by Tariq Ali
Outside in the world a great deal was going on. Rebellions were being plotted. Resistance was being prepared. Sultans and Emperors were becoming uneasy. History was being made. Here in the beautiful, fragrant gardens of Yusuf Pasha’s folly, all that seemed very remote. My brother Salman and I sat on a bench and began to count the stars, just as we had done when I was a child.
TWENTY
The confessions of Petrossian; the murder of Great-great-uncle Murat Pasha; the agony of Petrossian’s family
‘IS AN OLD MALE servant permitted to address you, O Woman of Stone? I know that in years gone by it was the custom for many women in the employ of this household, after their honour had been violated by the masters, to come and weep here and tell you of their woes. Nor was this confined to the maids. In the time of Iskander Pasha’s grandfather there were many young men—gardeners, watchmen, footmen and from different backgrounds, Kurds, Albanians, Armenians, Serbs, Arabs, Bosnians, Turks—who were all taken against their will. Did they come and shed tears at your feet as well, Stone Woman, or had pride forced them to erase the memory altogether?
Did the man who, sixty years ago, murdered Iskander Pasha’s lecherous great-uncle, Murat Pasha, ever come to you and confess his crime? They never discovered his identity, did they?
Some of the servants must have known, but nobody betrayed the assassin. My grandfather used to say that, in secret, everyone prayed for the courageous killer never to be found. Whoever it was he must have carried on working here because, in those days, nobody left unless they were dismissed. My grandfather used to tell my father that if ever he had seen evil it was the face of Murat Pasha and not simply when he had consumed too much wine or was overpowered by lust. He was an unpleasant person in every way. His own children grew up to loathe and fear him.
It is said, Stone Woman, that he deflowered his own seventeen-year-old daughter. They say that on that occasion he was in his cups, as if that excused the crime. Did that poor child ever come and tell you her story? Did she come here and show you her blood-stained tunic, before they quickly married her off to a Bedouin from Syria? Nothing was ever heard of her again. She never returned to Istanbul. I hope she found some solace in her new life and that her children helped her to forget this world.
Stone Woman, I have something to tell you. I know who killed Murat Pasha. He told me so himself and he was always proud of what he had done. It was my friend, Hasan Baba. That is why the throat was so perfectly slit and the penis and testicles removed with expert care. Who else could accomplish this except the trained hand of a young barber? Mercifully, the finger of suspicion never pointed in his direction because he always used to help his old father shave Murat and trim his beard. The two of them were often observed in the courtyard, laughing at Murat Pasha’s jokes and on the surface there was no enmity.
Hasan Baba told me that on a personal level, Murat was very nice to him, even when, in his father’s absence, he had to shave him and was so nervous that he cut his cheek. Hasan feared the worst, but Murat Pasha simply laughed and muttered, “You will learn in time, young cub. Just watch your father closely.”
Why, then, did he kill him? He told me that he could no longer bear the tears of the men and women whose bodies had been so brutally misused by Murat Pasha. I was never convinced that this was the whole truth. I mean, Stone Woman, Hasan Baba was a Perfect Man, but you do not take a risk such as killing Murat Pasha unless you have been personally affected by something he has done. Hasan did confess to me, after I pressed him strongly, that Murat had forced a young Kurdish washerwoman to pleasure him against her will.
Hasan had loved this girl from a distance. He would sit and watch her as she carried bundles of dirty clothes to the stream. He would notice how her body moved as she dealt with the clothes, washing them, beating them, wringing them and then standing on her toes to hang them out for drying. He had not yet summoned the courage needed to inform her of his feelings, but he was sure she knew. When unaccompanied by her mother, she would smile at him. I was not born then, but Hasan Baba at the age of eighteen must have been a very fine specimen. Before he could do anything, Murat Pasha had carried away the girl on his horse and assaulted her. When she was returned home, her mother hugged her and wept, but pleaded with the girl to remain silent or else they might both be dismissed. The daughter heard her mother’s plea and wept in silence. They consoled each other. The girl promised she would not speak of the crime to anyone.
