The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

  But I could not stop thinking of Hikmet. The only time I forced Hikmet out of my head was when the master was taking his pleasure of me. I never enjoyed those moments. They told me that the mistress had sent a message to Hikmet and told him what had happened. He was never seen again. I wanted him to come to me, Stone Woman. I would have cleaned his feet with my tears, begged him to forgive me and take me with him, far away from here, but he never returned to the house. Perhaps he did not love me enough. Perhaps he was scared off by the Pasha or perhaps a pregnant purse, heavy with coins, bought his disappearance.

  And now I carry the child of a man I despise. I’m sure it’s a boy and that makes me even more angry. I will not have his child. I will not bring this poor creature into the world. I will jump into the sky and I will fly away, Stone Woman. When I get tired of flying I will fall into the sea and when they find me, I will be floating on the water, like a bloated, dead fish, but with my eyes shut. I will be in a sleep as deep as the sea. Do you understand why I’m doing this, Stone Woman? To punish him. These cursed Beys and Pashas think they are gods. They believe all they have to say to a poor girl is, “I love you, have my child”, and she will be so grateful for their affection, their food, their clothes, their money that she will ask for nothing more from this world. I dreaded his touch. My worst fear was that one day the Pasha would put his poisonous seed in me and it would sprout. And yet when it happened I was no longer frightened. I became very calm. I knew what had to be done. There was no more anguish in my life.

  The day I lost my Hikmet, with his soft skin and smiling eyes, the sun stopped shining for me. In Istanbul, the Pasha tried to avoid leaving me on my own. He thought his company kept me cheerful. I felt more alone when he was with me than at any other time and especially when he was filled with lust and groaned like a donkey on heat. Not a day passed when I didn’t ask myself what I should do with my life.

  What shall I do, Stone Woman? You listen, but you never reply. If only you could speak. Just once. Can you see the sky tonight? There is a crescent moon, which always travels fast as if in search of a lover, but it will soon become full-blown, like my belly, and when it does I know what I will do. I will go to the cliffs and fly to join the moon. I will laugh as I leap. The distance will disappear and on that day I will know that no other man will ever enter my life again. I will laugh at the thought of the Pasha’s fat face, white with anger, when they tell him that his slave-girl has freed herself. He will know why I did this and that will hurt him even more. He will know I left this world because I could no longer bear his touch or that of his child. He will never be able to admit this truth to anyone, but I hope the secret devours his insides. I want his death to be pure agony. My only regret is that I will not live to see that day.’

  FIVE

  Petrossian tells of the glory days of the Ottoman Empire; Salman insists that the borders between fiction and history have become blurred; Nilofer writes a farewell letter to her Greek husband; Orhan’s belated circumcision at the hands of young Selim

  I FIRST SAW THE strange gestures he was making from a distance. They made me smile. I knew precisely what the old Armenian was doing. Like everything else in this house, it revived memories of my own childhood. Scenes from my past were being repeated, but this time for the benefit of my son. I was pleased. Petrossian was engaged in a weekly household ritual, which he would never entrust to anyone else. He was polishing my father’s old silver shaving bowl. It was an item that had been brought back from Paris many years ago. He treasured it greatly and, for that reason, Petrossian had taken it upon himself to ensure that the bowl never lost its lustre. Normally such tasks were assigned to less important servants, but Petrossian, who always accompanied Iskander Pasha to Paris, must have known the value attached by his master to this particular object.

  Orhan and the children from the servants’ quarters were watching him, trance-like, just as we used to when we were young. I walked slowly in their direction, but I knew which story was being retold even before I heard the words being spoken. I was pleased and irritated at the same time. I wanted Orhan to be part of this world, to be accepted by my father, but I wanted things to change. Here it seemed that, like the Stone Woman, everything stood still.

  “And do you think, my young master Orhan, that Memed the Conqueror listened to the whimpers and the moans of his frightened old woman of a Vizier? No. He raised his hand to say ‘Enough’. The Sultan had heard enough of such talk. Now he wanted to take the city they called Constantinople. He wanted to stand erect on the old walls of Byzantium and look at Europe. Memed knew that if we were going to be a power in Europe we had to take that city. Without it our Empire would always be one-eyed. We needed Constantinople to look at what lay beyond the Bosporus.

