by Tariq Ali
“That is funny, Hasan Baba, but what about this woman?”
The old man started laughing at the memory. “She refused to share his bed unless he married her. He summoned Petrossian and me to the bedroom and told me, with a wink, to marry them. Petrossian signed a piece of paper witnessing the event. I muttered some nonsense and put their hands together. Iskander Pasha told her they were now married and he asked us to leave the room, making sure I took the signed paper with me. After being pleasured for three or four weeks, he tired of her. She was divorced in our presence in the same room, but they parted on good terms. I think she realised the ceremony wasn’t serious, though if we had wanted it could have been a formal marriage. A few months later he was invited to attend her wedding to some aristocrat. She had been engaged to him all the time.”
“Did the lustful Turk attend?”
“Of course. He is very proper on these questions. He went dressed in full Ottoman regalia, including a ceremonial sword, with Petrossian accompanying him in the uniform of a janissary, even though the janissaries had been abolished by then.”
“Why do you think she’s here?”
The old man shrugged his shoulders as Orhan and Emineh burst into the house with shells of different colours, their faces rosy with exertion. My father and Selim followed a few minutes later.
“A guest awaits you in the reception room, Father.”
“Why the reception room?”
“Petrossian thought it was appropriate and I agreed.”
He took off his hat and I followed him into the reception room.
She squealed with delight when she saw him. “Eeeskandeh,” she purred, “you are as handsome as ever, you devil. Surprised?”
I was amazed at the calm displayed by Iskander Pasha as he walked up to her and kissed the proffered hand. Was it my imagination or had his movements become slightly Parisian? The Baron, Memed and I looked at each other and turned away, fearful we might lose our poise and disintegrate completely before we left the room.
“Welcome to my house, Yvette. I hope my brother and Nilofer have made you welcome. I’m not very surprised that you are here because I read of the Vicomte’s appointment as the French ambassador. Has he presented his credentials at the palace?”
She smiled. “Oh yes, and it was wonderful. As you know, I always love ambassadors and how they have to dress. The ceremony was out of the Nuits Arabiennes. It was like magic. I felt like a princess.”
The Baron interrupted the exchange. “Just before you arrived, Iskander, Madame de Montmorency was telling us that what we really need at the moment is a few quick wars in Europe. I did not fully grasp the meaning of what you were saying, madame, but if I understand correctly you thought this might improve the genes of those who survived. Could I have misunderstood you? Would you kindly retrace the underlying philosophical argument for us?”
The Baron’s irony was completely lost on her.
“Of course I can, Monsieur le Baron, and this time you must be a good boy and listen carefully. It is my judgement that if we do not have any more wars we will be faced with very serious problems. There will be too little work for too many men. They will become criminals and begin to do dangerous things. They will be encouraged by those socialist agitators always trying to stir up trouble, like that mulatto man from Cuba. I think his name is Lafargue. If there are too many people without work it is dangerous. People in our position will no longer be safe. In these conditions it is good, is it not, if young men from the poor classes join the army and kill each other? Those who survive will be the best and will work well after the experience. Anything is better than being killed. So they will not fight against those who are giving them work and in this way we will revive all our countries. In the old days the doctors used leeches to suck the blood out of their patients. War will do it much better. It will, in general, be a good thing. A few shells in the rue Fontaine will not alarm me unduly. It is simple, is it not?”
Three of us nodded our heads vigorously.
“Exactly, madame,” said Memed. “Very simple. And now if you will excuse us, the Baron, Nilofer and I have to discuss the arrangements for a children’s picnic tomorrow.”
We sat in silence on a bench in the garden. I revealed what Hasan Baba had told me, which made the Baron snort.
“I thought he had better taste than that. I mean, a tart from Montmartre would have provided better value!”
“Iskander was always a bit susceptible to large bosoms,” said Uncle Memed, trying to excuse his younger brother’s follies. “But I agree with both of you. This woman has absolutely nothing to recommend her. Our Committee of Public Safety should act quickly and despatch her!”
We laughed. I offered the two friends a better reason for Iskander Pasha’s blindness. “I don’t suppose they talked much when they were together.”
The Baron could not be outdone. “No,” he agreed with me, “I don’t think Iskander Pasha encouraged any intellectual exertions on her part.”
We laughed and laughed again. Our frustration at having to suffer the French ambassador’s wife had found a natural release. The two men thought that she had come here simply to make an impression, but I was not sure. I felt there was something else and hoped it was nothing that would upset Iskander Pasha. He had recovered fully from his stroke, but the physicians had all agreed he must rest for a year. They had told us to keep bad news from him unless it was essential. My instincts warned me against this woman. She was bad news.
Mercifully, she did not stay long. Before an hour had elapsed her coachmen were alerted and she left. We all stood on the steps of the terrace and waved our farewells. Iskander Pasha appeared to be in perfectly good spirits. He was clutching a notebook and some old letters held together with a ribbon.
“Well,” said Memed, “what did she want?”
