The Stone Woman

by Tariq Ali

  After the evening meal was over, the Baron produced a bottle of what he proclaimed to be very fine, old French cognac. On subjects such as these, I have learnt to accept his word. Kemal sniffed the glass, took a sip, and exclaimed that it was simply the best cognac he had ever tasted in his life. This pronouncement delighted the Baron, who beamed expansively at his brother-in-law.

  “Tell me, Kemal,” my father asked him. “how is your company doing? Will the new canal in Egypt cut down the length of your trips to the Far East?”

  Kemal frowned. “I wish you hadn’t mentioned that bloody canal. It is true what you say, but the canal is designed to help British trade. It is not designed for sailing ships. As I told you this morning, the Red Sea is too dangerous for us. You need fixed routes and steamships. Then the canal will be useful.”

  “Why not get a few steamships?” interjected Memed.

  Kemal looked at his brothers and sighed. “Who would have guessed that all this time, while I’ve been away at sea, back at home maritime geniuses have been lying dormant in our family? Perhaps I should surprise all of you by preparing a manual on conjugal intimacy. Why on earth do you think I’m back here? I’m on my way to London to collect my first steamship. They have charged me a small fortune, but I will get my revenge sooner than they imagine. I will take it to Yokohama and we will see if the Japanese can build me ten more at half the price. If they can, I will build a steamship company that will rule all the oceans. London to New York on the Ottoman Line. Istanbul to Tokyo via Alexandria. All becomes possible. I have raised all the money myself, some of it with the help of Nilofer’s Great-uncle Sifrah. Everything is about to change and, unlike our Sultans, I am not going to wait till everyone else has overtaken me. Does that answer your questions?”

  Everyone became very excited and the talk began to take on a surreal dimension, as even my mother felt obliged to intervene. The fact that nobody present except Kemal and Salman had even the vaguest idea as to what was needed made little difference. It was the sort of discussion that contributed nothing very substantial, but did have the effect of making Uncle Kemal feel that he was the only person present who was at the centre of real progress. Halil did not count since none of them realised how close the Committee was to taking power. In fact Halil and Selim had spent most of the day on horseback and had arrived just in time for the meal. They had pretended to go hunting for quail and wild duck, and a leather bag containing many dead birds had been deposited in the kitchen, but I knew better. It was a feint. They had gone to meet the young officer from Salonika in a nearby village to hear how the eunuch-general had been despatched, the reaction in the palace to his disappearance and the latest plan for action.

  “And here I was, Kemal,” said Iskander Pasha, “almost convinced that you had come to visit your ailing brother. Instead it was the lure of Mammon!”

  “If you have problems in Yokohama,” suggested the Baron, “bring your steamship to Kiel. We might give you a better price than the English.”

  Kemal Pasha looked thoughtful. “Thank you, Baron. What I think I really need is for Salman to rejoin my company and start helping his old uncle again. The office in Istanbul needs a strong presence. Perhaps we can discuss this on our own a bit later. I must return to Istanbul tomorrow and sail for London.”

  This remark was taken as a hint that we should leave the room to the two men. We all took our leave of each other, but as I began to walk away, Salman drew me back.

  “Stay with us, dear Nilofer. There are no secrets from you. Unless you are desperate to be with your husband.”

  I stayed.

  “Well, Salman?” asked my uncle. “Are you ready to return to work?”

  “I am, but one thing worries me.”

  “What?”

  “The situation here, as Nilofer will confirm, is very unstable. The Greeks make no secret of the fact that Istanbul is their city and the Russians encourage them shamelessly. The British play both ways. The Germans are on our side. They do not want the Empire partitioned. In terms of business, Uncle, I was thinking it might be safe to move our headquarters somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m not sure. Liverpool? New York?”

  Kemal smiled. “You must not confuse a building that serves as our headquarters with one where we bank our money. I agree it would be disastrous to keep the money in Istanbul at the moment. Sifrah advised me to move some to his branches in Paris and London some years ago and I followed his advice. If the Empire falls we will be safe.”