  “They say that it was a beautiful spring day when the Sultan Memed gave the orders to prepare for battle and lay siege to the city. We will build a fortress on the other side of the water to control all access to their city. It will fall. Memed the Great was sure of this and his strong will and determination infected every soldier. Mothers told their sons to go and fight for the honour of their faith. Imagine the excitement that must have swept through the army. The Sultan has ordered that we will take the city. His Exalted Majesty has ordered the soldiers be properly fed. That night hundreds of lambs were covered with fresh herbs and roasted on spits for the soldiers. The exquisite scent of grilled meat pervaded the entire encampment. I’m sure it must have reached the defenders of Constantinople...”

  Why does nothing in this house ever change? When I was told this same story by this same story-teller, I’m sure it was goats and not lambs that were being prepared, and perhaps ten years from now it will be peacocks. I have stopped caring. It makes no difference and yet I could not help being touched as I watched Orhan’s face alight with excitement. His eyes were fixed on Petrossian. My little boy had entered the world of Sultans and holy wars. How different all this was from the bedtime stories Dmitri and I told him at home. I had brought him up on stories of our family, of my uncles and aunts and all our cousins in different parts of our Empire. It was a way of instructing him in the geography of our world and its cities. These were tales of happiness and adventures, designed to make him feel at ease with the world inhabited by his family.

  Orhan’s father never spoke of our great Empire. In this way he avoided both denigration and praise. The vices and glories of the Ottomans were not a subject very close to Dmitri’s heart. His own people had fought to free themselves from our rule only a few dozen years ago. Dmitri, not surprisingly, was on their side, though as a school teacher he had to keep his opinions to himself. Even at home we rarely discussed these matters. In fact, if I’m honest with myself, I would have to admit that ever since our marriage we rarely spoke of anything important. There were occasions when I deliberately provoked him. He would lose his temper with me, curse the day he had fallen in love with an Ottoman. Remarks of this nature only made me laugh, which was unfortunate since it only served to prolong his irritation. He found it difficult to believe that both my brothers were more critical than he of the Sultans and their Court, but then, as Dmitri never failed to point out, they had nothing to fear.

  Dmitri is a good man. Of this I’m sure. And yet there are times when goodness becomes a bit wearisome. After my daughter was born I began to wonder whether I had made a mistake. Had I really loved him, or was it my father’s opposition that had closed my mind to any other alternative? The value of defying Iskander Pasha had long since depreciated, leaving me alone to confront my daily existence. I was tired of Dmitri. Tired of his jokes. Tired of his bad poetry. Tired of his resentments. Tired of seeing him wear the same style of clothes every single day and, what made all this doubly bad, I had tired of his body. It no longer gave me pleasure. There was nothing left. My life became a burden. I felt stifled.

  He felt my growing indifference. It was difficult to hide my feelings all the time. His pride was hurt. Inside his head he must have begun to hate me. So
metimes I caught a look on his face that gave him away, but he restrained his anger. He was fearful that one day I might take the children and return to my father’s house. That must be why he suffered my alienation in complete silence and this made everything worse. He never allowed it to affect outward appearances and this only succeeded in enraging me further. I would have thought more of him if he had lost his reserve and hurled abuse at my face or shouted at me, but he remained silent. Most important of all, he never neglected his children. This was the big difference with our household. Here and in Istanbul the men in our family had nothing to do with children or their needs. It was the women, aided as always by an army of servants. We had only one serving-maid in Konya. Yes, just one!

  Dmitri used to put Orhan to bed with stories of the ancient Greek gods and goddesses. And Orhan always wanted to be Hermes. Never Zeus or Neptune or Apollo or Mars or Cupid, but Hermes. He liked the thought of a god who was a messenger and he sometimes flew from his father to me with imagined messages. What Orhan and I really appreciated when Dmitri spoke of the old gods was that they were like human beings. They fought over each other. They had favourites on earth. They competed for the affections of Zeus. It was all very real.

  Old Petrossian’s tales of Ottoman heroes could have been like that, but the old man had learnt his craft in the school of slaves. I have no idea how long Petrossian’s forefathers had worked in our household, but he and we knew that the relationship was very old. There had been Petrossians in our family for nearly a hundred and fifty years. And so Memed the Conqueror was above criticism, even of the mildest variety.

