The Stone Woman

by Tariq Ali

  The Baron tapped his stick angrily on the wooden floor. “It is not your naïveté that amazes me, Memed, it is your obstinacy and arrogance. When knowledge of a particular subject has eluded you and an old and valued friend is attempting to dispel the clouds of ignorance that have descended on your raised eyebrow, you should, at least, do him the courtesy of hearing out his whole argument. It will help. Once you have been enlightened then, of course, you are free to disagree.”

  Now it was Uncle Memed’s turn to sulk. “Have it your way, Baron. You always do.”

  The Baron ignored the petulant tone. “Listen, Memed. They were rival factions. Of course they were, but what was the reality that underlay their hostility to each other? Power? Yes, but why? Let us not forget that thousands of lives were lost in this civil war. I see the entire struggle as one between the declining forces of the Arabs, who had monopolised Islam since the death of your prophet, and the, how should I put it, more cosmopolitan forces of Islam. Why were the Ommayad dynasty extinguished so mercilessly? Every surviving male except one was destroyed. I grant you that Abderrahman’s escape was a miracle of the imagination. He was an unusually gifted political leader and showed great initiative in heading for Spain. Once he was safe in Cordoba, the populace acclaimed him as the Caliph. But it was the acclaim of the soldiers that was decisive and they were loyal because they were Arabs. We agree? Good. I will continue.

  “The battle for the Caliphate in the Arab heartland was between a Damascus-based Arab oligarchy represented by the Ommayads and the Abbasids who were backed by the Persians, the Turks, including your own ancestors my dear friend, the Kurds, the Caucasians, the Arameans and the Armenians and so on. These were the new converts, but their numbers were many and the arrogant refusal of the Ommayads to recognise this numerical superiority and share power in the greater interest of Islam, meant they had to be wiped out. A new legitimacy was needed because Islam had become a world religion. Arab vanity would not tolerate a compromise.”

  Uncle Memed’s nose twitched slightly as he rewarded the Baron with a condescending smile. “Interesting, though, isn’t it, that the Cordoba Caliphate under the sway of the vain and short-sighted Arabs was far more advanced in many ways than your cosmopolitan Abbasids? The Ommayads in Spain were far more tolerant and far less susceptible to any nonsense on the part of the clergy. The Andalusian philosophers were continually being denounced in Baghdad as heretics. Scholars were discouraged from reading their books.”

  “Very true,” replied the Baron, “but the conditions in al-Andalus were very different. The Ommayads confronted Christiandom. They were fighting on the borderlands of the two civilisations. They needed their philosophers to help them win new converts to Islam. There it could not simply be done under the shadow of the sword. The situation demanded intellectual triumphs. I am extremely partial, as you know, to the Andalusian philosophers. Without them the Renaissance in Europe might have taken a different form. But understand that they were allowed to develop their brilliant minds only because they were faced with a powerful intellectual enemy in the Catholic Church. When the Bishops decided that the enemy could not be overwhelmed by argument they backed a Holy War and the Pope gave Europe the Inquisition. All this proves, Memed, is that new ideas develop best when they are engaged in struggle against orthodoxy. The synthesis is usually original and exciting.

  “The Catholic scholars were careful when they subjected Islamic culture to an auto-da-fé in Granada in the fifteenth century. They removed the manuals of medicine and other learned books, which they needed for their own survival, from the fire. Have I convinced you, my dear old thing?”

  Uncle Memed looked at his friend and raised an eyebrow. I had always envied him this capacity. It was an art, he explained, that could not be taught.

  “You may not have convinced me completely, Baron, but you have certainly compelled me to think.”

  “It is these small victories that enrich one’s life,” muttered the Baron as my father, flanked on either side by Halil and Salman, entered the room.

  Father and sons were followed by grandfather and grandson. Hasan Baba and Selim must have been waiting outside for my father to return before they entered the library. Hasan Baba could not overcome years of habit and still maintained the posture of a retainer. Selim suffered from no such inhibitions. He walked in with his head naturally erect. My heart quickened its pace as I saw him. He smiled. My eyes softened. I looked around the room casually to see if anyone had noticed. Father had taken his customary position in the armchair closest to the window. Petrossian entered with a large jug filled with the fresh juice of oranges. Glances were exchanged between the Baron and Memed, who could not believe that they were being deprived of alcohol for the evening. Their worries were premature. Petrossian’s grandson walked in with the champagne and wine glasses that I had never seen before in the house. The sight cheered the two friends.

