The Stone Woman

by Tariq Ali

  The Baron became pensive. He had realised that this had not been intended as an evening of clever talk where his rapier intelligence could outwit all of us. Halil stressed the urgency of what his father had just said.

  “If not Comte, then who? Hegel?”

  “No, no. Definitely not Hegel.” His tone had changed. He was no longer trying to impress, but had become reflective. “I think the man of the hour for your officers is someone they will never even have heard of, let alone read. I am thinking of an Italian by the name of Niccolo Machiavelli. He is the great thinker of politics and statecraft. You need him badly at this moment.”

  “How ridiculous you are, Baron,” said Memed. “Of course we’ve heard of Machiavelli. There was a vigorous exchange between the Ottomans and Renaissance Italy. Did you know that the Sultan had asked Leonardo and Michelangelo to design a bridge across the Bosporus?”

  “This is a serious discussion, Memed.” The Baron’s tone was frosty. “Let us leave diversions, however pleasant, for another day. If nothing changes here soon you might even lose your beloved Bosporus. Many people may well have heard of Machiavelli, but how many have read him, how many have understood what he was really writing about all those years ago? Anyone here excepting me? No, I thought not, and I’m not surprised. I would have been one of you had I not been a pupil of Hegel’s successors. I only read Machiavelli because Hegel wrote of him with such respect in his celebrated 1802 text ‘On the German Constitution’. It was that essay by Hegel that made me want to read the object of such unstinting admiration.”

  “We will study closely whatever books have to be read, Baron,” said Halil with impatience. “What you need is to explain: why this Italian and why now?”

  “This evening has become too heavy for me,” said Memed. “I’m not sure I can stay awake for the lecture on Machiavelli that the Baron is preparing to deliver. Haiti’s men are preparing a revolution and all we offer them is ideas.”

  The Baron glared at him. “Perhaps you should retire to bed in your crimson silk pyjamas and dream of Michelangelo hovering over the Bosporus, Memed, while I stay here with Halil to help save your country. Without a goal based on ideas, all radical action is meaningless.”

  Nobody left the room. I exchanged glances with Selim, who had been completely engrossed by the discussion this evening.

  “I’m sure I forced Memed and Iskander to read Hegel’s essay when I was a young tutor in their Istanbul house all those centuries ago. Can either of you remember the opening sentence?”

  Memed looked away in disgust. Iskander Pasha raised his hand as if he were in class.

  “Good,” said the Baron. “Iskander?”

  “Deutschland ist kein Staat mehr.”

  “Excellent,” said the Baron, imagining he was a tutor once again. “That’s correct. Deutschland ist kein Staat mehr. Germany is a state no longer. The Ottoman Empire is a state no longer. Italy was a state no longer. A new state was necessary to move forward. Machiavelli’s prince is the state. This great and original Italian philosopher of politics observes the reality of Italy as it is and not as some imagine it. What he sees is a split and divided country, permanently vulnerable to attack by foreign powers. Not exactly the same, but not so different from the split and divided Empire, confronting an assault by foreign states. Machiavelli’s greatness lies in this fact: he does not resort to the past, to antiquity, to plan a new future. He sees it all in the present and understands that something new is required...”

  And the Baron continued in this vein for a whole hour.

  When the discussion ended it was close to midnight. Everyone had been transfixed, except Hasan Baba, who had fallen asleep, and me. I knew I had to stay awake because this was a moment of some importance. History was being made in my presence. But there was also another restraint on my natural inclinations. If I shut my eyes I would no longer be able to see Selim.

  This house, isolated and beautiful, had suddenly, unexpectedly, become part of a larger world. We could no longer hide ourselves from the ugliness of the reality that confronted us outside. One phrase that the Baron had continually used from Machiavelli—“it is an evil not to call evil an evil”—had reverberated in my head the whole evening. Sometimes when the Baron moved on to a more abstract level, this little phrase kept returning to me. It could apply to anything, not simply the world of politics.

  Later that night I was in a light sleep when I heard the door open. Uncertain whether or not I was dreaming, I saw a familiar figure undress and slip into my bed. At first I thought it was still a dream, but the hard object that gently prodded me below the stomach was only too real. Selim had entered me, turning some inconsequential dream into an existence that was pure bliss.

  THIRTEEN

  Salman meditates on love and talks of the tragedy that blemished his life; his cruel betrayal by Mariam, the daughter of the Copt diamond merchant Hamid Bey in Alexandria

  ‘AM I REALLY THE first man to appear before you, Stone Woman? When I told my sister Zeynep that I needed to speak with you she became openly hostile and contemptuous: “Why are you desecrating what has been a sanctuary for the women of this house?”

  I had to remind her firmly that, as children, it was not the girls alone who hid behind the rocks to eavesdrop on our guilt-stricken mothers and aunts and servants. Halil and I were always here as well. On hearing this she smiled and relented a little and, as a result, I come to you, after almost twenty-five years, with the reluctant permission of my sister.

  If you thought that this light-hearted return to your side indicated that I was once again the carefree boy of my youth, you would be wrong. I am tormented, Stone Woman. Over the last five years my soul has experienced far too many dark nights.

