The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

  “What if it was my letter to him that pushed him into oblivion?”

  “Don’t think such things, Nilofer. From his letter it is clear that he acted in this fashion because of his beliefs.”

  “You never knew him, Mother. That is not so. He decided to die because life without me was not worth living.”

  “Don’t torment yourself, child. Think of the children. They must believe in that letter. It was his wish and there is a nobility of purpose there which I admire.”

  “You always used to call him a skinny, ugly Greek school teacher, Mother.”

  “He was that too, but ugly people can sometimes be noble.”

  Despite the sadness, I burst out laughing. I was sobered by a knock on the door, fearful that it might be one of the children, but it was Petrossian.

  “Iskander Pasha wishes to see you, hanim effendi.”

  I went to his room, but it was empty. Iskander Pasha was sitting at his desk in the old library. It was a beautiful old room, with wooden panels on the wall and bookshelves that almost touched the high ceiling. Most of the literature was in Turkish, Arabic, Persian, German and French. The classic works of our own culture mingled easily with the encyclopaedias of the French Enlightenment. When he was a tutor here, the Baron had helped to modernise the collection. French novels, German poetry and philosophy had filled the two empty shelves closest to the ceiling.

  Hasan Baba had often told us that three Korans in the library dated back to the ninth century and their value was inestimable. This was where we were summoned for punishments as children, which may have had the effect of discouraging us from reading. The library was engulfed in sunshine today, making it seem warm and friendly.

  Iskander Pasha was writing in a thick leather-bound volume, a diary in which he made an entry every single day and, since our evening story-telling had been discontinued, the number of entries had multiplied. It had become part of the new routine after his stroke. He could now walk without a stick and his body showed no signs of any disability. He turned around as I entered and rose from his desk to greet me. He held his arms out wide and I fell into them as the tears began to fall again. He stroked my face and kissed me on the head. I could not remember when he had last treated me with such open affection. The fear that he was on the edge of sanity seemed to have been completely misplaced. If anything, the entire episode of the photograph had brought his submerged humanity back to the surface.

  His speaking notebook, as Petrossian had named it, was in the pocket of his dressing gown. He took my arm as we walked back to his room. As we sat, side by side, on the divan, he took out the little book. In it he had written: “My little Nilofer, who has been widowed, I want you to know that I have always loved you. Nothing mattered.”

  “Did you always know?”

  He smiled and nodded.

  “But how?”

  He wrote: “You had green eyes and red hair, unlike your mother and unlike everyone else in our family for as long as I can remember. I knew for sure when you laughed as a child. It was a very nice laugh and it made your mother very happy. I was sure it reminded her of her lost lover. I did not mind in the least. You were a beautiful child and I was proud to act as your father. You have made one big mistake in your life so far, but, despite what I once thought of him, I’m very sorry that the schoolmaster Dmitri died in such circumstances. Ottoman civilisation has collapsed. Those who seek to fill the vacuum imagine they can make up in violence what they lack in culture. Talk to Halil about this one day. I think he underestimates the problem.”

  I talked to Iskander Pasha that evening for many hours, and for the first time I felt that he was treating me as an equal. I told him that I had been somewhat disoriented when Mother revealed to me who my real father was, but that after a few days the knowledge had ceased to matter. He wrote in reply that the importance people attached to blood relationships had a great deal to do with the laws of inheritance and not very much with genuine affection. In this regard, he joked, our Sultans have been remarkably unsentimental, ordering that their male children, bar their chosen successor, be strangled to death with a silken cord—the choice of silk being important so that the royal neck was not sullied by cheap cloth before it was broken, but even more importantly so that no royal blood was spilt by common executioners.

  I asked whether everyone in the family knew of my origins. He shrugged his shoulders indifferently and wrote that he had not discussed the matter with anyone and when Halil and Zeynep’s mother had raised the suspicion with him on her deathbed, he had not even bothered to reply. He then insisted that we had exhausted the subject of my birth and he never wished to discuss it with me again. I was his daughter and nothing else mattered.

  In a bold attempt to change the subject I posed a totally unrelated question.

  “Have you ever read any book by Auguste Comte?”

  The question seemed to really shake him. He wrote in an agitated way: “Why? Why do you ask?”

  “Someone asked me.”

  “Who?” he wrote.

  “I think it may have been Selim.”

  His eyes softened immediately. “I have read something by him, but Hasan Baba became a complete devotee for a short time, when we were in Paris. He forgot the Sufis and embraced rationalism. He even began to dress in the style of a French plebeian. It all wore off after we returned to Istanbul. This Empire has a strange way of sweeping aside all the refined thoughts in our heads as if they were mere cobwebs. The clergy have made sure that Istanbul thrives on ignorance. We will talk of him tomorrow. The Baron might have a great deal to say on the subject. Organise a conclave after dinner. Let us discuss something serious for a change and tell Petrossian to make sure that Hasan and his grandson are present. I am so proud of the way in which you have taken over the running of this house. Your mother must be relieved.”