  “Well, Iskander,” began Uncle Memed, “why have we been summoned this evening? What delights await us today?”

  My father did not reply. He waved his stick in the direction of Halil.

  “It was my idea that we meet tonight.” Halil’s soft voice compelled Hasan Baba, who was getting more and more deaf with each passing day, to move close to the speaker and cup his good ear in the direction of the sound. “For the last few days I have been discussing matters of some importance with my father and brother. They concern the future of our Empire.”

  “What future?” the Baron interrupted. “If we’re going to speak frankly let us confront reality.”

  Halil smiled. “Baron Pasha! You have stolen my words. It is because the Empire has no future that we need to speak and not simply that, but to act. I am a simple soldier. I am not a philosopher of history or a political thinker, but even I have come to realise that if we do nothing, if we simply sit still and watch our country being devoured, everything will be lost. Our people will wake up one morning and find themselves, like our Sultan, enslaved by Britain, France, Russia and the new Germany. It is our good fortune that these powers are not in agreement. Each needs us alive in order to prevent its rival from eating us whole. There is deep unrest in the army. The young officers want to act now. They wish to depose the Sultan and establish a republic.”

  He paused to see if anyone had reacted. Memed clapped his hands in delight.

  “It has to be done, Halil, but we are already a hundred years too late. We should have learnt from the French much sooner.”

  Hasan Baba frowned and shook his head. “No good will come of it. It is not possible for a fly to lift an eagle and dash it to the ground.”

  Selim disagreed. It was the only time he spoke that evening. “Halil Pasha speaks the truth. It is we who are the eagle, Hasan Baba. The Sultan and his corrupt courtiers are the fly. They are the parasites who have clipped our wings and lived off us for centuries. Now we want our wings back and there is no height that we cannot reach.”

  My brothers smiled. I simply felt like kissing his lips.

  “I agree with young Selim,” said Salman, whom I had not seen with such shining and alert eyes since he had first arrived here. “I agree with Uncle Memed that we should have acted a hundred years ago. But let us not forget that the French, too, have been playing musical chairs with their history. They execute the King and crown Napoleon. The English and Austrians topple Napoleon and the French restore their King. Another revolution gives us another republic and then we get an imitation Napoleon, who calls himself the Third, and so the circus goes on. When we act—and act we must—let us do so in such a way that there can never be a restoration. These cursed Sultans have let us decay for far too long. Let them take their jewel boxes and go and live on the French Riviera.”

  Iskander Pasha had been listening intently to the discussion. He tapped his stick gently on the floor to demand attention and then, to the amazement of everyone present, he began to speak, low and stuttering. But it was speech! It had returned. We all rose spontaneously, amazement and hap
piness written on each face, and moved towards him. Tears shone in Hasan Baba’s eyes as he threw his arms around Iskander Pasha.

  “Allah be praised. This is nothing less than a miracle. How could this happen?”

  “The human body remains a mystery,” said the Baron. “If he could walk again, I suppose we should not be surprised that he can talk again. This calls for a real celebration.”

  Iskander Pasha told us all to sit down. Hearing him speak again was unreal. I found it difficult to contain my happiness. The first thing I will do tomorrow, I told myself, is bring Emineh to him so she can hear his voice.

  “Please,” he said in a slightly hoarse voice, “I did think of remaining silent and announcing the return of my speech tomorrow, because what we speak of tonight is much more important than our individual lives. Let us continue. The question we confront is not the Sultan or the Caliphate. All that is over. What will we put in its place and will we have a place or will they carve us into tiny slices and share us out? My speech returned a couple of days ago when Nilofer asked me whether I had heard of Auguste Comte. I was relieved to hear that she had heard the name from young Selim, who I knew could only have got it from Hasan. After Nilofer left the room, my lips repeated the name Auguste Comte and to my astonishment I realised I could speak. It was Comte, you see, and not Allah. So, my dear Hasan, from now on I want you to say ‘Comte be praised’ or ‘There is only one Comte and he is Comte and we are all his prophets.’”