Overnight she had decided on the best way to remain silent. Early one morning, just before dawn, she made her mother’s breakfast, kissed her warmly and said she was going for a walk to watch the sunrise. She jumped off the cliffs, Stone Woman. They found her broken body a few hours later. How people summon up enough courage to take their own lives is something I will never understand. Loud were the mourning wails that rent the servants’ quarters that day. The young woman had been greatly loved for her defiant spirit and her beauty.
That was the day that Hasan Baba calmly decided to kill Murat Pasha. He knew he could not trust any other person. He planned everything on his own. Three weeks later Murat was found dead. His penis had been severed from the body and stuffed down his mouth.
I did not ask Hasan Baba for the details, Stone Woman. It was enough that he had done what he did. I think the whole family was relieved. Certainly no tears were shed for the monster. He was buried in the family cemetery, but very few turned up to pay their last respects. His own sons and wives stayed away.
A few months before he died, Hasan Baba was thinking of telling Selim. I am not sure whether or not he did so. I have lived with this secret long enough, Stone Woman. Over the years I often heard Iskander Pasha’s father wondering who could have killed his uncle. Memed once remarked that whoever had done the deed was a modern hero to be sought out and awarded a purse posthumously. I wonder what they would have done had they known it was Hasan Baba? I think Iskander Pasha would have been proud.
I did not come here to talk of the past, Stone Woman, but your presence has the effect of dragging old secrets out of us. I came to talk of what is going on in my village. Over two hundred years ago this family gave us money to buy land in a village, close to where they themselves owned a large amount of land. As happened in those days, other Armenian families began to move in so they could be close to us and live under the protection of this family. It was Iskander Pasha’s grandfather who could not bear sharing anything with his brother Murat, and therefore began to sell his land. Fifty years ago the family had sold off all its land and bought properties in Istanbul and Damascus and heaven knows where. Many Armenian merchants looking to spend their money bought some of the land, but it was the Kurds who arrived to work as seasonal labourers. Some of them settled.
Four years ago the Kurds warned my brothers and other relations that unless they moved out of their own accord, their houses would be burned and their families killed. One doesn’t need more than a single warning of this nature and, as a result, many Armenians took what belongings they could and left. My sister and her husband refused to leave. She was always stubborn. She told them they could kill her, but she would never leave her home of her own accord. I informed Halil Pasha of all the happenings. He was so enraged that he did not send a subordinate to deal with the situation. He took some soldiers and went himself. He warned the Kurds that if anyone else was touched he would personally return and drive them off the property they had stolen and inflict severe punishments. He told them that if they touched my sister or her family, the punishment would come very soon. Halil was very angry, Stone Woman. The Kurds believed him. Nothing more happened.
Last week my sister’s house was set on fire in the middle of the night. As her sons and their wives rushed out to escape the fire they were ambushed and killed. The same thing happened to all the other Armenians in the village. I told Halil Pasha last night. He sat at the table with his head in his hands and moaned. “The Empire is crumbling, Petrossian, and everyone is trying to get something for himsel
f before a new order is restored. I am truly sorry, but there is nothing I can do at the moment.” When Halil Pasha, who is a general, says he can do nothing to stop the killing of my people, what hope is there for us? I am an old man and will die soon, but my sons and grandsons want to make a new life.
Everyone is beginning to make stupid politics. Now my own sons want to engage in politics. They say it is the only way. What good has that ever done? My oldest boy has joined a group newly formed to fight for the creation of our own country. He says Armenians all over the world will support us. His older brother has already fled across the border to Russia.
My son-in-law says we must fight but stay within the Ottoman lands, fighting for our own vilayets in Anatolia to be given the status of a self-governing province with our own governor. He says a complete separation between the Ottoman lands and Armenia is impossible. Our people and lands are mixed everywhere.