“Nothing,” replied Father. “Nothing at all. She returned some letters and a diary I had kept for a few months when I was in Paris.”
“Is that all?” I asked him.
“There is one other thing she mentioned, though it is without significance. She showed me a photograph of her oldest son. I’m afraid the next Vicomte de Montmorency will have an Ottoman complexion.”
I knew she had not come here without a reason. I could hardly wait to inform Salman and Halil that they had a French half-brother.
“Is the boy here?” inquired Memed.
“No,” replied his brother. “He is at the military academy in St Cyr.”
“She has other children?” asked the Baron.
“Yes, two daughters, who appear to be replicas of their mother.”
“Heaven help them,” said Memed.
“Are your letters to her and the diary she returned for public viewing?” I teased him. “Will they be placed in the library as documents of historic importance?”
“Juvenilia of this sort should always be destroyed,” he replied. “The diary, if my memory serves me, is not personal in the least. Wait a minute, Nilofer. I will read it again to decide whether or not it can be put on a shelf in my library.”
I was slightly perturbed by his unruffled reaction to Yvette’s revelations. Was he really as indifferent as he appeared to be? I pressed him further. “Father, do you not have the slightest curiosity about this boy? Wouldn’t you like to meet him just once?”
“No, my dear child. No.” He hugged me and kissed my forehead. “Have you forgotten what I told you a few weeks ago? Blood relations do not matter to me in the least.” He dragged me away from Memed and the Baron, and we walked in silence to the very edge of the garden.
“Tell me something, Nilofer. Are you sometimes curious about your real father? Would you like to see him in the flesh, just once? Be honest with me.”
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “Yes, I would, but not for myself. I would like to see what it was that appealed so much to my mother in her youth.”
“If you like, my child,” said Iskander Pasha, “we can easily arrange for you to visit Ne
w York. My brother Kemal has ships that sail there regularly. A passage could be organised for all of you without any difficulty.”
I embraced him very hard at this point. “Listen. I have no desire to travel for two months to see the face of this man. You are my father. All I meant was that if he happened to be in Istanbul one day, I would be curious to see him. Not even to speak with him, but just see him. A woman’s curiosity, nothing more.”
He smiled and then began to laugh. I wanted to know why, but he shook his head and his hand gestures implied that it was a trivial matter. I insisted and was relieved we had moved away from the subject of real fathers and real sons.
“When you said ‘a woman’s curiosity’ I recalled an incident from my youth. I was sixteen or seventeen at the time and had become infatuated with a married woman, who often visited our house with her husband. They were family friends. She was very beautiful, or so I thought at the time. It was a truly Byzantine face. I think she was from one of the older families of the city. I began to stare at her quite rudely and was reprimanded by my mother in private. I would follow her when she visited the shops. A few school friends would watch her house, which was not far from our own. She complained to my mother and my father warned me that unless I stopped he would be compelled to punish me severely. The threats had no impact.
“One day my best friend came to see me with important information. He had discovered that she visited the women’s baths each Thursday. This information excited me greatly, and my imagination became inflamed. I was possessed by a desire to see her without any clothes, to which end I bribed the bath attendants. You look shocked, but this was quite normal at the time. Not boys of my age, of course, but young men wanting to see whether or not the body of their future wife was blemished often paid the attendants so that they could spy on the woman who interested them. They say that some women did the same thing in the men’s baths, but it was less common. All these baths have their little secrets. Anyway I had my way, and it was a beautiful sight. I will spare us both the embarrassments by not describing her details. But from then onwards, Thursday became my holy day, a day of pure bliss, and the afternoons were sacrosanct. Life was proceeding well till someone told my mother—to this day I am not sure who. It was probably one of the servants. One afternoon after having watched two women massage each corner of her soft and delicate body with loving care, I walked home in a complete trance. I would have run away with her to Albania if she had so desired. As I reached our house and went in through the front door, I found my father in the hall where he had been waiting for me to return. His face was filled with anger and disgust. That was the first shock.
“‘Where have you been? I want the truth!’ The second shock was self-inflicted. I startled myself by the sheer scale of the lie I had invented to escape punishment. ‘I was outside the palace, Ata. The Sultan is dead.’ My father believed this and his mood changed. He rushed upstairs to bathe and dress so that he could go and offer prayers at the Blue Mosque. You’re laughing, my child, but think of me at that age. I was petrified. I hid in my room and wondered what would happen when my father returned. I heard him coming home and began to tremble. I expected the worst, but he came and reassured me. He said it was a false rumour. Although the Sultan had become very ill last night, he was not dead. I could hardly believe my luck. Perhaps it was that incident that pushed me towards Sufi mysticism a few years later. My misdemeanour was forgotten. So you see, Nilofer, it is not only women who are curious!”
EIGHTEEN
The death of Hasan Baba, who is given a Sufi burial; the return of Kemal Pasha; Sara’s anger
THERE WAS A GENTLE knock. Selim was fast asleep. Nothing woke him. Nothing. I was convinced he could sleep through an earthquake. I thought it might be one of the children and got of bed quickly, covered myself with a dressing gown and went to the door. It was my mother.
