by Tariq Ali
When I entered mother’s room later that day she was sitting on the floor looking at the oil portrait.
“Would you rather be alone?”
“No, my dearest Nilofer. I would rather be with you.”
She talked of the dream that had sent her running to the Stone Woman. “How can things like this happen, Nilofer? I’m not superstitious. I don’t believe in the mumbo-jumbo of the astrologers, but it does make me wonder. Can we have such strong intuitions about someone we were or are still close to? I suppose that is the only explanation. The strange thing is that I had not thought of Suleman for a very long time when that dream disturbed my sleep.”
I held her hands and kissed them. “Did the news of his death upset you very much?”
“No,” she whispered. “I knew he was dying when I had that dream, and because I was prepared for his death I could control my emotions. It was the letter that upset me. I never thought he would admit the truth. He knew me so well, that boy. He knew I would still be wondering about the real reasons behind his decision to leave me. It was thoughtful of him to write, even though it was awful to read that my father had bought him off with money. What a fool!”
“Is the torment over now, Mother? Is it all finished?”
“Yes, my daughter. I am at peace with myself. If he had seen you and known you were his daughter I would have been even happier. Poor Suleman. He was a great lover of beautiful people and beautiful objects. It must have been a torture for him to see Jo the Ugly every day. No, Nilofer, don’t frown. The problem is that the boy’s character is no different from his features. All of us knew that instinctively. So did his father.”
“What was that story about Bilan that made you laugh so much?”
Sara smiled and walked briskly to the small cupboard in her dressing room and returned with a copy of the Talmud.
“In our religion, Nilofer, the rabbis never gave an opponent any quarter. This was true in olden times just as it is now. And if they believed that a person had betrayed the Jews, in other words the Elders, then no mercy was to be shown. The character of the victim had to be assassinated in as many ways as possible and his name blackened in the eyes of the congregation. Bilan was one such person. They accused him of performing sorcery on his own organ. Now read the story.”
I took the book from her and read the page she had marked:
Bilan’s conversation with the Moabites
When they asked him why he wasn’t riding a horse, he said to them:
“Usually I ride a horse. However today I am riding a donkey.”
Thereupon the she-donkey said to Bilan in front of the Moabites:
“Am I not your she-donkey?”
“Merely for carrying burdens,” Bilan said, trying to cut her off before she could contradict him further.
“That you could have ridden on,” the donkey continued, contradicting Bilan’s contention that she was merely a beast of burden.
“Only occasionally,” Bilan said, implying that ordinarily he did not ride her.
“All your life until this day,” the donkey went on contradicting Bilan’s contention that he had never ridden her except on rare occasions.
“And not only that,” she continued, “but at night I perform marital acts with you.”
Thus the donkey got the best of Bilan in their verbal sparring. How, then, could Bilan claim to “know the mind of the Supreme One,” that is, to know and manipulate the mind of God to allow him to curse the Jews, when it is evident that he was unable to know and manipulate even the mind of an animal?
My laughter had punctuated the reading and now it was Sara’s turn, but her amusement was tempered by the memory of a wonderful day a long time ago.
“It’s so childish, Mother. Don’t you agree?”
“There is a childish side to every religion, Nilofer.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The century prepares to enter its grave; Selim and Halil discuss the future; Dante and Verlaine; Orhan asks a question of Iskander Pasha
“THE CENTURY IS ABOUT to die.” I heard the agitated notes of Selim’s voice. “The Sultans and the Empire will go to the grave with it because their time has come. But when will our time come, Brother Halil? When will our time come? Should we die as well? I am not pleased with your news.”
The two men were sitting in the library on their own when I entered. They looked up and smiled.
“Has something happened?”
Neither of them replied.
“Is it a military secret?”
Halil sighed. “No. The Committee has decided after several meetings with the palace...”
“And even more with the German ambassador...,” interjected Selim.
“They have decided,” Halil continued calmly, “to postpone indefinitely our plan to seize power.”
“Why?”
“Because, Nilofer, we have been promised reforms of such magnitude that our action is unnecessary. It would be criminal to spill blood unnecessarily. Moreover, the Vizier accepted that next year leading members of the Committee would be appointed to the Government so that they can supervise the reforms themselves.”
“Allah! That is amazing news. We have won without a single shot being fired.”
“Yes,” said Halil, “but they knew very well that if they did not move, shots would be fired—and not just shots. They know full well what happened to the eunuch-general. His disappearance was just accepted. No one asked us any questions. This inaction reveals a great deal about their state of mind.”
Selim was looking very unhappy. “Both of you seem to have a surprising degree of confidence in the Vizier’s capacity to deliver all that he has promised. He might think: appoint the ringleaders to positions of power and corrupt them in the process. Let some reforms through but resist any attempt to abolish the Sultan or diminish the powers of the clergy.”