  Everyone laughed, including Hasan Baba, though he could not resist muttering dire warnings. “The first thing you do with your recovered tongue is to speak blasphemies. Careful lest it be taken away from you again.”

  “Speaking of tongues, Father,” said Salman with a glint in his eye, “do you recall the remark attributed to Yusuf Pasha, the glorious builder of this beautiful house?”

  Iskander Pasha shook his head.

  “One day, he was visited by a group of courtiers from Istanbul. They had brought him gifts and honeyed words fell off their tongues with great facility. Yusuf Pasha knew they had come to spy on behalf of the Sultan. The Ruler of the World wanted to know whether his old friend had truly repented so that his exile could be ended. The courtiers, who feared our ancestor’s influence, wanted to prevent such a calamity. At first, Yusuf Pasha refused to receive them, but after many entreaties he agreed that they should be allowed into his library, this same room where we have all assembled today. He looked at them sternly and warned them that if they did not repeat his exact words to the Sultan, he would ensure that they were all punished. The courtiers trembled a little, but nodded obsequiously. Then he told them: ‘Your visit today has been very welcome, but I have an important piece of advice for you. If you value the life of our Sultan and Caliph, act on it the moment you return. As you all know, I revere and love the Sultan since we grew up together. I am seriously worried about his health. Since your tongues spend so much time up the Sultan’s posterior, I am worried that you might infect him with some dangerous disease. I have discussed the matter with my physician and he insists that courtiers in your important positions must have their tongues circumcised without any further delay.’”

  I have never seen Iskander Pasha laugh in such an abandoned fashion as he did that night on hearing Salman’s joke. Even the Baron, momentarily, lost his poise.

  Salman, too, had changed. Like his father, he appeared to be a very different person these days. When he had first arrived here he gave the impression of suffering from a deep inner despair. His whole being had been infected by a cynicism of the coarsest variety. His father’s affliction and recovery had rekindled something in him or perhaps it had been his long discussions with Halil or perhaps both had played some part in his recovery. Whatever the cause, the result was a joy. Yesterday he had spent the whole afternoon playing with my children, without once mentioning his own.

  The Baron cleared his throat and the room became silent again.

  “Iskander has posed your officers an important question, Halil. After the Sultan, what and where? I fear you will lose everything. Ultimately you might be left with Istanbul and Anatolia. Do you agree? Are you prepared to accept a truncated but compact country?”

  “No!” said Halil. “We will not lose the Hijaz or Syria. Egypt has already gone. Our Albanian viceroy, Mohammed Ali, saw to that and his Beys control the cities, but the British navy controls the sea and he who controls trade determines how new countries are made. We must keep Damascus at all costs.”

  “History does not believe in ‘musts’, my dear man,” replied the Baron. “A lot will depend on the British. I think they want it all. The whole region is a route to their most prized possession, India. There, too, the wretched Mughal Emperors failed to lay stable foundations. The story is not as dissimilar to the situation here as one might think. This weakness in statecraft lies at the heart of your religion. We shall see whether or not you retain the Hijaz and Damascus. The tribes will go with whoever offers them more money and less trouble. Your real problem lies in Istanbul, the heart of what is left of the Empire. If no history happens where you are, you forget what history is. You lose all sense of direction. Look at Italy and Germany in the long period before they were unified. That is the fate I foresee for the Ottoman Empire unless you act.”

  “The only way to save something is through progress and order,” said Halil. “That is why the writings of Comte are of interest to us. He advocated a rationalist society without religion playing any role in the functions of the state.”

  “True enough,” said Uncle Memed, “but if I remember well he wanted to create a secular religion, which for me is a contradiction. True, he called it a religion of humanity, but he wanted a Church with rituals and a priesthood of scientists. Hasan Baba’s Karmatian forebears were more advanced in some ways, despite their attachment to our religion. Comte did have some good ideas, but he was also a tiny bit deranged.”