  When we were young, my brother Salman used to invent stories, which cast Memed in a very ugly light. He would stop Petrossian in the middle of a story and ask with an innocent expression, “But Petrossian, is this not the same Memed who had his own mother’s brother boiled alive in oil and then fed his entrails to the dogs simply because the unfortunate man had been unable to control his wind in the Sultan’s presence?”

  Remarks of this sort were designed partially to make us laugh, which we did, and partially to challenge and irritate the story-teller. Petrossian remained impassive in the face of every provocation, neither irritated nor amused, his expression unmarked by the tiniest smile or the trace of a frown. What annoyed him was losing our attention and, at those moments, he began to resemble a shepherd whose crook has been stolen and whose sheep are straying all over the hills. Instead of ignoring Salman’s jokes, Petrossian ended up taking them very seriously and he defended every imagined atrocity dreamed up by my brother to blacken the name of the Sultans.

  Only once did Petrossian lose his control and laugh. Salman had interrupted him in full flow and asked for his views on an important matter.

  “This concerns Sultan Selim the Sot. Do you think the stories they tell of him are true, Petrossian? They say that he drank so much that he became incapable of performing his main function as a man. This angered him greatly, because the more alcohol he consumed the more it inflamed his desire. He became desperate for the little thing between his legs to rise and commence its work, but, alas, Allah had willed otherwise. They say that when he summoned a wife to his chamber, he used to be hoisted upwards by silken cords and while he was held thus by the eunuchs, young boys with delicate hands would fondle him between the legs so that he felt some sensation while a healthy, blindfolded janissary was brought in naked. The loyal soldier would proceed to impregnate the delighted princess with tightly shut eyes; she who lay below the floating Sultan, expecting the worst, was delighted by the vigour of the surprise. And all this time, Allah’s representative on earth, in a drunken stupor, would see the happiness on the face of his wife and hear her delighted squeals. So, or so they say, everyone was satisfied. Could this possibly be true? If it is so then the line of descent that our Sultans claim from Osman himself would have been decisively broken. Answer me, Petrossian!”

  Petrossian had not been able to keep a straight face during this story. He had cast away his caution and laughed a great deal, much to the delight of Salman, who had never before tasted such a sweet victory. After this we became very attached to Petrossian, realising that his reserve was largely a mask.

  “The devil himself must communicate these stories to you, Salman Pasha. I have no knowledge of them.”

  Looking at him now, I could tell from the old man’s gestures and facial expressions that Constantinople had been taken. Sultan Memed had restricted the looting and was receiving the heads of the Christian churches. The adventure was over. Little Orhan was beginning to fidget. It was time to rescue him.

  “Was that all true?” he asked as we walked away.

  I nodded.

  “Would my father say it was true?”

  “I don’t know, Orhan. I don’t know. Are you missing him?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and turned away so I could not see his face. He knew that Dmitri and I were no longer close. A child can sense these things much more than parents ever realise. My son knew we were no longer happy. And yet, in this house, far away from our cramped quarters in Konya, my anger had been pushed aside. I was in a more generous mood. I did not feel the need to punish Dmitri any longer. I did not even wish him dead. I just never wanted to be with him again. The thought of being in his arms again was so nauseous that it cramped the lower half of my stomach.

  Orhan had walked away on his own. Slowly he was beginning to discover the house and the mysteries of its surroundings. Often I would see him walking towards the rocks, talking to himself. What was he thinking? What did he make of my family? Sometimes I would see him staring at my brothers, then turning his face away quickly to stop himself smiling lest I notice his pleasure. He was happy here. I could see that in his face, but I also knew that he missed his father and his sister. My mother suggested that I send a message to Dmitri, inviting him to bring Emineh here and to spend a few days with us so that his son could see him. I did not argue with her. I did as she asked.

  “Dear Dmitri”, I forced myself to write. “My father has suffered a stroke. Orhan’s presence is a great relief for him. I plan to stay here for the rest of the summer. Then I will return to Istanbul with my family and make plans for our son’s education and future. Orhan misses you and Emineh a great deal. My mother suggests that both of you come and visit us here. I think it is a good idea, provided, of course, that you expect nothing from me. Nilofer.”