He wants us to become Dashnaks. We must join the Dashnakzouthion, which is in favour of working with the Committee to defeat the Sultan. In Russia, he tells me, the Dashnaks are on the side of the Social-Democrats, whoever they may be, and against the Tsar. I have never heard talk of this sort before. If my own family is in politics something must have changed.
What is going to happen, Stone Woman? The whole world is falling apart.
All my life I have lived in this house. I have been treated well. My sons refused to stay here. They asked me many times to leave the house and come and live with them. They said that the world had changed and they had earned enough money for me to live in peace for the rest of my days. I told them I felt safe in this house. If I had been in that village with my sister I, too, would have died. Now my sons want me to leave Istanbul. One of them sells carpets in Cairo. He wants me to go and live with his family, but I don’t know his family, Stone Woman. This family in this house is the only family I really know. I do not wish to leave Iskander Pasha. Am I wrong?’
TWENTY-ONE
Selim is so impressed by the Paris journals of Iskander Pasha that he reads them twice; the Baron explains why the Parisian crowd was different from Istanbul; the troubled life of General Halil Pasha
SELIM HAD REFUSED TO be distracted. For over an hour he had been reading and re-reading the journal that the French woman had returned to Iskander Pasha. My father had placed the journal in the library. I had lifted it up immediately and brought it to our room so we could read it together when we were in bed. Selim had betrayed me. He had started reading the entries while I was putting the children to bed and was halfway through his second reading, refusing to share it with me. When he had finished I snatched the notebook away from him, but he was in a daze.
“Don’t sulk with me, princess. I was in a trance because Hasan Baba was also in Paris at the same time and talked of those months a great deal. Do you know when your father wrote these?”
I shook my head.
“In 1871. Paris was under siege by the Prussians. The self-proclaimed French Emperor, Napoleon the Third, fell and the crown slipped off his head. A republic was proclaimed and then something truly amazing happened: there was an uprising by the poor of the city, who realised that there was nothing to choose between the rich inside Paris and the Prussians at the gates. Hasan Baba always claimed that he had helped to build one of the barricades of the poor. I never really believed him. I thought it was a fantasy. He would have liked to, but could not. Your father’s journal confirms the story. I’m really proud of Hasan Baba, Nilofer. Read it for yourself. Please.”
To his great annoyance, I refused to read the journal that night. Instead, I fell asleep. The next morning I was woken by the noise of the birds. The sea was stormy and the seagulls were flying inland. I dressed and went down for breakfast with the journal. A strong wind was gathering pace outside and the curtains were flying everywhere. Inside, the servants were busy making sure the windows were firmly shut and the doors were bolted.
I was alone. None of the others had yet come down. I was not very hungry and poured myself a bowl of coffee and hot milk. I read the journal sitting at the table. It was a strange sensation. A storm was developing at sea and I was sitting comfortably reading about another storm of which I know nothing:
3 September 1870
I never thought the routines and the life I lead as an ambassador would permit me any space to write a diary, but these are amazing times. Today this pathetic and vainglorious figure that styled itself the “Emperor of France” was captured and his general defeated by the Prussians. Another triumph for Bismarck Pasha!
I went out for a stroll to gauge the mood of the people. Everyone looked depressed and the newspaper sellers were almost assaulted, so great was the urge to read about the day’s events. I heard many people denouncing their own side much more vigorously than the Prussians. A few shopkeepers had banners outside their shops, which read “Vive Trochu”. Trochu is the military governor of Paris and the man on whom a great deal now depends. In the afternoon a very large crowd marched through the streets demanding the creation of a republic. The French will never give up on their republics. We could learn something from them in this regard.
I am totally cut off from Istanbul as a result of the siege and I must admit it feels rather nice.