“Selim,” said Halil, “if that happens, shots will be fired. Our young friends in Salonika share your doubts and your impatience. I am not as radical as you or them, but I know one thing for sure. If we fail to modernise over the next few years, we are finished. I don’t mean ‘we’ as an Empire. I mean ‘we’ as a new, modern state. That is why people like me—soft, moderate, cautious—will side with the hotheads from Salonika to ensure that the reforms do not fail. We have waited two hundred years. A few more months or even a whole year will not make too much difference.”
Selim relaxed a little and smiled. I asked Halil about the twins.
“Are the children back?”
“Yes, thank Allah. They are both well. I offered to bring them here, but they were desperate to see their friends in Istanbul. I left them with Zeynep.”
“And will they stay with you permanently from now onwards?”
“Yes. That makes me very happy. I have told their mother she can see them whenever she likes, but I have granted her the divorce she sought. Now that the palace has given us a respite, I might do something about finding a new mother for my twins. Any ideas on this crucial question, Nilofer? Sighted any beauties of late?”
“I always thought you were the one who carried a list with the priorities clearly marked.”
He began to laugh. The return of his sons had cheered him enormously and it was nice to see his forehead free of frowns once again.
“I stopped making a list a long time ago. Don’t mock my lists, you wretched girl. Sometimes they can be a very useful prop for one’s memory.”
“No wonder women find you so romantic, Halil. You really know how to excite them!”
My brother smiled. “Once they have been selected, I release a charge of passion whose depth first surprises and later delights them.”
We ended the discussion as the library was invaded from all sides. Iskander Pasha and Sara entered with my children from one side while the Baron and Memed strolled in casually from the garden. They were followed a few minutes later by Salman, whose face, darkened by the sun, was set in sharp relief to his white hair. It had
become much more relaxed and he looked happy. He was carrying his old copy of Verlaine, a book I had first seen him read when I was eight years old. Its cover was now completely faded and discoloured by the Mediterranean sun and, perhaps, the tears of its owner. Everyone was pleased by the sight of him, especially Orhan and Emineh, who had become attuned to his changing moods. Children feel our problems far more acutely than we can ever imagine.
The Baron was in a mellow mood, but without permitting it to dull his competitive edge. “Why don’t you recite your favourite poem from Verlaine and let me see if I can match it with one from my favourite poet?”
Salman put the book down on the table.
“This one is called ‘Mon rêve familier’ from his Poèmes saturniens and I translated it myself though, like all poetry, it is best in its own language. Here then is Verlaine’s ‘Well-Known Dream’:
Often have I this strange and penetrating dream
Of a woman unknown, loved and loving me,
And who each time is neither quite the same
Nor yet another, and loves and understands.
For she understands me, and my heart, transparent
For her alone, alas, is a problem no more
For her alone, and the fevers of my pale brow,
She alone, weeping, knows how to cool.
Is she dark, fair or auburn?—I know not.
Her name? I remember it is soft and clear
Like those of loved ones banished by life.
Her gaze is like the gaze of statues,
And her voice, distant, and calm, and grave,
Has the inflexion of dear silenced voices.
There was a silence. Halil looked at his brother affectionately. Perhaps Verlaine had struck a few chords in the breast of my general-brother. The effect could only be positive. Salman smiled at the Baron.
“Match that if you can, Baron.”
The Baron rose and walked to the shelf containing Latin and Italian poetry, one of the most under-used collections in our library. He climbed up the tiny wooden platform and, having immediately found what he was looking for, gave a little triumphant grunt to himself as he stepped down.
“It gets a bit dusty up there, especially when it isn’t used much. None of you, apart from Memed and Salman, have even understood these languages. Well I, for one, will not read a translation. That would be a travesty and there is not yet a good one in German or French. It is the terza rima that baffles them all. It is Canto V of the Commedia, when our poet meets the lovers Francesca and Paolo in the Second Circle of Hell. Listen closely, Salman, and tell me honestly if the silken verses of your beloved Verlaine can match this gem from the Florentine Renaissance:
Quand’ io intesi quell’ anime offense,
china ’il viso, e tanto il tenni basso,
fin che ’l poeta mi disse: “Che pense?”
Quando rispuosi, cominciai: “Oh lasso
Quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio
menò costoro al doloroso passo!”
Poi mi rivolsi a loro e parla’ io,
E cominciai: “Francesca, i tuoi martiri
A lagrimar mi fanno tristo e pio.
Ma dimmi: al tempo d’i dolci sospiri
a che e come concedetti amore
che conosceste i dubbiosi disiri?”
E quella a me: “Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Ne la miseria; e ciò sa ’l tuo dottore.
Ma s’a conoscer la prima radice
Del nostro amor tu hai cotanto affetto,
Dirò come colui che piange e dice.
Noi leggiavamo un giorno per diletto
Di Lancialotto come amor lo strinse;
Soli eravamo e sanza alcun sospetto.
Per più fïate liocchi ci sospinse
quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso;
ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.
Quando leggemmo il disïato riso
Esser basciato da cotanto amante,
Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso,
La bocca mi basciò tutto tremante.
Galeotto fu ’l libro e chi lo scrisse:
quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.”
Mentre che l’uno spirto questo disse,
l’altro piangëa; sì che di pietade
io venni men così com’ io morisse.