  I asked what flag flew on his ships.

  “Our own, naturally. We fly the Ottoman colours. It’s not a problem. I could fly the Japanese flag if I wished. When can you start work?”

  “When we return to Istanbul, Uncle. I am enjoying this interlude.”

  Salman had dreaded any reference to Alexandria, but he knew it was unavoidable.

  “I met Hamid Bey a few weeks ago. He sent you his warmest regards.”

  “How is he? I respect him greatly. He was very kind to me.”

  “He is well. His grandchildren are growing up and they make him very happy. He has something to live for. I saw them at his house. They are polite, intelligent and good-looking. What more could one ask?”

  Salman gave a weak smile. He could not resist the question.

  “And their mother?”

  It was Uncle Kemal’s turn to pale. “You don’t know?”

  “Don’t know what?”

  Our uncle was clearly shaken. He paused for a long time. “She was found dead last year, Salman. I was sure Hamid Bey had written and informed you.”

  Salman’s face filled with pain. “What happened?”

  “Nobody really knows. She went for a swim in that cove which I’m told was your discovery. She took her books with her and her towels, put them in front of that little cave and then went for a swim. When she did not return home that day, Hamid Bey sent servants to look for her. Her maid knew she often visited the cove and soon they had returned with her belongings, which included a book of poems by Verlaine.

  “The next day a fisherman discovered her body. They say a current must have taken her by surprise and dragged her out to sea. She must have swum too far, got tired and was unable to return. I am really sorry, Salman. I assumed you knew but did not wish to discuss the matter.”

  My brother began to weep loudly, calling her name and saying he had forgiven her. My uncle and I consoled him as best we could, but the news had been completely unexpected and he was in a state of shock. He could not believe it was an accident. He kept repeating that she was a very powerful swimmer and knew the sea extremely well. He was convinced it must have been a deliberate act. She must have swum out to sea till she became tired and knew a return to the shore was impossible. That was the way she had planned her escape from the world.

  As he calmed down, Salman remembered how, during the first weeks of their courtship, she had told him that if they could not be together she would commit suicide. He refused to take her seriously and had joked about it, asking which method she favoured in case the need ever arose. She replied that she did not wish to hurt herself or be discovered. She would try and swim all the way to the horizon.

  “Did Hamid Bey give you any idea as to why she was so unhappy?”

  Kemal took Salman’s hand in his own and stroked it gently. “Hamid said she never forgave herself for the way she treated you. She told him repeatedly that the furniture man had meant nothing to her. He supplied her with seed that sprouted. As the children grew and became more attached to their grandfather, she became more and more distant from everyone. She often asked him if he knew where you were, but he would protect you by saying he had no idea at all and remind her that she had caused you enough pain to last a lifetime and if she was feeling lonely, she should look for a new victim. Hamid Bey was totally with you, Salman. He did not sympathise with her at all and their relations deteriorated over the years. She did not find another man or if she did it was a secret from
her father and children.”

  “Poor Mariam,” said Salman. “She must have been really tormented to take her own life. You look troubled, Uncle Kemal. As you can see, I’ve recovered well from the shock. I have a feeling you’re keeping something from me? What is it?”

  He sighed. “Sometimes I think how lucky I am that I have never loved like you or your father.”

  “Or my mother,” I added. “Or me.”

  He smiled. “Exactly. You seem happy enough, green-eyed child, but the others have all been marked for life. I am glad that Allah has spared me this particular agony.”

  Salman persisted with his questioning. “Was there anything else, Uncle Kemal? I’m serious. You can tell me.”

  “Hamid Bey told me that she wrote you a letter each week, which she never posted. He discovered them after her death and burnt them. He did not want the children to discover them.”

  “What did she write?”

  “He did not wish to tell me and I resisted the urge to force him. If you see him again, ask him by all means. It was not something I could do on your behalf. Who knows? Perhaps the letters were not simply the cries of a heart in pain, but were abusive, particularly in relation to her father. I must retire to bed. We shall meet when I return from London and then we shall discuss my shipping plans.”

