The Stone Woman

by Tariq Ali

  The generals signalled that the officers should join them. The eunuch-general’s fate had already been decided and the young men were being asked for their opinion. I did not want him executed. I knew what he had done was shocking, but killing him would not help anyone. They must have read my thoughts, for Selim and Halil came to join me.

  “It’s his life or ours,” said Halil. “If we let him live we will all have to go into exile and that will leave the Committee headless inside the army in Istanbul. We cannot let that happen. It’s a military decision, Nilofer.”

  I was not to be convinced that easily.

  “And if you kill him and bury his body somewhere, what will the man waiting anxiously for his reports begin to think? I assume he will be suspicious. He’s not an insignificant person, you know. He is a general and they don’t just disappear into thin air, not even in a dying Empire.”

  Halil nodded seriously. “The others never told him they were coming here. He did not even know that he would be meeting us. He was simply told that we had organised a meeting with two officers who had come for consultations from Salonika and that there might be a member of the Committee arriving from Paris. Nothing else. That is all he could have reported to his superior who, don’t forget, is the Grand Vizier, a man with a few other problems on his mind. It is very possible he said nothing at all and decided to wait till he had met the officers. Even if he has informed the Vizier that two generals are interested in the Committee, that is something we can always deny. We cannot take the risk of these young officers being exposed at this stage, Nilofer. It would be like destroying our future. Don’t forget that the spy was present during our morning discussions as well. We evaluated our strength in different units of the army in his presence. That is the sort of information for which the palace would happily sacrifice dozens of lives. Instead we are only taking one. You must understand.”

  “So you are going to kill him?”

  Halil and Selim looked at me, at each other and finally their gaze shifted far away, in the direction of the sea. I knew then that the poor eunuch-general would never see the sun rise again. Within an hour they had saddled their horses, summoned the coachman and left our house for ever. I knew I was seeing the eunuch-general for the last time and, despite myself, the thought saddened me. A human life was about to be truncated. I understood why he had to be despatched. I knew that it was sometimes necessary to do bad things for a good cause, but the man was so pathetic that I felt another way might have been found. Selim did not agree with me. He admitted that he, too, was unhappy, but he was convinced there was no other solution. I had seen them leave. The sentenced man had recovered some of his dignity. He walked to the carriage with his head raised, which somehow made it worse for me.

  That evening’s meal was dominated by a discussion of the day’s events. The Baron had emerged as the unlikely hero of the whole affair. That is how Halil referred to him as he proposed a toast in the Baron’s own champagne. After we had all sipped the sparkling liquid, I could not resist speaking.

  “Hero, perhaps,” I said, and then surprised myself. “Surely executioner would have been the more appropriate word.”

  There was silence. Selim glared at me.

  The Baron recovered rapidly and smiled. “You are right, Nilofer, but look at it this way. If the eunuch had been spared, your brother, husband and those fine officers who were here earlier today might have lost their lives.”

  “Baron,” I continued, “I did not mean to sound offensive. I accept what you say and perhaps what is being done probably even as we eat and drink is something that had to be done. That doesn’t make it less distasteful. Can I ask you another question?”

  He nodded.

  “The dead man was actively engaged in the interests of both the Sultan and your Kaiser Wilhelm. It was he who signed the secret protocol between Istanbul and Berlin. Our officers may regard that as short-sighted treachery, but surely you would favour such a course.”

  The Baron sat up straight in his chair. “I would. But for me old family loyalties are more important than politics. The ties between our two families go back a very long way. Did you know that my great-grandfather once stayed at this very house with Memed’s grandfather? That is why I agreed to come here as a tutor. So you see, my dear child, that there are more important things in life, such as personal loyalties and these, for me, always override political affiliations.”

  “Spoken like a true junker and a good friend, my dear,” said Memed in a surprisingly emotional tone. “I propose another toast. To loyalty and friendship and a curse on the narrowness of politics.”

  This time, unlike the others, I did not raise my glass.

  I had not been alone with Selim the whole day and I began to feel a pent-up, uncontrollable tenderness for him. The meal, alas, was far from over. Memed was in an ebullient mood. I had referred to the spy as a eunuch-general. This was now confirmed by Memed.

  “He was castrated as a child so that he could serve in the palace as a eunuch, but with the promise of reforms in the air, his poor parents realised they had a mistake. The story reached the office of the Grand Vizier and, to his credit, he felt sorry for the child’s family. The father was an Albanian water-carrier. This boy was one of six children. He was sent to a medresseh, but a very good one, with teachers who taught and did not just beat the pupils into submission. It is where the children of the palace servants were sent and the teachers had to be careful. When he reached his sixteenth year, the Vizier took him as an office boy and watched his mind develop. He had a prodigious memory for faces and documents. He had to read a paper only once and he could memorise most of the important details. He was transferred to the palace and became a crucial figure in the spy network of the state. He will take many secrets to his grave.”

  My father was surprised. “How do you know all this, Memed?”

  Memed exchanged a quick glance with the Baron.

