The Stone Woman

by Tariq Ali

  Despite all the arguments, the Bragadinis prospered. With the invention of the camera, their long battle for imperial recognition came to an end. They obtained the exclusive privilege of photographing the Sultan and being appointed the official photographers to the Court.

  Four chairs were laid out. The first of the photographs consisted of the family alone and was simply organised. My mother sat on Iskander Pasha’s left as he faced the camera and Uncle Memed on his right, with the Baron seated next to him. Zeynep, Halil, Salman and I stood behind them and little Orhan, looking every inch a Pasha, sat between the feet of his grandfather and great-uncle. Giulio was now in complete control of the operation. From a distance, behind the camera, all the servants, marshalled in their feast-day clothes for the occasion by Petrossian, stood and stared at us, the gardeners solemn and the maids trying to control their giggles as they muttered obscenities. The Baron, for some reason, had always been a special target for their venom. The ritual words, always uttered on occasions of this sort where the family and the servants were together, were spoken by Uncle Memed, who walked to where the retainers were gathered, smiled and said: “Allah be praised. It seems that festive looks are all the fashion.” The Baron nearly choked with disgust at this totally meaningless display of formality.

  The first photograph taken, we were all seated in chairs with Orhan in the centre and behind us came Petrossian, flanked by Rustem the Bosnian, who was the principal chef and controller of the kitchen and, next to him, Luka the Albanian, the head gardener, and Hasan Baba. This photograph, too, passed off without incident. Then a couple of benches were placed behind Petrossian’s row and everyone clambered aboard them. The noise increased till my mother stood up and raised her hand, demanding silence. The ordeal could not last much longer.

  As the participants in the photograph disbanded and returned to their posts, Iskander Pasha sent for Giulio Bragadini. He showed him a note. The photographer appeared to be puzzled. Petrossian and I both hurried forward to help Father. Giulio showed me the piece of paper. On it was written: “Now please take a photograph of me alone with Zakiye.” I signalled in the direction of Hasan Baba. He understood immediately. He removed all the chairs except two. He told Giulio not to ask unnecessary questions, but to take the photograph. Petrossian shepherded the servants out of the garden. The family stayed behind. Father looked pleased, but he rushed indoors, indicating he would be back very soon. He could not have gone to relieve himself since he often did so in the garden.

  Fifteen minutes later everyone gasped in astonishment. Iskander Pasha had returned dressed in the clothes of a dervish. None of us spoke. Giulio appeared to be delighted. He seated Iskander Pasha and tried to remove the empty chair lying next to him, but received such a ferocious scowl that he fluttered away to his camera. Iskander Pasha refused to look at the camera. He insisted on smiling at the non-existent occupant of the empty chair, adjacent to his own and that is how he was photographed by Giulio Bragadini.

  Afterwards nothing was said. We all acted as if it had been the most normal behaviour imaginable. Our reaction was wise. Some time later, that strange photograph, the outcome of a nostalgic mysticism that had seized Iskander Pasha that day, would travel the world and appear in most of the books on early photography. It would also, and this fact subsequently caused a great deal of merriment within our family, immortalise the name of Giulio Bragadini. The fame that his forebears had been denied by the old Sultans had finally been achieved as a result of a sudden whim on the part of a sad old man who had lost his power of speech. I was told that Giulio gave a public lecture in Paris on that photograph, explaining to his admiring listeners the many hours of planning and forethought that had been required to achieve the perfect texture and composition. News of his latest portraits often appeared in the artistic columns of the European press, but we must not be diverted. The fantasies of the Bragadinis have no real place in this story and I must not run ahead of my time. The past is difficult enough.

  Everything had now been cleared. The events of the afternoon had become distant, but the change in Iskander Pasha could not be ignored. He decided that he did not wish us to visit his room after the evening meal.

  “I do not crave your attention,” he wrote in his note, which was circulated to each of us in turn. “I yearn for solitude. You are all free to stay or return to your families.”