  Salman and I sat alone in the library for many hours. I knew what a desolate and terrible place Alexandria had become for him. I knew how her cruelty had overwhelmed him. He would have forgiven everything else, including the carpenter, but the gratuitous pleasure she had derived from causing him pain he would never forgive. That had killed his love for her completely. All his emotion had drained away. Had anything remained?

  “No, I don’t think so. It was a slow process, I admit. For weeks and weeks she was in my head like a giant octopus. I would fight her with all the harsh words she had been spared when we parted. It is not easy to clear one’s head of emotional waste in a few days. It takes time, but it does happen. When I was on the ship for nearly five months and then travelling through Japan, I really stopped thinking of her. Everything was over. I remember the feeling of relief that swept through my whole body. I had finally dislodged the beast that sat on my chest every day, nibbling away at my heart. I wept with joy when I realised I was free of her. It had been such a long time that I was unprepared for the surprise.

  “When I heard just now that she had swum away from the cove, some old and tender memories flooded my mind, but not for long. They were replaced by other memories of what took place on that very spot. She was not an evil woman, Nilofer. I think she never recovered from her mother’s decision to abandon her or her father’s hostility when she abandoned me. I wonder whether the mother even wrote to condole with Hamid Bey or whether he even informed her of Mariam’s death. Who knows—and who cares? It is all in the past. It is peculiar, however, to think she is no longer in this world. For many months the only way I could recover my sanity was to think of her as dead. Now that she has really gone it feels very odd.

  “Come with me, little sister Nilofer. Let sleep wait a while, tonight. Let your lover-husband read Auguste Comte while he awaits your return. I don’t want to be alone as I look at the stars.”

  We walked out of the elegantly lit library with its six lamps, straight into the blackness of the garden. There was no moon, and it took our eyes a little while to adjust to the darkness. The sky was clear, the stars bright. In the distance the sea, like a thick, dark blanket, was calm.

  Outside in the world a great deal was going on. Rebellions were being plotted. Resistance was being prepared. Sultans and Emperors were becoming uneasy. History was being made. Here in the beautiful, fragrant gardens of Yusuf Pasha’s folly, all that seemed very remote. My brother Salman and I sat on a bench and began to count the stars, just as we had done when I was a child.

  TWENTY

  The confessions of Petrossian; the murder of Great-great-uncle Murat Pasha; the agony of Petrossian’s family

  ‘IS AN OLD MALE servant permitted to address you, O Woman of Stone? I know that in years gone by it was the custom for many women in the employ of this household, after their honour had been violated by the masters, to come and weep here and tell you of their woes. Nor was this confined to the maids. In the time of Iskander Pasha’s grandfather there were many young men—gardeners, watchmen, footmen and from different backgrounds, Kurds, Albanians, Armenians, Serbs, Arabs, Bosnians, Turks—who were all taken against their will. Did they come and shed tears at your feet as well, Stone Woman, or had pride forced them to erase the memory altogether?

  Did the man who, sixty years ago, murdered Iskander Pasha’s lecherous great-uncle, Murat Pasha, ever come to you and confess his crime? They never discovered his identity, did they?

  Some of the servants must have known, but nobody betrayed the assassin. My grandfather used to say that, in secret, everyone prayed for the courageous killer never to be found. Whoever it was he must have carried on working here because, in those days, nobody left unless they were dismissed. My grandfather used to tell my father that if ever he had seen evil it was the face of Murat Pasha and not simply when he had consumed too much wine or was overpowered by lust. He was an unpleasant person in every way. His own children grew up to loathe and fear him.

  It is said, Stone Woman, that he deflowered his own seventeen-year-old daughter. They say that on that occasion he was in his cups, as if that excused the crime. Did that poor child ever come and tell you her story? Did she come here and show you her blood-stained tunic, before they quickly married her off to a Bedouin from Syria? Nothing was ever heard of her again. She never returned to Istanbul. I hope she found some solace in her new life and that her children helped her to forget this world.