  “I told him,” interjected the Baron. “The eunuch developed a fondness for me and one night in Berlin, over his cups, he told me his life story. That is why I was shaken when I sensed his presence in this house today. It was his intelligence that made him so dangerous. Poor man. How was he to know that I would be here? Poor, poor, man.”

  We retired to the library after supper. This had been the scene of the eunuch’s ignominy and there was a vacuum where once the chair had stood. Father had to be told now that his favourite chair was being cleaned and it needed to be aired for at least a day in the sun to lose its stench. He was outraged.

  “May that eunuch roast in hell!”

  “He will, Father,” replied Halil in a cold voice. “He will.”

  Just as we were about to leave the table, the Baron decided to enlighten us with one of his pronouncements. “I spoke briefly to the younger officers, today. One of them strikes me as the strong leader who will be needed one day when a new state needs to be carved from the rubble of the old Empire. I recommended a reading of Machiavelli to this officer and he said something very interesting to me in return. He said he was not well educated enough in foreign languages and he would, therefore, have to wait till the Italian text was translated into Turkish. Then he said something truly remarkable, which filled me with hope. ‘I think’, he said with total confidence, ‘in order to move forward fast we will have to change many things, included our outdated script. We will Latinise the Turkish alphabet within a year of taking power. It will make it easier for everyone to learn the languages of Europe. Perhaps then many people can read your Machiavelli.’ I thought to myself then, I hope this young man succeeds in his mission. It is the vision you need to go forward.”

  Later that night, Selim and I made love in silence. We had been deprived of each other’s company for the whole day and words were no longer sufficient to express the longing. Afterwards we talked for a very long time.

  He was excited by the events of the day. He spoke of the young officer who had made what was really difficult sound possible, namely to make
progressive ideas a reality. So often in the past, lofty ideas had been transformed into their opposites, when those who had proclaimed them actually came to power. This had happened in France after their Revolution, but it had happened here as well. Whenever the reformers had been made Viziers, their ideas disappeared and they were compelled to govern the Empire in the only way they knew, which was the old way.

  This time, Selim felt it would all be very different. They had agreed to transform our Arabic script to Latin, abolish the powers of the clergy, make education for girls compulsory and remove the veil from their lives for ever. He gave me a detailed account of the only major disagreement that had marred the day. That too had been an argument about the past, not the future. The three generals had said that it had been necessary to crush the janissary uprising of 1826. The younger officers were inclined to be more sympathetic to the janissaries, since they felt they were now in a similar situation to the defeated cohort in that they were preparing to unleash their own mutiny against the Sultan.

  “Halil got angry with us at this stage,” Selim laughed. “He said we had nothing in common with the rabble that was crushed in 1826. They were degenerates who oppressed the people and had become completely corrupted. They should have been disbanded many centuries ago and a new army created on the European model. We should have learnt from the French and the English. He said that all the janissaries would have done is to have imposed a new Sultan, more amenable to their crimes. The young officer from Salonika who seems to have made a big impact on the Baron was not in a mood to compromise. He agreed that the janissaries had too much power in the Ottoman state, but it was the only way to maintain the core of a permanent standing army. Either you have dukes and lords on the European model, whose responsibility it is to raise an army for their king, or you have the janissaries. The only other way was during popular revolutions, such as when the English created their New Model Army and the French their own version after 1789. In the end we were convinced by their arguments, but it was an interesting debate. What did you think of the officer from Salonika?”

  “I thought he was from Istanbul. That is where his wife teaches.”

  “Yes, but he was born in Salonika and that is where he has most support.”

  “I was impressed.”

  “You were meant to be.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “Yes.”

  I was not prepared for sleep and so I returned to the subject that Salman had raised with me earlier. “Did you discuss how pure the new state would be?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are people in the Committees who openly say that we need Turkishness. They say that Ottoman culture is too cosmopolitan and that the influence we have assimilated from the Arabs, Persians and Europeans is comparable to flowers raised in the hothouse. They want native plants only to be nourished. How can this happen, Selim? In our cities and villages different communities have lived side by side for many centuries. Turks, Armenians, Greeks, Kurds, Jews and heaven knows how many smaller groups.”

  Selim agreed with me and insisted that Turkishness had not been discussed at all in their deliberations, though he could see that it might become an important question in the future.

  “What will I be in the new republic, Selim? I am of Jewish origin. As you know I’m not a believer, but I have no desire to be described as Turkish. I prefer to be an Ottoman. I know you’ll think I am infected with mysticism, but the Ottoman soul is a treasure-house of feelings. Turkishness strikes me as being soulless.”

  “It is a problem,” he acknowledged. “We are Ottomans because we are part of an Empire. The Greeks wished to stop being Ottomans and are now Greeks. The same applies to the Serbs and the Western powers have been fuelling the Armenians to go in the same direction. In this new situation we might have no option but to become Turks.”

  “And the Jews of Istanbul and Salonika?”

  “They will remain Jews. Why should there be a conflict?”