  I was filled with a very deep love for him, a love I had not felt before. The remote figure I had known all my life and whose wrath I had so often feared had vanished. In his place there was a warm, generous man with a depth of understanding that must always have been there. We are all capable of wearing the mask, but underneath we remain what we are even if we do not wish others to glimpse that reality. I was sure that Iskander Pasha had returned to his true self. Perhaps he had found inner peace at last. I sat there for a short while, looking at him in silence. Then I kissed his hands and left the room.

  I went in search of my orphaned children. I was about to leave the house and look for them in the garden when I heard the sound of Emineh’s laughter. Both of them were in my mother Sara’s room. A maid was teaching Emineh the tricks that can be played with a piece of string and a pair of hands. Sara herself had her hair tied back and covered in henna paste. It was a sight I knew well. Orhan was looking out of the window.

  “I think we should leave your grandmother alone while she tries to colour her hair so it can match mine. Come with me.”

  Both of them followed me out without complaint. Emineh held my hand tight as we walked out of the house. I took them to the small, shaded terrace underneath the balcony of Iskander Pasha’s room. There was a blazing sun. There was no breeze and the sea, motionless and silent as in a painting, was smothered under a haze caused by the dazzling heat. The discordant cry of seagulls was the only noise I recall on that very still afternoon.

  My disoriented children and I sat down on a bench. Orhan’s anger had evaporated. He had let me put my arm around him and did not complain when I kissed his cheeks. For a long time we did not speak. We were together and nothing else mattered. We just sat and looked at the sea.

  It was difficult to breach the silence. Young children experience the death of a parent or grandparent in different ways. It is so remote from them that they find it difficult to comprehend its finality. I remember when the mother of Zeynep and Halil died. She had always been nice to me, treating me in much the same way as she did her own two children. We were all upset when she died so suddenly, but I don’t remember any of
us crying. It had seemed unreal. I know that I would have liked Iskander Pasha or Sara or Petrossian or any grown-up to talk about it, to tell us what had happened and why, but they never did, assuming, perhaps, that because the feelings of children are still undeveloped they can be left to heal on their own.

  I began to talk to my children. I told them what a loving father Dmitri had been and because of that I would always cherish his memory. I spoke of the letter he had written me and told them they could read it whenever they wished, but they might understand it better in a few years’ time. I did not lie or exaggerate. I did not wish to be insincere even in the slightest degree. It is not easy to discuss the death of a father with young children. Orhan noticed I was about to cry and he sought to divert me.

  “Selim says that the men who killed Father are ruffians, worse than animals. He says they will soon be found and punished. Is that true, Mother?”

  “I don’t know, child. I doubt it myself. We are living in very uncertain times. The old order we have known all our lives is dying. The Sultan is no longer powerful and the Empire of which Petrossian speaks has itself become a fairy-tale now. Everything is being taken away and nothing is ready to take its place. It is this that turns many ordinary people into madmen and assassins. They do not know what lies ahead and they find it convenient to blame everyone except those who are to blame. They cannot do anything about the Sultan or the Great Powers who are dismantling our country. In the face of the real enemy they are powerless. Killing a few Greeks makes them feel better. Whatever happens to those who killed him won’t bring your father back to life. Do you understand me, Orhan?”

  “Of course I do. I’m not stupid. What will happen to father’s books? Did the ruffians burn them all?”

  “We know that all his books are safe, including all those notebooks in which he used to scribble so much and the copies of all his reports on the schools he inspected. Everything is intact. It shall be kept for both of you.”

  “Where will we live now?” asked Emineh.

  “In Istanbul, in a house which neither of you has seen. That’s where I grew up.”

  “Is it as big as this house?”

  “No, Emineh, no!” I held her close to me. “Much smaller, but don’t worry. It’s large enough for both of you to have your own room.”

  Hasan Baba was approaching us and Orhan began to giggle.

  “Emineh.” He looked at his sister with a mischievous grin. “Just wait and see what I do. I’ll make this old man laugh and you can see that he hasn’t got any teeth at all.”

  “Then how does he eat?” asked Emineh.

  Hasan Baba was dressed in a clean pair of trousers and a loose shirt. He had shaved and his bald head was, uncharacteristically, covered by a black cloth cap. I had never seen it on him before, but it was vaguely familiar. It made the children smile.

  “It looks like the cap we saw on that funny performing monkey in Konya. Remember, Emineh?”

  Orhan’s memory was accurate. The children burst out laughing. I controlled my own laughter with some difficulty.

  “Allah bless you, grandchildren and daughter of Iskander Pasha,” the old man began to wail. “Allah will protect you. What a tragedy has befallen our household. Rogues and ruffians are assembling in all our cities. Where will it end?”

  The condolences over, he patted both children on the head.

  “Hasan Baba,” Orhan said with a completely straight face, “tell us the story of the Grand Vizier with square testicles.”

  I pretended I had not heard the remark, but it did make the old man laugh and Emineh gasped in awe at his empty mouth. Both children ran away to laugh in private.

  I was pleased to be alone with the old man. I told him of my conversation with Iskander Pasha earlier that day and how surprised I had been by his warmth and openness. Naturally I did not mention the subject of my own father. Hasan Baba smiled and nodded sagely.