4 September 1870
Yesterday they demanded a republic and today it was proclaimed outside the Chamber, where a very large crowd had expectantly assembled. I was not present but Hasan, my barber, returned and gave me a complete account. This Sufi mystic is rapidly becoming a revolutionary. Since the embassy is paying his salary at the moment, I wonder whether his growing involvement might create a diplomatic scandal at a later stage. He tells me that there was applause all along the Place de la Concorde at the news. People began to tear the blue and white away from the tricolour, leaving the red intact. Hasan claims that the gilt N’s on the railings of the Tuileries were being painted over and covered with crowns of flowers, supplies of which, unlike the food in this city, were never depleted. Hasan joined the mob as it invaded the palace and saw the establishment of a “Citizens’ Guard”. He says they were so impressed by his solidarity that they wanted to elect him to the Guard, but he declined, fearful of damaging my status here.
Excited by these reports I ventured out incognito into the streets, dressed in modest French clothes. It was a very hot and humid Paris today. Outside the Hotel de Ville there was a very large assembly. Spontaneously they began to sing the Marseillaise. This is how it must have been in 1789. Strange how these people feel their history instinctively; it is in their bones. The flower-sellers have joined this revolution. They are only selling red button-holes today and the Prussians are only four days’ marching distance from the city. Only the French could topple their king in these circumstances. How I envy them this capacity.
Later I attended a dinner at the Montmorencys. Yvette is as well endowed as ever and the wine flowed as usual, but the mood here was very different from that on the streets. I controlled myself with some difficulty. The others were desolate. An elderly French gentleman spoke of the Germans with respect, saying that “only Bismarck can save us from this rabble”. Yvette, feeling the need to speak, suggested that it might be better if the French generals dealt with the mob themselves; that if Thiers, who is an old family friend, were given his instructions there might be some blood on the streets but it would be cleansing. Then “we would all be ready to go and fight the Prussians”. I suggested that the Prussian might be able to resist the French army, but Yvette might well conquer them. Apart from her nobody else smiled at my remark. My host, the Vicomte Montmorency, said that the noisy mob will only create havoc.
He declares himself for the republic, but only if it has Gambetta at its head and isolates the hotheads of the extreme left. Another guest, whose name I cannot remember, collapsed at the table, exclaiming that he had seen the most terrifying vision imaginable. Everyone stopped talking in order to listen to him. He spoke of the large amount of oil outside the gates of Paris,
and his fears that the Prussians will throw it into the Seine and set it alight, burning the banks on both sides, just as the Ottoman Admiral Barbarossa threatened to do to Venice. Everyone looked at me for confirmation. I smiled.
I began to feel suffocated by the evening and took my leave. Montmorency said to me: “Don’t treat us too badly in the despatches you send to Istanbul. It is all the fault of the Emperor.” I smiled and said nothing.
23 September 1870
There is a terrible shortage of food in the city. As the Prussian artillery fire hits Paris, people complain of the lack of fresh vegetables and meat. Some restaurants are closing down. Others are beginning to serve horseflesh, while pretending it is beef fillet. Yesterday I was told that there were no more oysters available. There has got to be a revolution.
21 October 1870
A stranger delivered a very large parcel to the embassy. Petrossian was nervous, but brought it to my office with the attached letter. I cannot believe that he managed to do this. The letter is in the familiar hand of the Baron. He’s remembered my birthday and the parcel contains the following: 2 bottles of champagne, a dozen oysters, a bottle of claret, a large piece of beef fillet, mushrooms, truffles, potatoes and, unbelievably, fresh lettuce. The cook, not knowing the Baron, was even more amazed than I am. I shared the feast with the others, though Hasan insisted that the wine he drank when he invaded the palace with the crowd was much better—as was the company. I toasted the Baron and wonder whether he is with the Prussian Army outside Paris.
31 October 1870
Everywhere I hear cries of “Vive la Commune”. I walked with Petrossian (who has armed himself to defend us in case of attack) and Hasan Baba to the Hotel de Ville, where the embattled government realises its isolation. I fear that France is on the verge of a civil war. Paris is for the Commune, but it is isolated and will be crushed. I do not wish this to happen, but it seems inevitable.