  The Baron chuckled in agreement. “Comte’s three favourite secular saints for his new Church were Julius Caesar, Joan of Arc and Dante: the first a tyrant, the second a deluded peasant woman who wanted to be a soldier and the third a great poet. I’m glad Comte appreciated the Commedia, but surely we cannot be expected to take this fellow seriously. Like all talented charlatans he attracted many followers, but much of what he wrote was well-intentioned gibberish.”

  “He also said that one day society would be ruled by banks and the whole of Europe united into a western republic ruled by bankers,” Memed added contemptuously. “What could he have been thinking of when he wrote all this rubbish?”

  “The pair of you are far too dismissive,” said Iskander Pasha. “When I was in Paris, Hasan and I used to disguise ourselves and attend radical gatherings. Comte was very much the fashion. He was seen as a true follower of the Enlightenment. Many people come up with ideas for providing an alternative to religion. Robespierre tried something, did he not? The Mughal King Akbar attempted a new religion in India, of all places. Long before him, in the fourteenth century, our own Sultan Bayezid the First wanted to achieve a union of Islam, Judaism and Christianity. His sons were named Musa, Isa and Memed. When he tried to win over Pope Nicholas to this idea they tried to convert him to Christianity. He then realised his dream was impossible and gave up altogether.”

  “Yes,” said the Baron, “and wasn’t it Sultan Bayezid the First who claimed descent from King Priam of Troy?”

  “Baron,” laughed Iskander Pasha, “before we go any further in discussing the whims of men who ruled us for many centuries, let me ask you two questions. If we act and build a new republic, will Prussia be an ally or an enemy?”

  “You mean Germany and, yes, it would be an ally, if only to stop you becoming a bridgehead for our ever-ambitious English friends, who strive hard to deny us our share of trade. They believe the world belongs to them, which is a fatal illusion as all Empires discover sooner or later. There is something else in your favour. Our young Kaiser Wilhelm the Second is a neurotic mystic. For t
hat reason alone he might have been inclined towards Istanbul, but he is also a great enthusiast for the religious and warlike mania exhibited in the operas of a dreadful man named Wagner, who writes bad music and dresses equally badly in a ridiculous beret and a velvet jacket. Our young Emperor has a feverish brain, which gives him too many sleepless nights. He dreams of himself as Parsifal. I think he will wage war against someone. The choice of enemies is not limitless. Will he strike his Russian cousin first or his British cousin? When this war is waged, he will need allies. Does that answer your question? Good.”

  Memed began to chuckle. “I do not share the Baron’s dislike for the music of Wagner. Its structure appeals to me, though I accept it is far more demanding than the simple tunes of these well-meaning but not highly intelligent Italians. Puccini, Verdi and dear Donizetti Pasha are pleasing enough, but the structure of Wagner’s music makes you think. If the Baron were serious he would—”

  The Baron looked at his friend with total contempt and raised his hand to silence him. “Some other time, Memed. Now, what is the nature of your second inquiry, Iskander Pasha?”

  “You have been mocking our fondness for Comte and I greatly appreciate your scepticism. We all have our weaknesses, my dear Baron. What appeals to us in Comte is not his list of secular saints, but his unyielding rationalism. It is the clergy that provided our Sultans with the moral power to impede progress for so long. It is pointless decapitating a single head, when the beast we confront is double-headed. Halil, you see, has a real problem. Some of his subordinates are very hot-headed. The situation demands that they are taught the art of patience. But in order to calm them, one must have a master-plan with some chance of success. He has come to us for help because next week he will be visited here by six of these young firebrands. Our choices have moved beyond the luxury of a relaxed intellectual debate within the confines of this library. The lives of others depend on what advice we offer my son. He was very happy when he became a general, but he never realised that one day his men might call on him to wage a war against the enemy at home, including the very people who had made him a general. My father would have advised him either to turn in the traitors or resign his post and rest for a few months in Alexandria. Some years ago, in my role as a responsible father and a pillar of the state I, too, might have said something similar, but those times have gone, Baron. Now do you understand what is at stake?”