  “And what of the Greeks who do not wish to leave Istanbul or Izmir? They would prefer to remain Ottoman, but you will either force them to be Turks or drive them into the sea. That is what my brother Salman fears might happen.”

  Selim did not reply. His hands had begun to wander across my body. It was a convenient but pleasant way to end our argument. I offered no resistance to the young Turk rising between his legs. My Selim would never be a eunuch-general.

  SEVENTEEN

  A mysterious Frenchwoman of uncertain disposition arrives unexpectedly and demands to see Iskander Pasha, who later reveals how he used to spy on a married woman in the baths in Istanbul

  “A FRENCH LADY HAS arrived to see your father, but Iskander Pasha is not at home. He has gone for a walk with Selim and the children. Will you please come down and receive her?”

  Petrossian had been running up the stairs and was out of breath. It was unlike him to lose his calm over the arrival of a visitor, however unexpected.

  “Have you shown her to the reception room? Offer her some refreshments. I will be down in a minute.”

  I hurriedly brushed my hair, examined myself in the mirror to make sure I was presentable, and descended at a dignified pace to receive the French woman. In the hall just outside the reception room, I encountered Petrossian and Hasan Baba, deep in a conspiracy. They fell silent at my approach. I had entered this room twice since I arrived here and on both occasions the reason was the same: Orhan and Emineh wanted to see every room in the house and I was forced to humour them.

  This room was so large that my family rarely used it, even when there were visitors. They sat either in the garden or in the library. Yusuf Pasha had insisted on the size, despite the objections of the architect. Our ancestor had wanted a ballroom on the European model so that he could entertain his friends, including European ambassadors, in a grand style. Later, orchestras were hired from Istanbul to play for special occasions, but those days were over. The room was furnished in an opulent French style, though the summer sun had faded the rich colours. Iskander Pasha claimed that neither the fabrics nor the furniture had been touched since the house was built.

  The Frenchwoman was standing by the open windows and admiring the view out towards the sea. I mustered my best French to greet her.

  “Bonjour, madame.”

  She turned round and smiled.

  “You must be Nilofer. Your father mentioned you often and described your green eyes to me in great detail. You are very beautiful.”

  “Thank you, madame, but I really have no idea who you are or why you are here, but whatever the reason, welcome to our house.”

  Her laughter was genuine. “My name is Yvette de Montmorency. My husband, or should I say my second husband, is Vicomte Paul-Henri de Montmorency. He is the new French ambassador to Istanbul. We both knew your father well when he was Ambassador of His Most Exalted Majesty in Paris. I heard you were in your summer residence and I thought I would come here and surprise you.”

  I smiled politely. I took an instinctive dislike to her. She was wearing a crimson dress and the layers of make-up on her face did not succeed in concealing her age. She must have been approaching her sixtieth birthday. Her corset was tied very tight because the lift of her breasts was too pronounced and, as a result, unconvincing. How could she bear the discomfort? She was of medium height and, I must admit, well preserved for her age. The rolls of fat on her neck were still under control, though the tiny hairs that had sprouted on her upper lip had been removed a bit too effectively; the resulting smoothness was false.

  “Well, you certainly have surprised me, madame. My father, who is out with his grandchildren, has never mentioned you or the Vicomte. The only Comte ever mentioned in this house is Auguste Comte. Are you by any chance familiar with his works?”

  She shook her head in horror. “He was not a real Comte! You know that, of course. He was a dangerous radical and the Vicomte’s uncle, the late Bishop of Chartres, had to denounce his teachings in church in very s
trong fashion. Oh no!”

  To my utter delight, something that I had been secretly wishing for was granted the moment the thought crossed my mind. The Baron and Uncle Memed walked into the room and gave us both an exaggerated, but very comical bow. I made the introductions using the Baron’s full name and stressing his title. Yvette began to simper with delight. I noticed the slight rise in the Baron’s temperature and left the room on the pretext of organising some refreshments.

  My serenity disappeared the minute I stepped outside the door. I was assailed by a wave of giggles, which I could not control. I slumped on the stairs and tried to stop my laughter, but without success. Hasan Baba came and sat next to me on a stair. I hugged him and carried on laughing. He smiled.

  “Why does she make you laugh so much?”

  “Who is she, Hasan Baba? Who is she?”

  He looked around to see if we were completely alone.

  “Now, I am not telling you this and you never heard it from me! Blame Petrossian if you have to name anyone. Please blame him. He is so discreet. It would be good to destroy his reputation. Who is she? Let me tell you. Many years ago in Paris, for a few weeks only, she became your father’s wife.”

  The information sobered me instantaneously. “What? I can’t believe this!”

  “It was nothing serious. She came to a reception at our embassy and was entranced by the Ottoman experience. Iskander Pasha did those things in great style. Once I remember he told us all to dress like dervishes and sing Sufi songs in the presence of the British ambassador just to avoid discussing anything serious. He said it was a special day when we could do nothing but listen to devotional songs and once a guest entered he could not leave till the singing was over. If the dervishes observed any person leaving the room they could rush after him and stab him with a devotional dagger. The Englishman was allowed to leave after an hour.”