Portrait of a Turkish Family

by Orga, Irfan

  As the winter grew more severe she became more and more cantankerous and would sit huddled over the fire in the salon, wrapped in numerous shawls. She was morose and irritable, her appetite insatiable and she found fault with everything. One morning she threw us all into a flurry by announcing over breakfast that she was going to Sarıyer, where she insisted she would get more to eat than she was getting with us. She demanded that Feride should accompany her, remaining with her during her stay with Aunt Ayşe. My mother indignantly opposed the idea, asking what she was expected to do without her treasured Feride. My grandmother grunted, implying tacitly that she neither knew nor cared. She wanted Feride and that was all there was to it. However, in the end it was all arranged to everyone’s satisfaction. Feride would accompany my grandmother but would return to us that same evening. We bolted our meagre breakfast and Feride tore herself in little pieces, trying to do too many things at once. But at last we got them off, my grandmother having her last little grumble because she had to travel to Galata Bridge in a hired cab.

  Mehmet and I followed my mother into the kitchen, where she was going to take Feride’s place for the day. She wore an apron over her pretty dress and we were set to work to help her. I was put to peeling potatoes, a job I loathed only a little less than I loathed the taste of potatoes. Mehmet was given the easiest things to do and happily staggered about, taking the dried cutlery into the canteen in the dining-room, hanging cups and managing to break a few.

  ‘Times are changing,’ said my mother to me conversationally, briskly shaking out the freshly washed kitchen-cloths. ‘Perhaps there will be many things you will both have to learn to do until this war is over. When your father comes back again everything will be all right but until that time we must all learn to look after ourselves. Your grandmother is old and she does not understand things, therefore we must have patience with her.’

  She sounded hard and a bit impatient and I wondered why she spoke of my grandmother like this. She felt me watching her and said: ‘She is a very good woman but she will not accept the fact that there are many things we cannot get nowadays. All those little luxuries your grandfather used to bring her – ’

  And she broke off, pondering on the changed conditions. Her hands looked red and ugly and I was horrified to see that they looked like Feride’s or İnci’s. All their smooth, cool whiteness seemed to have disappeared. She caught my look and smiled at me, then glanced back to her rough hands and seemed proud of them. I thought she was very brave. She was only twenty-two at that time, well born and accustomed to the sheltered life that only the well-born women of old Turkey really knew. Yet she had taken on her shoulders the responsibility of us children and my grandmother and was so sensitive to the welfare of her servants that she shared their work willingly. She could not sit idle whilst two servants did the work of four and, despite the fact that she was a shocking cook in those days, was always ready to help in the kitchen, humbly learning from the experienced Feride.

  During my grandmother’s sojourn at Sarıyer we received a letter from my father. He was somewhere near Edirne, was well but worried because no letters were being received from us or from Uncle Ahmet, to whom he had repeatedly written. He wrote of his longing to be with us and of the appalling misery of the Turkish soldier. It was the first news we had had for many weeks and it was like a tonic for my mother and we heard her lilting, singing voice again about the house.

  My grandmother brought back news that Uncle Ahmet was at Şam, in Syria, and that my aunt was worse than we had suspected. Sarıyer, she said, was in a shocking condition, all the young men having gone to the war and only the old ones left to look after the estate, with no supervision to guide them. She brought back eggs and chickens and fresh butter, eagerly saying that Feride could now make for us some nice, heavy, sticky sweets. My mother was going to indignantly veto any such idea but perhaps the old lady looked pathetic, for she suddenly relented and let my grandmother have her way. The visit to Sarıyer had done a lot of good for my grandmother. I think the state of things there had depressed her unutterably for now she took to doing small things about the house and stopped complaining, appearing genuinely glad to be back in the sane, healthy atmosphere of our house.

  One day the wife of the local İmam paid us a surprise visit. She was a vast caricature of a woman with treble chins and a bosom that shot straight out like a board. She sat very upright in the salon, obviously not wanting the presence of Mehmet and me. My mother apologised for us, explaining that İnci had so much else to do that she could not be expected to look after us exclusively. The İmam’s wife nodded gravely and said she quite understood, but her hard eyes raked us with positive dislike and I felt quite sure she did not understand at all. She settled herself comfortably near my grandmother, beginning to talk in a penetrating, sibilant whisper. She was telling her that a certain well-known gentleman of our slight acquaintance, a rich, eccentric old gentleman, was looking for a wife! She put a world of meaning into that one word.

  ‘Why?’ demanded my grandmother blankly and with such astonishment in her voice that the İmam’s wife huffily sniffed that she did not know but that it was no unusual thing for a gentleman to want a wife. Energetically my grandmother replied that it was highly unusual for the gentleman in question. The İmam’s wife made no comment and then my mother came in with coffee and for a while the subject was not discussed. But as though drawn by a magnet the visitor could not keep away from the matter for long. This time she came straight to the point and propounded the amazing suggestion that my grandmother should marry him herself. We were all flabbergasted. And taking our astonished silence for approval she continued by saying that the old man had himself expressed a great preference for my grandmother! He only waited for her to give her decision before formally declaring his intentions when, we gathered, he would eagerly like a young man leap into the arena and carry her off for himself.