  Our gardener’s son was despatched to Konya with this letter. My mother had raised another question with me that day. It was something I had been dreading, but had banished from my mind in the hope it would go away.

  “Nilofer,” she said in a deceptively friendly voice, “I have something to ask you.”

  I nodded.

  “Is Orhan circumcised?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You lie, child. The maids who bathe him swear the opposite. The servants talk of nothing else.”

  I became silent and angry. When Orhan was born I had wanted him circumcised, but Dmitri had resisted. “It is a barbaric custom,” he had argued, “and I do not wish this punishment to be inflicted on my son.” I was so full of love in those early days that I could not deny him anything and I had acquiesced, though even then I had been uneasy. The memory of my weakness angered me now as I looked into my mother’s beautiful eyes.

  “It must be done, Nilofer. Your father’s faith and mine are agreed on the importance of this ritual. The sooner it happens the better. I have summoned Hasan from Istanbul.”

  I screamed. “No! He’s nearly ninety years old. What if his hand slips! He’s going to die soon, but why should he deprive my Orhan of his manhood? The boy is too old now, Mother. Can’t we spare him this torture?”

  To my amazement, Mother burst out laughing. “Do you think I would let that old goat near Orhan with a razor? It’s his grandson, Selim, who does the work now. Hasan has to come because he has been in the family all his life. His father used to shave Iskander’s grandfather and Hasan circumcise
d your father, uncles and brothers. He accompanied your father to Paris as the household barber. He would be very insulted and upset if we did not invite him to the ceremony. And remember something, Nilofer: a man is never too old for circumcision. When I was little my mother would tell me many stories of our forefathers who were not circumcised in Spain for fear the Catholics would find out they were Jews, but the moment they arrived in Istanbul, a barber was found to perform the ceremony. It was a matter of pride in those days.”

  I was relieved but unhappy. Tears poured down my cheeks. My mother’s slender, long fingers, the nails painted with henna, stroked my face gently. How I wished Mother had been a Christian, not a Jew! Then she might have supported me. We could have bribed the barber to pretend that Orhan had been circumcised. He was old enough to bathe himself now and I did not like the thought of young maids inspecting his body in the bath every day. It was not to be.

  The next day Hasan and his grandson arrived from Istanbul. Hasan had lost all his hair. He walked with a stoop and a thick stick, the bottom end of which was held together by a rusty iron rim. I received him in my mother’s reception room.

  “Look at you,” he croaked. “You produce a boy and fail to circumcise him! Did the Greek stop you?”

  “Of course not, Hasan Baba,” I replied in a voice so false that I barely recognised myself. “How could I have Orhan circumcised in your absence? It would breach an old family tradition.”

  “I would have come to Konya,” he laughed, revealing a mouth devoid of teeth, “and circumcised the father as well.”

  My mother tried to conceal a smile. I decided to change the subject.

  “I had no idea my father took you to Paris all those years ago. That must have given you a rest from performing circumcisions.”

  “It gave me a rest from performing anything,” he muttered. “I was taken there just for show. It suited your father. He thought the French would be impressed if his special barber accompanied him. In Paris, your father’s hair was cut by an old French sodomite. For myself, I have seen better types in Istanbul. My task was reduced to trimming his beard and cutting his nails once a week. One day your father decided to humiliate me. The French barber wanted to observe an Ottoman barber at work. I was preparing my scissors to trim Iskander Pasha’s hair, when he suggested that, as a special treat, I cut the Frenchman’s hair instead. At first I was angry, but then I saw in this offer an opportunity to avenge the insult. I pretended to be cheerful and friendly. I seated the Frenchman in a chair. I massaged his head with oil so that he relaxed completely. He shut his eyes to enjoy the sensation. I gave him a soldier’s haircut. He screamed with rage as his grey locks fell on the floor, but it was too late. He cursed me, but I had won. Your father had to buy him a very expensive wig and give him a weighty purse. After that incident the Frenchman could not bring himself to look me in the eye. He would turn his powdered face away every time he saw me, but I would go close to him and whisper: ‘Istanbul couture. Tres bien, eh, monsieur?’” Hasan cackled like a hen at the memory.