  Uncle Memed had convened a family conclave to discuss the matter. All the participants of the photograph excepting Orhan and Iskander Pasha were present. We had invited Hasan Baba to join us for coffee. Who would be the first to speak? We looked at each other, offering silent encouragement to whoever wanted to begin. Unsurprisingly it was the Baron who spoke first.

  “The worst reaction on our part would be an over-reaction. Knowing the history of this family, I thought his behaviour eccentric, but not a real cause for concern on our part. He was overcome by longing for Zakiye hanim and decided to honour her memory in our presence. I found it quite touching.”

  Hasan Baba had been nodding vigorously while the Baron spoke. “I do not wish to offend anyone present, but to me Iskander Pasha’s behaviour is reassuring. He loved Zakiye hanim more than everything else in this world put together. He never stopped thinking of her. Salman Pasha suffered as a result since he was held to be the cause of her death. My advice is to be patient. I think, far from being mad, he has decided to become sane again.”

  My mother usually remained silent on these occasions, but not today. “In the past he often spoke of Salman’s mother. He told me he could never love again. Charred wood, he used to say, can never be relit. I understood him perfectly. However, as we all know, he has always been a very private person. It is not his emotions that worry me, but his desire to display them in this fashion. Where will it all end?”

  Salman cleared his throat. “I agree with my Aunt Hatije. His initial hostility to me is of little concern now. Naturally, I, too, wished I had seen my mother, though from what I have heard it is perfectly possible that she might have packed me in a bundle and run away from Istanbul. Hasan Baba knows this well. My mother shared the nomadic instinct of the early Ottomans. She was never happy in one place. It is pointless speculating about such matters. What worries me is the streak of insanity that runs through our family. Uncle Memed, when we were children you often spoke of one of our great-great-great-uncles whose insanity was legendary. The same blood courses through our veins.”

  Memed began to laugh. “Great-great-great-uncle Ahmet. Well, he was very special. Even the Sultan smiled at his escapades. How many of you here know the story? Only Salman? This is odd. Perhaps the rest of you were shielded from it for your own sakes.

  “Ahmet Pasha was a warrior. He had participated in numerous wars and was renowned for his foolhardiness which, alas, is usually referred to as courage. When he grew tired of fighting he began to write poetry. Some of it must still exist somewhere. His poems were far removed from war. He wrote exclusively of the natural beauty of animals. Birds, deer, fish, geese, dogs, cats, turtles, horses, elephants and ants all formed part of his anthology. He celebrated their innocence and wrote of how dependent man was on each of them. It is said that the Sultan began to laugh while Ahmet Pasha was reading an ode to the snail. He laughed so much that the courtiers cleared the chamber. Our great forebear was enraged by this behaviour. As we know, our family has a tendency to take itself very seriously. We can produce paintings that embarrass, poetry that pains the ear, love letters that destroy passion, but death to him who dares criticise our work. I suppose this attitude mirrors that of the palace where the Sultan is always above criticism. It is this dullness and inertia that has killed the Empire and retarded our development. It has done the same to our wretched family. We, too, have seen our faculties decline for a few hundred years. Pardon me, children, I am beginning to sound like the Baron.”

  We laughed, since we had always regarded the two men as interchangeable. It was rare to find them in disagreement. The Baron, as if to prove thi
s point, stroked his moustache and took over the story.