  There was an astounded, disbelieving silence when the İmam’s wife had finished speaking. I sat on the floor gaping foolishly until my mother – an exasperated, angry note in her voice – told me to go out of the room immediately and to take Mehmet with me. I rushed in search of İnci to tell her what I had overheard. Her reaction disappointed me for she sagely nodded her crinkly head and said that she knew all about it. I could not believe her but she assured me that every servant in the neighbourhood knew for they had been informed many weeks ago by the old man’s cook – who was too astute to let much pass her ear.

  I could not imagine anyone wanting to marry my grandmother for she seemed incredibly, unromantically old to me though İnci pointed out that she was still several years short of fifty and a recognised hostess in the district. What this had to do with her marriageable qualities I did not know but İnci assured me they were both very important.

  I heard no more about the matter for several days for my mother would not discuss anything of such a delicate nature before us. Neighbours took to more frequent visiting, to my usually hospitable mother’s annoyance for she had to provide coffee for them and sugar was short. Madame Müjğan breathlessly arrived to give her advice. She pointed out what an excellent match this would be since the old man was fabulously wealthy, owning many coal depots and wharves and heaven knew what else. And – best of all in their opinion – he had no tiresome relatives to interfere saving a nephew who could be trusted to behave. My grandmother noticeably weakened and my mother grew more and more tight-lipped, seeing the whole situation as a farce.

  ‘Have you lost your senses?’ she demanded one day in exasperation. ‘What do you suppose Ahmet and Hüsnü will say to such a marriage?’

  My grandmother replied that Ahmet and Hüsnü had their families around them and that she had nobody to care about her and that she did not wish to grow old and lonely and a burden to all about her in this house.

  My mother turned her face from such reasoning and a coldness blew shatteringly between the two of them. Mehmet and I were insatiably curious for knowledge, anxious to
know the outcome of such an odd, unorthodox courtship, but little enlightenment came our way. Then one day my grandmother defiantly announced that her mind was made up and that she was going to marry her rich old man. Mehmet and I wriggled with excitement but my mother received the news coldly, merely saying that she would immediately set about listing my grandmother’s furniture and belongings, as she supposed she would be taking them to her new home. Never was a marriage arranged with such lack of warmth, such formality. New clothes were prepared for everyone and Feride drew again on our precious food stocks, for a reception was to be held in our house.

  On the marriage morning, Madame Müjğan, the İmam – who was going to perform the ceremony – and his capacious wife and several neighbours gathered in the salon to await the arrival of the bridegroom.

  My grandmother looked pale and composed and utterly magnificent in grey watered silk, a material all the rage at that time in İstanbul. The old man arrived in his carriage, his nephew assisting him into the house for he was very gouty. The İmam read from the Koran and after a few minutes my grandmother became a bride again for the second time in her life. Congratulations, false and unreal as a winter’s sun, broke out, liqueurs and bon-bons were distributed before the more serious eating really began. My mother drank to the couple’s health but looked forbidding and was nothing more than politely formal to my grandmother.

  Later in the day the bridal pair were handed in to their elegant carriage, and my grandmother, looking suddenly lonely, drove away to her new home.

  In the evening three porters from the old man’s house called for my grandmother’s furniture. For the next hour or so they were busy removing it and things kept shifting in the salon and in the dining-room until I had a fearful thought that nothing would be left for us.

  Last of all they stripped my grandmother’s room and that, for me, really was the end of her, for when the room was empty I peeped inside and saw that nothing of her was left there. The patterned curtains swung in the little breeze I made with the open door, and so little impression had my grandmother ever made on this house that it seemed to me as if she had never lived here at all. The empty room echoed gently when I said ‘Grandmother’ and I shivered and ran to find İnci, who was always at hand when a small boy needed comfort.

  CHAPTER 8

  Muazzez makes her Début

  After my grandmother’s marriage the house seemed larger and, it must be admitted, more peaceful. The remaining furniture was rearranged and I moved into her empty bedroom.

  Occasionally during the afternoons my grandmother would visit us, for she still lived quite near Bayazit, but she never mentioned her husband and my mother never enquired after him. By tacit agreement, his name was taboo. Later on in the year, in the fine spring weather, Mehmet and I were given permission to visit her. But this we did not like doing, preferring to see her in our own house, for her husband had no affection for small boys and, in particular, he disliked Mehmet and me. Another time my mother paid an afternoon call with us but the old man stayed in his own little sitting-room the whole time we were there and made it so abundantly clear that we were unwelcome, that my mother decided never to set foot in his house again. We were also forbidden to visit there but, nevertheless, when the days were fine and we were supposed to be playing safely in the garden we did sometimes manage to escape.

