by Tariq Ali
I had not seen Salman for nearly fifteen years. He had left home when I was thirteen. I remembered him as tall and slim with thick black hair and a deep, melodious voice. I was startled when I first glimpsed his silhouette on the terrace. For a moment I thought it was Father. Salman had aged. He was not yet fifty, but his hair was grey and thin. He seemed shorter than when I last saw him. His body had grown larger, his face was over-fleshed, he walked with a slight stoop and his eyes were sad. Cruel Egypt. Why had it aged him thus? We embraced and kissed. His voice was distant.
“And now you’re a mother, Nilofer.”
Those were the only words he spoke to me that day. His tone had expressed surprise, as if bringing children into the world had somehow become a novelty. For some reason Salman’s tone and his remark irritated me. I’m not sure why this was so, but I remember feeling slightly angry. Perhaps because it suggested a refusal to see or treat me as a grown woman. I was still a child in his eyes. Before I could think of a suitably cutting reply, Petrossian had taken him away for a private audience with our father.
Then it was Halil’s turn. He had never lost contact with us and made a point of communicating regularly with Orhan’s father. He had been of great help to us during bad times, making sure we were properly fed and clothed after Dmitri and most of the Greeks in Konya had been deprived of their livelihood as a punishment. I had last seen Halil when he arrived without warning on a beautiful spring afternoon in Konya. Orhan was three years old at the time, but he never forgot his uncle, or rather the moustache, which always irritated him. I looked at Halil. He was as handsome as ever and the uniform suited him. I often wondered how it had happened that the most mischievous member of my family had accepted the disciplines and routines of the army. As he embraced me, he whispered.
“I’m glad you came. Did he tell Orhan a story?”
I nodded.
“Yusuf Pasha?”
“Who else?”
“Which version?”
We laughed.
As we were about to follow the rest of the family into the house, Halil noticed the rising dust on the distant track that led to our house. It had to be another carriage, but whom did it contain? Iskander Pasha was known throughout his family for his antisocial habits and his bad temper. As a consequence, very few people arrived at our Istanbul house uninvited and I can’t remember anyone ever coming here. Traditional hospitality was alien to my father as far as his own extended family was concerned. He was particularly hostile to his first cousins and their progeny, but could also be distant from his brothers. Because of all this, unexpected visitors had always been a pleasant surprise for us when we were children, especially Uncle Kemal, who never arrived without a coach full of presents.
“Is someone else expected today?”
“No.”
Halil and I stayed on the terrace waiting for the coach to arrive. We looked at each other and giggled. Who dared arrive at our father’s house in such a fashion? When we were very small, the house had belonged to Grandfather and at that time it was always full of guests. Three bedrooms were always kept in a state of readiness for Grandfather’s closest friends, who walked in and out at their own pleasure. The entire staff was aware that they could arrive any day and at any hour, accompanied by their own manservants. That was a long time ago. Soon after my father had been given this house, he had made it clear that Grandfather’s old friends were not welcome. This created a scandal in the family. Grandmother had objected and in unusually strong language for her, but my father remained adamant. His style was different and he had never liked the lechers who hung around the house during his father’s time, making life miserable for the more attractive maidservants.
The carriage drew up, and we recognised the coachman and the manservant perched next to him. Halil chuckled as we walked down the stairs to greet our father’s older brother, Memed Pasha, and his friend, Baron Jakob von Hassberg. Both men, now in their early seventies, appeared in good health. Their complexions, usually very pale, had been touched by the sun. They were dressed in cream-coloured summer suits and straw hats, but the cut was not identical. Each believed firmly in the superiority of his own tailor. My father could never conceal his irritation when these two men discussed their clothes. Halil saluted the Prussian fondly and respectfully kissed his uncle’s hand.
“Welcome to your house, Uncle and you, too, Baron. An unexpected pleasure. We had no idea you were in the country.”
“Nor did we till we arrived,” replied Memed Pasha. “The train from Berlin was late as usual.”
“Only after it had crossed the Ottoman frontier, Memed,” interjected the Baron. “You must be fair. It arrived in perfect time at the border. We are very proud of our trains.”
Memed Pasha ignored the remark and turned to Halil. “Is it true that death’s arrow pierced my brother, but he refused to fall? Well?”
“I’m not sure I understand your question, Uncle.”
He looked at me.
“Our father has lost the power to speak, Uncle,” I muttered. “Otherwise he is well again, though he will always need help to walk.”
“I don’t regard that as a complete tragedy. He always talked too much. Do you know what your mother has ordered for supper? Is there any champagne in the house? I thought not! We’ve brought a few cases from the Baron’s estate. I spent too many melancholy evenings in this wretched house when I was your age. Never again. Is there any ice in the pit?”
I nodded.
“Good. Have them cool a few bottles for this evening, child, and tell Petrossian to prepare our rooms. I’m sure they haven’t been aired for thirty years. And you, young man, take me to see my brother.”