  Hasan Baba always taught us that without the experience of darkness one can never properly appreciate the light, but there is another side to this profundity. What if the darkness never goes and light becomes a distant memory? I have heard that in parts of the world where the sun almost disappears during the winter, there are many people who find it unbearable and take their own lives. The same is true of the inner darkness that can sometimes smother the soul.

  Since you have never heard my story, I suppose I should begin at the beginning. I will not dwell too long on my mother, who died bringing me into this world. Others must have mentioned her to you and told of how her death transformed my father completely. To avoid thinking of her, he became a person who could never have thought of her or been attracted by someone like her. Each of us has an instinct for masquerade and self-transformation. It gives some pleasure to know we are capable of it and it helps to deceive prying eyes. My father, unfortunately, took the self-deception so far that he almost began to believe in his new identity. I was the one who suffered the most. For Iskander Pasha, I must have become a dual reminder of her and the unwitting cause of her death. What my brother and sisters don’t know is that often when he saw me alone as a child, he would lift me off the ground and kiss my cheeks with great feeling. I always knew he loved me, but another side of him wished to punish me and as I grew older, so did my acts of defiance against the petty tyrannies of his household, and our relations deteriorated. From the age of fourteen onwards I wanted to run away from this family. I envied my mother, who had been brought up without a family, and grew up as a freer spirit than any of us.

  The moment I was presented with an opportunity, I left Istanbul and after travelling for a year, I ended up in Alexandria. I had spent many months in Jerusalem, Damascus and Cairo, but none of them appealed as a residence. Jerusalem was too religious and the other cities, despite their charms, were far too noisy and too remote from the sea. I was bemoaning the loss of the sea one day, when an arrogant young Bey said to me: “If our delicate little flower from Istanbul wilts without a sea breeze why does he not go and live in Iskanderiya? Personally, I can’t bear it for more than two weeks each summer, but there’s no accounting for Ottoman tastes. Go and live in our house as long as you like, Salman Pas
ha, and if you like the city then find yourself a place to live.”

  That was how I happened to settle down in a city that bore my father’s name. Is it possible to fall in love with a place, Stone Woman? It is. I did. I used to walk for hours each day, till I came to know every corner of Alexandria. To escape the noise of the morning, I would walk away from the city and find refuge near the sea. I had seen a tiny cove on one of my walks and this became my very own and special retreat. I would come here for the early part of the day, before the sun made it impossible to look up at the sky. My only friend in those days was a copy of Verlaine. I would gaze at the sea, dream of happiness, think about my life and sometimes find amusement in writing bad poetry. One of the easiest things in the world, Stone Woman, is to write bad poetry. Has anyone ever told you that before?

  The important thing was that I found what I had craved for all these years. I was on my own. Solitude, I discovered, is essential for the mind to gauge its own strength. It is true that a solitary existence has its drawbacks. The satisfaction we feel at not being injured by contact with others is sometimes negated by the sadness that can overcome us because we have only ourselves. This is again very different from the solitude that was forced on me some years later. The sense of loss I suffered made my life a continuous agony of loneliness. Even in the company of my friends, to say nothing of strangers, I felt completely alone.

  My money supply was beginning to contract. As always, my Uncle Kemal responded generously. Before I left he had made me promise that if I was in financial difficulty, I was always to approach him and not worry my father. This suited me perfectly. I sent Uncle Kemal a telegram, thanking our stars that the Empire had agreed to install the telegraph system. A few weeks later one of his ships touched port at Alexandria. The captain called on me with a small, sealed packet. I thanked him, offered him some coffee and asked if he knew my uncle’s plans. To my amazement he informed me that Uncle Kemal was preparing to visit Japan and set up an office in Tokyo.

  The minute he left, I quickly undid the packet and found, to my delight, a medium-sized, uncut stone nestling in cotton wool. I did wonder then why Uncle Kemal was so fond of me. I had never attempted to cultivate his affection. He had three daughters, each uglier and more stupid than the other, so perhaps I was a surrogate son. There had been other hints, but I had made it very clear to his wife, my aunt, that I was not in the least interested in any of her daughters as a possible wife. My uncle had laughed on being told this.

  There was also a letter of credit to my uncle’s bankers in Cairo and a note for me which recommended that I should use the diamond as surety and not, under any circumstances, sell it without first consulting him. He had sent me the name of “a small, but very reliable” diamond merchant in Alexandria, with whom he had often “done business. He is a Copt, very trustworthy and an old family friend. Go to him if ever you’re in trouble”. He had told me of this person before I left Istanbul, but since I had no plans at that time to visit Alexandria, I had not shown any interest. When I finally did reach here I remembered my uncle’s friend, but I had forgotten his name and felt that if I sent for his address from my old office, it might burden me with tiresome social responsibilities. I remained aloof. I could let nothing breach my solitude. Nothing except the shortage of funds.

  The journey to the house could be delayed no longer. I went there one day straight from the beach and a fairy princess opened the door. She burst out laughing at the sight of me. I had sand on my clothes and hair, sandals on my feet and a tattered copy of Verlaine in my hand. “Have I come to the right house?” I stammered, unable to stop my eyes from travelling her entire body. “Does Hamid Bey live here?”