  My grandmother’s new home was very beautiful, with exquisite old tapestries and Chinese vases, which we were told were very valuable. He was a bit of a connoisseur in his way and loved beauty. The gardens were expansive and well kept but my grandmother had a temporary look in that house, as though she had rested there but for a moment. The servants were all old retainers who had been there for years and knew their job so well that she had no conceivable right to interfere with them. This restraint, this lack of freedom in her kitchen, made her feel lonely for Feride and İnci and the other long-departed servants she had trained from childhood. As I have remarked before, the old man did not like Mehmet or me. He was very jealous if my grandmother gave up any time to us, resenting us in some queer, illogical way, and telling her over and over again that she must give up her visits to our house. He said our family were dead for her, that she had married him and that he required some attention from her. All of this I learned many years later but when I was a child I only saw him as a cantankerous, horrid old man – totally unlike my own beloved grandfather. One other thing I learned later in life. He had expected from his marriage that she should share his bed with him and, upon her adamant, astonished refusal, informed her that he could, if he wished, insist on this right. She, apparently, sharply and coldly reminded him that as he was well over eighty years old, he should be contemplating his death and not setting himself up as an amoureux. This plain speaking had considerably affronted him and huffily he had warned her that if she were to continue in this attitude she need not expect any benefits from him. Since my grandmother was hoping for benefits from him, she thought it better thereafter to hold her peace, though still continuing in her firm refusal to become part of his bed. Later, a bitter quarrel took place between them and he refused her permission to visit us. And a husband’s will in those days was not to be lightly disregarded.

  My mother did not know of this quarrel and Mehmet and I were sent to find out what was wrong. We met the old man in the street, almost at his own door so to speak. He was carrying a large stick and asked me where I was going. Tremblingly I replied that I was going to see my grandmother and he lifted his heavy stick to bring it down on our shoulders. I quickly dodged out of his way, dragging a surprised Mehmet after me and the stick dropped shatteringly to the ground from his fingers. Nimbly I picked it up and ran away with it in the direction of our own home to breathlessly pour out the story to my mother. She grew white as she listened. She banished the offensive stick to the kitchen and later on a servant of the old man called for it, bringing with him an insulting message that we were to be kept out of his master’s way. Never have I seen my mother in such a passion. She put on her veil, asked Feride to accompany her and leaving us in İnci’s care, went off to my grandmother’s house.

  When she told me the story in after years – with a good deal of laughter for things so far behind her – it appears that she had marched boldly to the old man’s room, ignoring alike the alarmed faces of my grandmother and the servants. She thrust open the door of his private sitting-room, leaving the terrified Feride outside to wait for her, and had told him what she thought of him – and a good deal else beside, I gathered. He had been as astonished as the rest of his flurried household and had listened, unwillingly, to most of what she had to say before reviving sufficiently to ask her to leave his home.

  Naturally this dispute did not make relations any less strained between the two families – if anything it widened the breach. Once my grandmother secretly managed to visit us but she was in such fear of being discovered that my mother asked her not to come again.

  I thought she was hard with her, not listening to her complaints, not giving a word of comfort and I felt near to tears as I saw my grandmother hurrying furtively away from our house – a little lonely old woman she seemed to be without a word of comfort in the world.

  In Turkey in the old days there used to be a month called Aşure Ayi.

  Aşure is a sweet cooked with wheat, sultanas, figs, dates, dried beans, what you will, the whole being boiled for several hours until the result looks a little like aspic jelly. The legend of aşure is that when Noah in the Ark found himself running short of supplies, he ordered all the remaining foods to be cooked together for one last gigantic meal. This was aşure – or so we were told. During the days of the Ottoman Empire a month used to be set aside each year for the making of aşure in all the houses of the rich, who afterwards distributed it to the poor. When my grandfather was alive it used to be made in our house, fat Hacer being an adept at it, but latterly my mother had discontinued the habit, for Feride was uncertain of the recipe and my mother too cautious nowadays
to waste any precious food. But it was made in my grandmother’s new home, and a huge silver pot of it sent to us. Feride was immediately ordered to give it to the poor and my mother sent a message to my grandmother not to send any more to us. If my mother had anything to do with it, the breach between them would never heal.

  After that I remember Ramazan. None of us kept the fast, although in my grandfather’s day Ramazan was the signal for the entire household to fast and pray the prescribed five times in a day. With the ending of Ramazan comes the Şeker Bayramı, when all manner of sweets are distributed, especially to the children. This particular Bayram was unbearably sad for us, and perhaps that is why I remember it so well. My father was no longer with us, my grandmother had remarried, and my mother was, although I did not know that, pregnant with her third child. And she was alone in this great, empty house with two small children and her faithful Feride and İnci. That Bayram morning İnci dressed us in new clothing – for new clothing is as necessary to a Bayram as are the sweets and the celebration. We were taken sedately downstairs to the salon, where my mother sat alone, in a pretty silk dress and all her rings sparkling on her reddened fingers. A few neighbours called to congratulate the Bayram then went away again and I saw my mother quietly crying to herself …

  What an emotional, unhappy Bayram to remember when only happiness should have been present.

  Later that same week we were taken to Madame Müjğan’s house to stay for a few days for we were told our mother was not well. We were inclined to be tearful but I remember that İnci whispered that perhaps when we came home again the new baby would have arrived. So that made us feel better and we proudly boasted of this to Yasemin and Nuri, who were bitterly jealous that they had no new baby to boast about.