  Stone Woman, I have something to tell you. I know who killed Murat Pasha. He told me so himself and he was always proud of what he had done. It was my friend, Hasan Baba. That is why the throat was so perfectly slit and the penis and testicles removed with expert care. Who else could accomplish this except the trained hand of a young barber? Mercifully, the finger of suspicion never pointed in his direction because he always used to help his old father shave Murat and trim his beard. The two of them were often observed in the courtyard, laughing at Murat Pasha’s jokes and on the surface there was no enmity.

  Hasan Baba told me that on a personal level, Murat was very nice to him, even when, in his father’s absence, he had to shave him and was so nervous that he cut his cheek. Hasan feared the worst, but Murat Pasha simply laughed and muttered, “You will learn in time, young cub. Just watch your father closely.”

  Why, then, did he kill him? He told me that he could no longer bear the tears of the men and women whose bodies had been so brutally misused by Murat Pasha. I was never convinced that this was the whole truth. I mean, Stone Woman, Hasan Baba was a Perfect Man, but you do not take a risk such as killing Murat Pasha unless you have been personally affected by something he has done. Hasan did confess to me, after I pressed him strongly, that Murat had forced a young Kurdish washerwoman to pleasure him against her will.

  Hasan had loved this girl from a distance. He would sit and watch her as she carried bundles of dirty clothes to the stream. He would notice how her body moved as she dealt with the clothes, washing them, beating them, wringing them and then standing on her toes to hang them out for drying. He had not yet summoned the courage needed to inform her of his feelings, but he was sure she knew. When unaccompanied by her mother, she would smile at him. I was not born then, but Hasan Baba at the age of eighteen must have been a very fine specimen. Before he could do anything, Murat Pasha had carried away the girl on his horse and assaulted her. When she was returned home, her mother hugged her and wept, but pleaded with the girl to remain silent or else they might both be dismissed. The daughter heard her mother’s plea and wept in silence. They consoled each other. The girl promised she would not speak of the crime to anyone.

  Overnight she had decided on the best way to remain
silent. Early one morning, just before dawn, she made her mother’s breakfast, kissed her warmly and said she was going for a walk to watch the sunrise. She jumped off the cliffs, Stone Woman. They found her broken body a few hours later. How people summon up enough courage to take their own lives is something I will never understand. Loud were the mourning wails that rent the servants’ quarters that day. The young woman had been greatly loved for her defiant spirit and her beauty.

  That was the day that Hasan Baba calmly decided to kill Murat Pasha. He knew he could not trust any other person. He planned everything on his own. Three weeks later Murat was found dead. His penis had been severed from the body and stuffed down his mouth.

  I did not ask Hasan Baba for the details, Stone Woman. It was enough that he had done what he did. I think the whole family was relieved. Certainly no tears were shed for the monster. He was buried in the family cemetery, but very few turned up to pay their last respects. His own sons and wives stayed away.

  A few months before he died, Hasan Baba was thinking of telling Selim. I am not sure whether or not he did so. I have lived with this secret long enough, Stone Woman. Over the years I often heard Iskander Pasha’s father wondering who could have killed his uncle. Memed once remarked that whoever had done the deed was a modern hero to be sought out and awarded a purse posthumously. I wonder what they would have done had they known it was Hasan Baba? I think Iskander Pasha would have been proud.

  I did not come here to talk of the past, Stone Woman, but your presence has the effect of dragging old secrets out of us. I came to talk of what is going on in my village. Over two hundred years ago this family gave us money to buy land in a village, close to where they themselves owned a large amount of land. As happened in those days, other Armenian families began to move in so they could be close to us and live under the protection of this family. It was Iskander Pasha’s grandfather who could not bear sharing anything with his brother Murat, and therefore began to sell his land. Fifty years ago the family had sold off all its land and bought properties in Istanbul and Damascus and heaven knows where. Many Armenian merchants looking to spend their money bought some of the land, but it was the Kurds who arrived to work as seasonal labourers. Some of them settled.