  She nodded and invited me into the house. She had deep black hair, an olive complexion and small eyes, which made me wonder whether her mother was Japanese. She was wearing a European-style dress, which revealed the lower parts of her legs, but what had delighted me the most was her laugh and the fact that her feet were bare.

  “You caught us by surprise,” she said. “My father is taking a bath at the moment. Are you Salman Pasha? We were expecting you one of these days. Can I offer you a drink? I hope you will join us for lunch. If you will excuse me, however, I must go and change my dress. Please feel at home.”

  It was my turn to laugh. She disappeared without asking me to explain the cause of my amusement. Do you know why I laughed, Stone Woman? Their house could not have been more unlike home. In Istanbul we lived in the eighteenth century, and here, in Yusuf Pasha’s summer palace by the sea, time lost all meaning. The house in Alexandria was very much ahead of its time. I had never seen such elegant furniture in Istanbul, not even in the house of the Bragadinis. They, too, preferred to live in the past, but here was the latest furniture from Italy. In the hall there was a large Chinese chest. Everything was new. As I was admiring the decorations on the walls, Hamid Bey came down the stairs in a white silk suit and greeted me warmly. He must have been approaching sixty, but was extremely well preserved and surprisingly slender, unlike my father and uncles who were all on the portly side.

  I thought it might be best to get our business over with before lunch. I showed him the gift from my uncle. He took it to his desk and inspected it under a microscope. “It is a very good stone. I assume you wish to use it to raise some money for whatever project you are preparing at the moment?” My only project was to enjoy life to the full and it was for that I needed the money, so I nodded and smiled. “I trust Kemal Pasha more than my own brother. You did not need to show me the stone. How much do you need to borrow?” Without thinking I named a figure. He told me to return the next day and collect the money.

  When his daughter came down for lunch a transformation had taken place. She looked demure, was far less relaxed and more traditionally attired in a yellow tunic that touched the floor and leather sandals, which, to my great annoyance, hid her naked feet. Her face, if anything, appeared stern. I hoped it was only her father’s presence that was responsible for the change.

  “This is my daughter, Mariam. She has managed the affairs of this house ever since her mother’s absence.”

  Nothing more was said of the mother and it was not till many months later that Mariam told me the whole story. Our conversation during lunch was polite. My Arabic not being as fluent as that of Hamid Bey and Mariam and their Turkish being non-existent, I lapsed into French. The pleasure on her face was visible. She never had the opportunity to practise and perfect her knowledge of the language and was excited by the fact that I spoke it so well.

  Stone Woman, I know that nothing surprises or shocks you. That is why so many have sat in your presence over centuries and spoken to their heart’s content.

  On that very first day, while I was having lunch at her father’s table and as his honoured guest, I fell for this creature. Love can never be planned like a book of accounts. You cannot say to yourself: this person meets all the conditions I have laid down for falling in love. She has features that are attractive. She is well-spoken, but will not speak out of turn. She has a reasonable dowry. She will bear me healthy children. I will, therefore, proceed to fall in love with her.

  I have known merchants who measure love as they do their trade; physicians who feel their own pulse to make sure they are in love; philosophers who constantly doubt their own love; gardeners who think love grows like a fruit and egotists who can never love anyone else. Don’t misunderstand me, Stone Woman. I am not saying that love does not grow, deepen and become stronger with each passing year. That is all true, but for that to happen it is important how it begins. In my book there is only one true beginning. All others are false. Love must strike one like lightning. That is what happened to me eight years ago on that pleasant summer afternoon as the sea breezes wafted through the house of the Copt merchant, Hamid Bey. Mariam had barely turned eighteen. I was approaching my thirty-second year.

  I returned the next day to collect my money. An old woman with a cross hanging ominously from her wrinkled neck
opened the door and informed me in a very formal voice that Hamid Bey had left for Cairo on business. He would be away for several days. He had left an envelope, which she would now hand to me, and would I please return in ten days’ time, when her master would be back in the city. The old crone must have seen the disappointment on my face, for it registered a degree of pleasure on her own. I stood there, paralysed and despondent.

  Before I could think of saying anything, Mariam came running into the house from the terrace, slightly out of breath, but, Heaven be praised, bare-footed. My heart melted at the sight of her feet.

  She shouted at the old woman, “I told you to send for me when Salman Pasha arrived.” The retainer shrugged her shoulders in disgust and left the room.

  Mariam turned to me. “Ignore her, Salman Pasha. She is over-protective and impolite. She’s been in my father’s family for centuries and really enjoys being discourteous. She hated my mother. Should we go and sit on the terrace? Would you like a fresh lime drink? Have you brought any French books with you? Why are you laughing?”

  I do not have the strength to live through the entire experience again, not even for you, Stone Woman. Some of the memories are so pure and sweet that they would make me weep. I would become weak and love her again and all would be lost. It would be like falling into the abyss, but never hitting the ground—the worst possible nightmare. I am determined, whatever the cost, to avoid such a calamity. For that reason and that alone I will quicken the pace of this narrative.