  “We will be here all night if Memed continues at this pace. Ahmet Pasha was so angry that he never went to pay his respects to the Sultan again. Instead he recalled two dozen veteran sipahis who had served with him and told them to prepare for a new war. They were bemused, but they were very fond of him and whatever doubts they might have entertained were settled when he sent a purse each to their families. He armed them and dressed them in the special uniform of the Sultan’s bodyguards. He dressed himself like the Sultan and ordered a new coach modelled on that of his ruler. He began to travel the country in this style and everywhere he went people assumed he was the Sultan. They followed him in large flocks when he went to pray in the local mosque on Friday, because they thought that Allah was more likely to listen to them if they prayed with the Caliph of Islam. When Ahmet Pasha addressed his subjects he denounced hypocrisy and corruption. They say that in three villages he had the collector of taxes executed by the sipahis. It was news of this that panicked the Grand Vizier. Till now the Sultan had been greatly amused by Ahmet Pasha’s antics and instructed the Vizier to leave him alone. As news of the executions spread, however, it created a wave of expectation throughout the Empire. The Sultan sent a messenger to Ahmet Pasha, summoning him to the palace.

  “Your great forebear responded in great style. He asked the messenger to wait while he composed a letter to the Sultan. Then he dismissed the retainers for the day and said farewell to his sipahis. When the house was empty he hanged himself. The letter was read by the Vizier and destroyed. It never reached the person for whom it had been intended. A great pity. It would have been the first time the Sultan heard the truth. Was my summary accurate, Hasan Baba?”

  The old man nodded. “To this day Ahmet Pasha is remembered in those villages. When it became known that he was not the Sultan, some began to ask ‘why not?’, while others went so far as to question the need for a Sultan. So even in the case of Ahmet Pasha the madness was not without a purpose. A version of the letter began to circulate in many cities. People used Ahmet Pasha’s sacrifice to speak their own grievances. If he was mad, we need many more like him now. Everything is crumbling nowadays. We are heading towards the abyss. We need a Bismarck Pasha!” And pleased with his own joke and his knowledge of the outside world, the old man cackled with delight. We contained our mirth.

  Halil decided it was time to close the day. “Enough of all this talk. You could be arrested for treason and shot, Hasan Baba. I am not at all convinced that our father is either deranged or heading in that direction. There is something new. He’s embarked on a new stage of his life. His inner world is in complete turmoil. All we can do is try and help him as much as he will let us, so that we can ensure that he lives in peace.”

  As we disbanded, I accompanied my mother to her bedchamber.

  “Did you ever talk to him about Suleman?”

  “Often.”

  I was surprised. “And?”

  “He was always very sympathetic. He understood.”

  “And did he ever talk to you of Salman’s mother?”

  “Yes, but not very often. He did so only when the pain he felt at her loss became overwhelming. Then he would come and I would stroke his head and let him talk of her till calm returned. We both knew that neither of us could love like that again and this realisation had drawn us closer to each other.”

  “Do you think he knows that I am...”

  My mother placed her hand on my mouth. “Shh. He never asked. I never told him. This doesn’t mean that he is ignorant. I simply don’t know. Even if he did know, his affection for you would not alter in the slightest. He has never been possessive of me in the least. What are you intending to do about Selim? It seems he is not really a barber at all, but a singer.”

  “I will speak of him some other time, Mother. We have had enough surprises for one day.”

  NINE

  Nilofer and Selim learn to know each other and she realises that her emotions are out of control

  I PANICKED WHEN I first looked out of the window that night. It was past midnight. Dark, ugly clouds had disfigured the sky. Behind them I could see the very faint outline of the full moon. A summer breeze was blowing across the sea and might yet clear the sky. The chimes of the big clock in the entrance hall had woken me up about half an hour earlier. How would Selim determine the time of our tryst?

  My room was in a wing of the old house which, in the past, had been used to entertain princes and noblemen. It looked out in the direction of the mountains and the road, which led to the entrance. When we were children, Zeynep and I would quarrel over who had this room, because Salman had told us that when the Grand Vizier came to stay, this was where the captain of the janissaries slept so he could keep an eye on arrivals and departures. Later Salman confessed he had been teasing, but the room remained invested with military authority: his joke made sense.