E caddi come corpo mono cade. *
The Baron’s histrionic performance had exhausted him and he fell back in his chair, his hand groping for the non-existent glass of champagne. Since I could not understand a word I had looked at the faces of those who could, and while Salman had remained attentive, Uncle Memed’s features were filled with tenderness throughout the performance. He spoke to his friend in a soft voice.
“I first read that passage to you, Jakob. Remember? Venezia?” It was the first time anyone in our household had spoken the Baron’s name.
The Baron had recovered himself. He never liked displays of public affection and ignored Uncle Memed’s question.
“Well, Salman?”
My brother looked at the Prussian with a raised eyebrow.
“Dear Baron, surely you will agree that it would be impertinent for either of us to compare these two poets. Each wrote in his own time and, as a result, each has his own special qualities. Would you compare Machiavelli to Hegel?”
“Ridiculous idea.”
“Exactly. It serves no function. Likewise Dante and Verlaine.”
“I disagree.” The Baron was beginning to show signs of irritation. “The Florentine was a genius. The Frenchman was a poet of a high quality.”
Salman was now getting annoyed. He shrugged his shoulders, but remained silent. We were beginning to wonder whether the discussion was over when Salman spoke.
“One thing puzzles me Baron. I am familiar with the extract you read from Canto V. What always puzzled me was why Dante had to spoil the effect of the passage in which the depth of emotion is truly profound by insisting that the book they were reading was the story of Lancelot, a legend which usually appeals to the soft-headed. Do you think this was deliberate on this poet’s part? A way of warning the reader, perhaps, that love can make one undiscriminating?”
The Baron was livid. “The question you pose is so profound that I will think it over tonight and give you a reply tomorrow.”
Salman and I began to giggle and my father intervened.
“That is enough poetry for one day. Orhan asked me a question today for which I had no answer. I told him to ask Selim and Halil to their faces. Come here, Orhan.”
Orhan moved to where Iskander Pasha was seated.
“I asked Grandfather: when the Sultan is gone and my Uncle Halil and Selim and the men who visited our house take over the Empire, will the ruffians who killed my father be punished?”
Selim covered his face with his hands. Halil looked pensive and simply nodded at the question. Salman was the one who replied.
“Both of them would like to say ‘yes’ to you, Orhan, because they love you dearly, but because they love you they do not wish to lie. Some of the men who killed your father because he was Greek are the people who want to topple the Sultan. So the answer is ‘no’, Orhan. They will probably never be punished.”
Orhan’s eyes filled with tears and Emineh looked out of the window. My parents took them out of the room without another word. Memed, too, rose as if to depart.
“We must make sure everything we need is packed, Baron. We leave early tomorrow morning.”
I had no idea their departure was so imminent. “You are deserting us in our hour of need, Baron.”
“Old empires fall and new ones take their place, Nilofer. You are lucky. You will have friends in both.”
Memed sat down again. “Berlin as the heart of a new Empire, Baron? I don’t think the British, French and Russians are going to permit the birth of this empire.”
“They are not invincible, Memed.”
“We shall see.”
“Let me put it to you another way, Memed. Any power which is strong enough to defeat Germany will one day rule the world.”
“On that deeply mystical Wagnerian note, Baron, I think we should retire for the day.”
“Good,” said the Baron, “but not before inviting Salman, Nilofer and Selim to my family’s New Year’s Eve Ball in Berlin. It will be very grand this year. If you like, Selim, I can ask my friend Urning to get a couple of tickets for you to attend the ball being planned by the German Social Democrats. They plan everything well in advance. It is their nature.”
“That would really encourage me to visit Berlin,” replied Selim.
“Good. It’s settled, but you will be my guests.”
Selim accompanied them out of the room, leaving me alone with Salman.
“Are you looking forward to working with Uncle Kemal again?”
He looked at me and gently stroked my cheeks.
“Yes, my Nilofer. I’m ready for something new. I have tried the East and it failed me. I would like to visit America and see Chicago and New York. It is such a big country that one could lose oneself in its vastness. I’m looking forward to getting lost again. The steamship company will need to be set up on every coast.”
“Father will miss you very much now. You know that, don’t you? I think out of all of us he feels the closest to you. You should have seen the look on his face when you were reading Verlaine. He loves you dearly, Salman. As children we hated him for punishing you, but he loved you even then. We were too young too realise it at the time.”
“It’s true, and I feel very close to him as well, which I never did when I was growing up here. Don’t worry. I wasn’t planning on leaving just yet, Sister. I will spend a lot of time with Father.”
I was in bed waiting for Selim to undress and join me. Everyone was leaving now, but he would always be with me, with his strange and obstinate gaze and his pride. He had come to me from nowhere and rescued me from loneliness at a time when I was unhappy and my life with Dmitri had come to an end. I did not wish to think about love or passion or betrayal.
Selim got into the bed and looked at me and smiled.
“I do not wish to discuss our love for each other, tonight. I do not want to know whether it has grown, deepened or which of us loves the other more. Not tonight.”