  “He was always like this as a child and a young man. The death of Zakiye hanim changed everything. In the Ottoman lands he played the part of a strong nobleman well. It was the same when he acted the strong father who tolerated no insubordination and whose daily routines were fixed and irreversible. What I can’t understand is how he could carry on like this for such a long time. I know it often tired him. Sometimes when I was shaving him, which I did every morning as you probably recall, he would look at me and wink. That’s all. No smile. Not say anything I might repeat in the kitchen and which would get back to the house, but just wink. That was the only message he sent to the outside world.

  “It was different when we were in Paris. He was much more like his old self then and even though he had to dress in his robes and turban on official occasions, underneath it all he was the dervish, constantly mocking their ignorance, but drinking in the knowledge. We all did that—and not just knowledge. The wine cellar in the Ottoman embassy in Paris was considered to be the best in Europe. Those French women fawned over him as if he were a beautiful stallion. They would feign innocence and ask after the Sultan: ‘Excellency, is it true that the Grand Seignior still keeps a harem with twenty women?’ Iskander Pasha would stretch himself as high as he could, fold his arms and reply in a deep voice: ‘Twenty, madame. That is even less than the size of my own harem. The Sultan, may his reign last long and may Allah give him strength to fornicate every day, has three hundred and twenty-six women to serve his needs. A new one for each day except during the month of fasting, when he prefers young boys from the Yemen.’ They would pretend to scream and faint, but this was only a cover to conceal the turbulence and anticipatory excitement that lay underneath their long dresses. Forgive me, Nilofer hanim. I forgot myself.”

  I smiled. “Hasan Baba, you are of a certain age and wisdom and you must always say what you wish in my presence or that of anyone else in this family. I do not like formality or ceremony any more than the real Iskander Pasha does. What you’re saying is that he was his true self only when he was abroad, but was transformed into a totally different person at home. Did this not cause some mental imbalance?”

  The old man became pensive.

  “I had never thought about that before, but perhaps it did and perhaps that incident with the photograph was the first manifestation of this imbalance. Allah help us. Allah protect us. Everything is reaching its conclusion.”

  ELEVEN

  Sara recounts her dream to the Stone Woman, igniting other memories and a few bitternesses

  ‘LAST NIGHT I SAW Suleman in a dream again after almost twenty years, Stone Woman. Do you remember when I first came here? I was still young. I was nursing a wounded hurt and my child at the same time. Nilofer was about seven or eight months old. I remember coming here and weeping at your feet. I know you have no feet, but if they had existed they would have been where I wept that day. I thought I heard you speak. A voice asked me what was wrong and I remember saying: “The one I love has gone far away.” And then your voice said something very sad and beautiful: “Love is the longing of the flute for the bed from which the reed was torn. Try and forget.” I did try, but I never could forget. However, I did become accustomed to his absence. Time can never completely heal our inner wounds, but it softens the pain.

  All my love was diverted to our child, Nilofer. As she grew older, she would laugh just like Suleman used to laugh when we were on our own. A deep, throaty, abandoned laugh. I cannot believe he laughs like that with anyone else, but I’m probably deluding myself. People who have been betrayed in love often fall prey to self-deception.

  The dream I had last night was not a nice dream, Stone Woman, and it would not stop. It went on for most of the night, or so it seemed to me. When it finally woke me up, I was in a state of great agitation. My body was covered with sweat. My throat was completely parched and I consumed a whole jug of water.

  My Suleman looked so different in the dream, Stone Woman, that I could not bear the sight of him. His hair had gone white and his slim body, which I used to love for its feminine softness, ha
d hardened. He was now bloated and ugly. That was the first shock. He was naked in bed with a very young woman. She could not have more than twenty-four or twenty-five years old. She must have been one of his models, because there was a canvas not far from the bed and even in my dream I noticed that the breasts matched. I did not object to the model at all. I preferred him to be with anyone but his wife.

  Then two other women entered the room in my dream. I suppose the fat ugly woman must have been his wife and the other one her friend or sister. They screamed at the naked pair. His wife took a paint brush and began to whip Suleman. Her friend suddenly produced a bottle and began to pour liquid on the model. The poor young thing screamed in anguish. I can still hear her and see her disfigured face. She was blinded in one eye and ran out of the room naked. While all this was happening Suleman lay helpless. He did not help the woman or try and stop the other two from harming her. It was when they moved towards him with knives in their hands that he shouted my name three times: “Sara! Sara! Sara!” At this point I sat up in bed trembling. It was not yet dawn.

  I have never been superstitious or believed in signs or omens, Stone Woman, but this was so real. You know me well. We have spoken often since I first came here though I admit I have avoided you for the last few years. But this dream has become a load on my heart. It is a premonition. I feel he is in trouble or perhaps even close to death. As you know, I never forgot Suleman, but I was very disappointed in him and, deep down I can’t rid myself of the feeling that my father paid him a very large sum of money to help him establish himself in New York and give me up.

  Poor Suleman. He was always a deeply insecure man. His own parents had, in their different ways, abandoned him. He longed to be part of a family and always wanted to please and be praised in return. He was never like that with me, but this craving for some form of recognition was embedded in his character.