Father did not much care for Memed Pasha, but he was never impolite to him, and for a very good reason. When my grandfather died, Memed Pasha, being the oldest son, inherited the family residence in Istanbul as well as this house, which he had always disliked. We had never understood his antipathy. How could any person be unhappy in these surroundings? We never discussed the matter in too much detail because Uncle Memed’s prejudice had benefited us greatly. Our curiosity was overtaken by joy. We loved this house. We loved our Stone Woman. I remember the excitement when our father told us that Uncle Memed had given us this house as a present. Halil, Zeynep and I had clapped our hands and hugged each other. Salman had remained grave and asked an awkward question. “Will it revert to his children after you’re dead?”
Father had glared at him in silence as if to say, you imbecile, we’ve just been given this house and you are already thinking of my death. My mother had attempted to suppress a smile. None of us would have known the reason for her merriment had Zeynep, aware of my mother’s routine, not hidden behind a rock after sunset that day and heard Mother talking to the Stone Woman.
‘What should one tell the children these days, Stone Woman? How far can we go?
Poor Salman. All he wanted to know was whether he would ever inherit this house. My husband looked at him as if he had attempted a murder. Even though I’m not his mother, I feel fond of the boy. I wish his father would talk to him. Tell him how much he really loves him. It’s not Salman’s fault his mother died giving birth to him. He feels his father’s indifference. Most of the time Iskander Pasha sees his first wife in the boy’s face and loves him, but there are moments when he looks at Salman with hatred as if he had consciously killed his mother. Once I asked Iskander Pasha about his first wife. He became very angry with me and insisted that I must never question him on this matter again. I had asked so that I could console him, but he was very strange. It did make me wonder whether he had anything to hide. What is it with the boys in this family, Stone Woman? Once they have reached puberty they seem to become aloof, look on their mothers and sisters as inferior beings. I hope Halil never becomes like that. Even though I’m not his real mother, I will do my best to stop him.
As for Memed Pasha, what can I say? Nobody would have objected if he had also married and produced children, but
he refused and his father punished him severely for his disobedience. He was kept under permanent watch and special tutors were hired to educate him. Who could have known that this young Baron who came here over fifty years ago to teach Memed and his brothers the German language would become so attached to Memed? Not even the servants suspected. Petrossian’s father was questioned in some detail when the whole business was discovered, but he swore in the name of his Allah that he had not known.
If only you could speak, Stone Woman. You could tell Salman that his uncle Memed will never have children and that Salman will one day inherit this house.’
Zeynep told me. I told Halil. Halil broke the news to Salman and Salman began to laugh. He would stop, look at us with a serious expression, but could not maintain his composure for more than a few seconds. He would collapse. His laughter became uncontrollable. The room had filled up, with Petrossian and even the maids—normally very quiet, but now infected by the strange mirth which swept through the house like a summer storm. Everyone wanted to share the joke, but Salman could not bring himself to speak.
Halil, Zeynep and I became quiet and even a bit frightened, especially when Iskander Pasha came down the stairs. At first he smiled, but Salman, on seeing his father, laughed even more. The atmosphere became tense. Petrossian, alert to his master’s moods, shepherded the maids out of the room. It was only after they had left that Iskander Pasha asked in a deceptively soft voice, “Why are you laughing, Salman?”
Salman suddenly stopped laughing. He wiped the tears off his face and looked straight into our father’s eyes.
“I’m laughing, Ata, at my own blindness and stupidity. How could I have been so foolish as to ask you about Uncle Memed’s heirs? I mean barons, even of the Prussian variety, have not yet been known to bear children.”
My mother took a deep breath. Iskander Pasha could not contain his rage. All I remember is his predatory profile as he clenched his fist and hit Salman on the face. My brother staggered backwards, horrified.
“If ever again you refer disrespectfully to your uncle in my presence or that of your mother, I will disinherit you. Is that understood?”
Salman, his eyes filled with tears of anger and hurt and bitterness, nodded silently. Iskander Pasha left the room. I was not yet nine years old, but I really hated my father at that moment. This was the first time I had ever seen him strike anyone.
I took Salman’s hand in mine, while Zeynep fetched him some water before stroking the cheek that had sustained the blow. Halil’s face had become pale. Like me, he was greatly dismayed, but for him it went much deeper. I don’t think he ever respected our father again. I was very young, but I never forgot that afternoon.
It was not simply the act of violence against Salman that had upset us so much, but the explosion of a frustrated bitterness that had lain concealed below the surface. The mask had been torn aside to reveal a twisted face with heavy and coarse features. Salman was twenty-six that year. All four of us, all Iskander Pasha’s children, had left the house together as if in a delirium. We walked to a flat rock, not far below where the Stone Woman stood, hidden from us by a grove of pine trees.
Each of us had our own favourite place on this rock, but this was the first time we had all come here together. The surface of the rock was dented, but completely level. Nature had played little part in this process. Petrossian insisted that it was here that Yusuf Pasha sat to compose his more lyrical verses with the sea stretching out before him. Several stonemasons had worked hard to flatten the rock and smooth its surface.
We sat down in silence and stared at the sea, till the sight had soothed the turbulent waves tormenting our hearts. We remained there for a long time, waiting for the sun to set. Halil had been the first to speak. He had repeated those selfsame words concerning Uncle Memed that had caused the offence. Then Zeynep repeated them, but when it was my turn, Salman put his hand on my mouth to stop me.