“You should wake him up,” she whispered. “The maids have just come and told me that when they took his breakfast to his room they found poor Hasan Baba dead. I’m going to tell your father now. He will be very upset.”
I had to shake Selim really hard to wake him. He was shocked by the news and began to weep.
“He lived a good life, Nilofer. It was a good life, he used to say, that is why I have lived so long. He was ninety-one a few months ago. And I know he was very old. I know he was old, but I didn’t want him to die. He was never orthodox. He used to ask me which animal I liked the most and I would reply ‘an eagle’ and he would say to me: ‘Selim, when I die I will become an eagle.’ He belonged to a Sufi tekke that believed that if you had achieved perfection in this world you could choose the physical shape in which to return to life after death. I will miss him, Nilofer. I will miss him.”
We walked out of the house and crossed the garden to the little room where his body lay. Iskander Pasha rose as he saw us and embraced Selim. Both men began to weep.
“You have lost a father and a grandfather, Selim. He is irreplaceable. I know that better than most people, but always remember, I am here if ever you need me.”
Hasan Baba had asked to be buried on a mound a few hundred yards from where the Stone Woman stood. He had instructed the head gardener only a few weeks ago as to how deep they must dig and where, and since his death this morning they had been digging his grave according to his detailed instructions. Petrossian watched them, weeping. He had so many shared memories with the dead man. They had both grown up together in this household and, in the old days, travelled everywhere with Iskander Pasha. They knew more about this family than any of us did. Hasan Baba had taken many secrets with him to the grave. Petrossian was now the sole survivor. And he never talked about us to any living person.
Hasan Baba had asked to be buried just before the sun set. Everyone from our household, men and women, master and servant, was present when his body was lowered into the freshly dug grave. The earth was moist and the scent of the wild flowers and trees would have pleased him. A few people had come from the closest village, a few kilometres from the house. We all cupped our hands and spoke the funeral verses from the Koran. Selim alone remained apart from us. He did not cup his hands. He did not offer any prayers. Instead, after we had finished, Selim’s voice soared like an eagle as he sang a Sufi verse to send the old man who had been his father and teacher on his way.
“I sing this one for you, Hasan Baba.” Selim’s broken voice made me weep. “I sing it for you, my eagle.”
O Sufi, to you the mosque and the tavern were one,
The voice of the devout and the cry of the drunk were one,
The remembrance of God and the goblet of wine were one.
You gave up hypocrisy,
Because for you the throne and the beggar’s stool were one.
You burned with love,
Because for you the candle and the moth were one.
Become light and see, become light and fly,
Because you and the eagle are one.
By the time Selim had finished there were no dry eyes amongst those present. Petrossian and Iskander Pasha embraced and kissed Selim. They flanked him and, taking an arm each, escorted him inside the house. I followed them into the hall, where Selim slumped on the stairs and lost control of himself. He wept silently. He hit his head against the banisters. He wept loudly, talking to Hasan Baba all the while, referring to him as ‘Perfect Man’. I sat next to him and gently forced his head on to my lap, stroked his hair and forehead. How long we sat there I can no longer remember, but it was Petrossian who came and told us that the funeral feast was being served in the garden. Selim rose to his feet immediately, wiped the tears off his face and lifted me up. He was smiling.
“Now let us celebrate his life.”
It was dark outside, but oil lamps had transformed the garden. Iskander Pasha had sent a coach to fetch the musicians from a village about twenty kilometres from our house. They were dervishes and had begun to play their instruments as if in a divine trance, which Selim told me later tha
t evening had been inspired not by the Creator, but by hashish. Three lambs were roasting on spits. Cauldrons of special rice had been prepared, and trays of fruit were laid out on all the tables. Individuals were singing the praises of the dead man.
Without warning, the musicians stopped and rose. They clapped their hands to attract attention and signalled that all present should join them. We did and they began to whirl, urging us to do the same, which we did till we became giddy and fell to the ground to recover. A great deal of wine had already been consumed, but the musicians continued to whirl, till they, too, became exhausted and stopped. Instead of resting, like us, they began to play again with a renewed vigour.
It was while we were feasting that a coach drew up and a man of medium height with thick grey hair stepped out and began to breathe the sea air. Petrossian, ever watchful, had heard the noise of the wheels on the gravel. He rushed to receive the guest.
“Glad you’re still here, Petrossian.” The man’s voice was strangely familiar. “What in the name of Allah is going on here? Is it a wedding or a funeral?”
“A funeral, Kemal Aga. Old Hasan Baba died in his sleep last night.”
When did Uncle Kemal return to Istanbul? I rushed to find Salman, and we both went to greet him.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Petrossian,” said Uncle Kemal. “I’ll miss the old rogue, even though he used to cut my hair too short when I was a boy. He claimed he was carrying out our mother’s instructions, but I’m not so sure. Salman! Good to see you again, my boy. And you’re smiling again.”