure that Iskander Pasha would have felt the whiplash of her tongue. Perhaps she tried to persuade Salman not to go. If so, she failed. He had arrived at a decision and nothing would dissuade him. He told us he would travel for some time and let us know when he decided to settle in a particular town.

  A penitent father offered him money for his travels, but Salman refused. He had saved enough from his salary over the last four years. He embraced us all and left. We did not hear from him for many months. Then letters began to arrive, but irregularly. A year after he left a message was received from Uncle Kemal, who had just returned from Alexandria. He informed us that he had stayed with Salman, who was successfully trading in diamonds and married to a local woman. He had sent a letter for Zeynep’s mother. Its contents were never divulged to any of us. Zeynep searched every hiding place in her mother’s room but failed to uncover the letter. One day, in a state of total despair, we asked Petrossian if he knew what had been said in the letter. He shook his head sadly.

  “If too many stones are thrown at a person, he stops being frightened of them.”

  To this day I am not sure what Petrossian meant by that remark. Zeynep and I had nodded our heads sagely and burst out laughing when he left the room.

  It was strange that they had all arrived here on the same day. What memories would float through Iskander Pasha, when he saw Salman, Uncle Memed and the Baron walking into his room together? Halil later reported to me that Father had wept on seeing Salman, embraced him gently and kissed his cheeks. Salman was touched, but his eyes remained dry. The gesture had come too late. The pride exhibited by grown men is something I have noticed for a long time, but never really understood. It is something that was not completely absent in but firmly suppressed by my husband Dmitri.

  As the days passed I had occasion to observe Salman. My brother who, in his youth, had been the most lively and ambitious of us all, was now afflicted by a melancholy that made him bitter. I think it was his inability to accomplish more in his life that caused him great anxiety. It was almost as if his success as a diamond merchant lay at the root of his unhappiness. He was never satisfied. He had married an Egyptian woman in Alexandria, “a beautiful Copt” in Uncle Kemal’s words, but had kept her from meeting his family. Even now as his father lay disabled by a stroke, Salman had not brought his sons to see their grandfather at least once. Halil alone had been invited to Egypt and accorded the privilege of meeting Salman’s wife and children. On one occasion when I persisted in questioning Halil about Salman’s indifference I received a sharp and surprising reply.

  “Salman is very depressed by the fact that the Empire has been irreparably decadent for three hundred years. I’m aware of this fact as well, but Salman takes it personally.”

  My instincts rejected such reasoning. I recognised Salman’s impatience with the rituals of Istanbul life. He was deeply frustrated and wanted change, but, at best, this could only be a partial reason. I could not believe that my brother, once so mischievous and full of fun, had become so deeply affected by a sense of hopelessness in relation to history. Our family had always made history. How could we now let it crush us? There had to be another reason for Salman’s sadness and I was determined to discover its roots.

  THREE

  The Baron reads an extract from the Qabus Nama on “Romantic Passion”; the unfinished story of Enver the Albanian; Sabiha and the Circassian maid who thought the only way of escape was to fly

  “YOUR OTTOMAN EMPIRE IS like a drunken prostitute, lying with her legs wide open, neither knowing nor caring who will take her next. Do I exaggerate, Memed?”

  The Baron and Uncle Memed were on their second bottle of champagne.

  “As usual Baron, you express lofty thoughts with great clarity,” replied Memed, “but I do wonder sometimes whether the great master Hegel might have been a bit disappointed in you. According to your contemporaries, you showed great promise as a student in Berlin ...”

  The Baron’s interruption took the form of laughter, which resembled the staccato burst of gun-fire: ha-ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha and a final ha. This was not the sort of laughter which starts as a smile and develops at a slow rhythm. His laughter was part of his verbal armoury, deployed to humiliate, crush, interrupt or divert any opposition.

  “Whenever I visit this family, I’m lost to the real world, Memed. The real world, as I’ve often told you, is the world of ants. The only way human beings can survive in this world is to become like ants. It is our future. It beckons us, but you resist. You pretend that your home is the real world and in this fashion you keep the monsters at bay, but for how long, Memed? For how long? Your Empire is so bankrupt that you can no longer even afford to buy time as you have done for nearly three hundred years.”

  My uncle remained silent for a while. He replied in a soft voice. “What your philosophers call progress, my dear Baron, has created an inner drought in human beings. They show a callow disregard for each other. Look at France, a country we both love, not to mention England. There is no solidarity between human beings. No belief in common except to survive and get rich, no matter what the cost. Perhaps this is the way of the world. This is where we will all end up one day. Not you and me, of course. We will have died long before that day, and who can say we will not have died happy? Why shouldn’t we seek pleasure in each other’s company. Why shouldn’t I enjoy my life, this house, my family...”

  The Baron roared with laughter, but this time it was real.

  “Why do you laugh?”

  “I just recalled the Qabus Nama. When I was translating it into German I found it incredibly dull and commonplace, not worthy of even the slightest attention. I remember thinking: if this is the moral code for the Sultan and his princes, it is hardly surprising that they degenerated so rapidly. Even feeble heads filled with imperial vapours could safely ignore this nonsense. There was, however, one arresting passage. It was headed ‘Romantic Passion’ and I recited it so often to my wayward uncles and cousins that I never forgot the words. I was reminded of it when you spoke of those who are interested only in getting rich. Listen now, old Memed, to the wisdom of the Qabus Nama: ‘For your part resist falling in love and guard against becoming a lo
ver, for a lover’s life is beset with unhappiness, particularly when he is without means. The penniless lover can never achieve his aim, more particularly when he is elderly; the goal cannot be reached except with the aid of money, and a lover not possessed of it will succeed only in tormenting his soul.’”

  It was Memed’s turn to smile. “To be elderly and penniless is bad enough without being tormented by irrational emotions. There is a lot of truth in that, I suppose. It is true we are getting old, my dear Baron, but I don’t think that the passage you have memorised so ably could affect us in any way. I think even if we were penniless, we would find pleasure in each other’s company. Perhaps we should open another bottle to mark the uselessness of the Qabus Nama.”

  Father’s sitting-room, organised and decorated on the model of a French salon, was full today. Prior to his illness, Ottoman women had been barred from entering this sanctuary. French females, we had noticed, were permitted entry, but only if accompanied by their husbands or fathers. As a rule, this, the most beautiful and spacious room in the house, was reserved exclusively for male friends and visitors.

  Once when Father was in Paris, Zeynep and I and our two mothers had come into this room, ordered mint tea and rose-water and then had settled down to play cards. I loved watching the changing moods of the sea from the three large balcony windows that lit the room during the day. We had used the space every single day, to the great amusement of the maids. They, too, had enjoyed being here in the absence of Petrossian.

  Everything was different now. This is where we met after dinner every evening to exchange information and listen to a story, before retiring for the evening. Father had frowned at the exchange between Uncle Memed and the Baron. The reference to prostitutes in the presence of his wife and daughters must have irritated him. Orhan was fast asleep on a chaise-longue near a window and had not heard the remark.

  Iskander Pasha lifted the stick that never left his side and banged it hard on the floor. This was the signal to end all the whispered conversations in different corners of the room and for the story-teller to begin. Uncle Memed cleared his throat. Salman smiled. Halil played nervously with his moustache. My mother, Sara, tightened the shawl around her. Zeynep and I looked at each other, trying hard to restrain our mirth. If Uncle Memed was going to speak, anything was possible.