“Little princess, you should never speak of what you still do not understand.”
And we had all begun to laugh again, to exorcise the memory of what had happened that day. Salman, touched by our response, had confessed that he wanted to leave home for ever. He would never visit this house again or return to Istanbul. He would travel to Aleppo or Cairo or perhaps even further away, to lands where there were no Ottomans. Only then would he feel really free.
We were heartbroken. At least get married first, Zeynep had pleaded. Why not join the army, Halil had suggested. They talked of their hopes for themselves and their children, who were yet to be born. They became engrossed in their own lives. All this was new to me. I was still too young to join in or even understand much of what they were saying, but the emotional intensity was such that the day remains vivid in my memory. I had never seen them like this before. Their faces wore animated expressions and they sounded happy and I remember how that had made me happy. It was almost as if the tragedy of that afternoon had become a turning point in their lives and filled them with hope for the future. Even Zeynep, whose placid temperament was a joke in our family, was angry and excited that day. None of us wanted to re-enter the house that evening. We were in full revolt against Iskander Pasha and his whole world. When Petrossian, who always knew where we were, arrived and informed us it was time for the evening meal, we ignored him completely. Then he sat down next to us and with honeyed words of conciliation, he gently cajoled us to return. Salman provided the lead and the rest of us reluctantly followed him back.
I’m not sure exactly when Salman left our home. I think it could not have been too long after being struck by Iskander Pasha. All I remember is the panic that gripped the whole family when Salman announced at breakfast one day that he had decided to leave his job and see the world for the next few years. Since he worked in Uncle Kemal’s shipping company there would be no real problem in returning whenever he wished.
Zeynep and Halil’s mother had looked after Salman soon after he was born, since his own mother had died during childbirth. She was a distant cousin and had always showered me with affection. Her marriage to Iskander Pasha had been arranged in a hurry. He was desolate at the time, but had bowed to family pressure and married her to provide Salman with a mother. She looked after him, tended to all his needs and did become his mother. She loved him as if he were her own son and always defended him fiercely, even after the birth of her own children, Halil and Zeynep.
She rarely stayed in the summer house and had not been present to witness Salman’s humiliation, but the news had been relayed to her in Istanbul and my mother was sure that Iskander Pasha would have felt the whiplash of her tongue. Perhaps she tried to persuade Salman not to go. If so, she failed. He had arrived at a decision and nothing would dissuade him. He told us he would travel for some time and let us know when he decided to settle in a particular town.
A penitent father offered him money for his travels, but Salman refused. He had saved enough from his salary over the last four years. He embraced us all and left. We did not hear from him for many months. Then letters began to arrive, but irregularly. A year after he left a message was received from Uncle Kemal, who had just returned from Alexandria. He informed us that he had stayed with Salman, who was successfully trading in diamonds and married to a local woman. He had sent a letter for Zeynep’s mother. Its contents were never divulged to any of us. Zeynep searched every hiding place in her mother’s room but failed to uncover the letter. One day, in a state of total despair, we asked Petrossian if he knew what had been said in the letter. He shook his head sadly.
“If too many stones are thrown at a person, he stops being frightened of them.”
To this day I am not sure what Petrossian meant by that remark. Zeynep and I had nodded our heads sagely and burst out laughing when he left the room.
It was strange that they had all arrived here on the same day. What memories would float through Iskander Pasha, when he saw Salman, Uncle Memed and the Baron walking into his room together? Halil later reported to me that Fathe
r had wept on seeing Salman, embraced him gently and kissed his cheeks. Salman was touched, but his eyes remained dry. The gesture had come too late. The pride exhibited by grown men is something I have noticed for a long time, but never really understood. It is something that was not completely absent in but firmly suppressed by my husband Dmitri.
As the days passed I had occasion to observe Salman. My brother who, in his youth, had been the most lively and ambitious of us all, was now afflicted by a melancholy that made him bitter. I think it was his inability to accomplish more in his life that caused him great anxiety. It was almost as if his success as a diamond merchant lay at the root of his unhappiness. He was never satisfied. He had married an Egyptian woman in Alexandria, “a beautiful Copt” in Uncle Kemal’s words, but had kept her from meeting his family. Even now as his father lay disabled by a stroke, Salman had not brought his sons to see their grandfather at least once. Halil alone had been invited to Egypt and accorded the privilege of meeting Salman’s wife and children. On one occasion when I persisted in questioning Halil about Salman’s indifference I received a sharp and surprising reply.
“Salman is very depressed by the fact that the Empire has been irreparably decadent for three hundred years. I’m aware of this fact as well, but Salman takes it personally.”
My instincts rejected such reasoning. I recognised Salman’s impatience with the rituals of Istanbul life. He was deeply frustrated and wanted change, but, at best, this could only be a partial reason. I could not believe that my brother, once so mischievous and full of fun, had become so deeply affected by a sense of hopelessness in relation to history. Our family had always made history. How could we now let it crush us? There had to be another reason for Salman’s sadness and I was determined to discover its roots.