  The Baron and Uncle Memed were in the old royal suite below me, but here on the top floor I was alone. Orhan, by special request, slept in his grandmother’s dressing room. I was trembling slightly as I wrapped a shawl round myself and left my room. The last time I had left the house clandestinely was to meet Dmitri in the orange grove. Why had I insisted on meeting Selim at the same spot? Was it to drive out the past or to debase the present?

  I left the house by a side entrance. Selim had been unnerved by the moon’s absence and had decided to wait for me in the garden. We held hands in complete silence as we walked in the direction of the orange grove. I was slowly getting used to the darkness. Selim was smiling. It was the innocence that appealed to me. I did not want to take him to the orange grove. Perhaps we could go to the cave overlooking the Stone Woman. If she saw everything I would not need to repeat it to her, but there were snakes and lizards in that cave and fear of them would undoubtedly throttle my passion. He sensed my hesitation.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked in a whisper, which sounded really loud.

  “Nothing,” I answered. “The breeze has cooled the ground and I’m feeling slightly cold. I thought it would be warmer.”

  And then I knew what had to be done.

  “Come with me,” I said to him as I started walking back towards the house.

  It was his turn to tremble. “Nilofer,” he said, “this is madness.”

  I did not reply. We reached the side-door and he stopped, refusing to move forward. I pinched him hard on his buttock, which made him laugh, and pushed him through the door. We climbed the stairs, trying hard not to laugh even though the situation was anything but funny. I entered my bedchamber and pulled him in behind me.

  “Now, my nightingale,” I said in a normal voice, “should we retire to bed, or has the danger muted the excitement?”

  “I want to marry you.”

  “Don’t be foolish. I’m married to someone else.”

  “I want you to have my children.”

  “I’ve got two and they’re enough.”

  “Just one more, then... just for me.”

  Outside the breeze had done its work. The sky had cleared and the room was bathed in moonlight. I threw down my clothes and undressed Selim. We began to explore each other’s bodies.

  “Is this what the dervishes have taught you?” I whispered in his ear.

  “No, but should I tell you what they did teach me?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat up in the bed, unconcerned that he was naked. Without ceasing to caress my body, he began to sway a little and started to mutter some Sufi invocation.

  “If they ask: what is there on your head, your eyebrow, your nose, your breast, the answer must be: on my head is the Crown of high estate, in my eyebrow is the Pen of Power, in my nose is the fragrance of paradise and on my breast the Koran of wisdom.”

  “I could not lie, Selim. My reply would be different. I would have to say: on my head the burden of being a woman, the eyebrow we could agree on, but in my nose there would be the smell of poverty and on my b
reasts the hands of Selim.”

  After we had taken our fill of each other, I asked him about his mother. He was surprised at my interest.

  “She lives with us in my grandfather’s home. My father, as Hasan Baba has told you, is lost to our world. He lives what he preaches and we see him, but rarely. My mother was once part of that world. The order to which my father is attached does not permit women to whirl and dance. Their role is simply to prepare the food and supply the needs of the dervish. My mother was given permission to leave after she had agreed to marry my father. You should hear her talk of what happens when they go into a trance.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  I nodded.

  “They say that your marriage is finished.”

  “Do they? Who are they?”

  “The maids who serve your mother.”

  “They’re not far wrong, but they gossip without knowing the whole truth and they share the prejudices against Greeks. Listen, Selim, my husband has been a good father to his children and, for that reason, I will never humiliate him. We are separated now and once the summer is over, I will return to Istanbul. Orhan and Emineh must be educated in a proper school. I will let my husband see the children whenever he wishes and he will always have a bed in our house, but will never share mine again. I think he will accept these conditions. A messenger was sent to Konya with my letter and he should be returning soon.” I asked him of his future and he laughed.

  “When Hasan Baba leaves this world I will sell my barber’s shop. I could do it now, but it would upset the old man a great deal. Our family has, after all, been cutting the hair of yours for many centuries. How can we stop now? Hasan Baba has still not forgiven my father for betraying our profession. I will wait.”