The Stone Woman (32 page)

I looked at the sketches and the oil portrait of my mother. The sketches were very lively, with a lot of movement and one of them showed a bare breast. The miniature portrait was painted on a deep crimson background and my mother’s eyes were very sad. It must have been the last time he saw her and the memory stayed with him.

“Leave them with me, child. You can have them after I’ve gone. Poor Suleman! Trapped for eternity. I do feel sorry for him and sad, but he wrecked his own life and mine.”

“You had me, Mother Sara. Me! Was that nothing?”

She clung to me in an emotional embrace. “You have been everything, child. Everything. Without you I, too, might have been dead by now. We must never tell these people that you are his daughter. The thought of your being related to that fat boy makes me feel ill.”

“He might still end up in our family. Memed, Salman and, I now see, the Baron are going to do their best to marry him off to one of Uncle Kemal’s daughters!”

My mother’s laughter was uncontrolled. She could not contain herself. I gave her some water and we joined the other group.

“Monsieur Jo, I thank you for bringing me such an important packet all the way from New York. Have you a photograph of your mother and the rest of your family?”

Jo shook his head. “I travel light, madame, especially in the summer.”

Each note of the Baron’s laugh was false. “Very sensible. I was saying to young Jo that, on his return from Damascus, he must stop and meet Kemal Pasha in Istanbul. Jo is a lawyer, you know, Sara, and could be very helpful if Kemal is starting up a steamship company.”

Jo nodded vigorously. “I specialise in business and commerce. I can help a great deal, especially at the New York end. It will be a pleasure to meet Kemal Pasha when I return. I have no real desire to visit Damascus. They tell me it’s very dusty and unpleasant in the summer, but my father’s family is still there and I must pay my respects to them.”

“Oh yes,” said Salman. “And they’ll be very happy to see you. It will come as a real surprise to them, especially since you look nothing like your father.”

“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” asked Memed.

This was going much too far and we all glared at him, but mercifully Jo had other plans and the coachman needed to return to the city tonight.

After he had left we all burst out laughing. My mother was a bit shaken, but not as much as I had imagined. She looked at her brother-in-law.

“Will you succeed, Memed?”

“If all of you help me, I think it can be done. The fat fool is not religious at all, which is good. He could be bribed and flattered to convert to our faith. We can pay a eunuch to dress as the Sultan and as the Caliph of our faith, and he can personally convert Jo the Ugly into Ibrahim the Worthy. Are we all agreed? Good. Iskander must be won over tonight. Kemal should be pleased with our plan. Jo the Ugly will return to Istanbul in January. Let us mark the next century with his wedding. Who knows but that the next hundred years might well be the years of people like Jo the Ugly. I’m so glad we’re agreed. This has been such a productive day for me, Baron.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, Memed. I do worry sometimes that your intellect is not receiving sufficient stimulation.”

When I entered mother’s room later that day she was sitting on the floor looking at the oil portrait.

“Would you rather be alone?”

“No, my dearest Nilofer. I would rather be with you.”

She talked of the dream that had sent her running to the Stone Woman. “How can things like this happen, Nilofer? I’m not superstitious. I don’t believe in the mumbo-jumbo of the astrologers, but it does make me wonder. Can we have such strong intuitions about someone we were or are still close to? I suppose that is the only explanation. The strange thing is that I had not thought of Suleman for a very long time when that dream disturbed my sleep.”

I held her hands and kissed them. “Did the news of his death upset you very much?”

“No,” she whispered. “I knew he was dying when I had that dream, and because I was prepared for his death I could control my emotions. It was the letter that upset me. I never thought he would admit the truth. He knew me so well, that boy. He knew I would still be wondering about the real reasons behind his decision to leave me. It was thoughtful of him to write, even though it was awful to read that my father had bought him off with money. What a fool!”

“Is the torment over now, Mother? Is it all finished?”

“Yes, my daughter. I am at peace with myself. If he had seen you and known you were his daughter I would have been even happier. Poor Suleman. He was a great lover of beautiful people and beautiful objects. It must have been a torture for him to see Jo the Ugly every day. No, Nilofer, don’t frown. The problem is that the boy’s character is no different from his features. All of us knew that instinctively. So did his father.”

“What was that story about Bilan that made you laugh so much?”

Sara smiled and walked briskly to the small cupboard in her dressing room and returned with a copy of the Talmud.

“In our religion, Nilofer, the rabbis never gave an opponent any quarter. This was true in olden times just as it is now. And if they believed that a person had betrayed the Jews, in other words the Elders, then no mercy was to be shown. The character of the victim had to be assassinated in as many ways as possible and his name blackened in the eyes of the congregation. Bilan was one such person. They accused him of performing sorcery on his own organ. Now read the story.”

I took the book from her and read the page she had marked:

Bilan’s conversation with the Moabites

When they asked him why he wasn’t riding a horse, he said to them:

“Usually I ride a horse. However today I am riding a donkey.”

Thereupon the she-donkey said to Bilan in front of the Moabites:

“Am I not your she-donkey?”

“Merely for carrying burdens,” Bilan said, trying to cut her off before she could contradict him further.

“That you could have ridden on,” the donkey continued, contradicting Bilan’s contention that she was merely a beast of burden.

“Only occasionally,” Bilan said, implying that ordinarily he did not ride her.

“All your life until this day,” the donkey went on contradicting Bilan’s contention that he had never ridden her except on rare occasions.

“And not only that,” she continued, “but at night I perform marital acts with you.”

Thus the donkey got the best of Bilan in their verbal sparring. How, then, could Bilan claim to “know the mind of the Supreme One,” that is, to know and manipulate the mind of God to allow him to curse the Jews, when it is evident that he was unable to know and manipulate even the mind of an animal?

My laughter had punctuated the reading and now it was Sara’s turn, but her amusement was tempered by the memory of a wonderful day a long time ago.

“It’s so childish, Mother. Don’t you agree?”

“There is a childish side to every religion, Nilofer.”

“T
HE CENTURY IS ABOUT
to die.” I heard the agitated notes of Selim’s voice. “The Sultans and the Empire will go to the grave with it because their time has come. But when will our time come, Brother Halil? When will our time come? Should we die as well? I am not pleased with your news.”

The two men were sitting in the library on their own when I entered. They looked up and smiled.

“Has something happened?”

Neither of them replied.

“Is it a military secret?”

Halil sighed. “No. The Committee has decided after several meetings with the palace...”

“And even more with the German ambassador...,” interjected Selim.

“They have decided,” Halil continued calmly, “to postpone indefinitely our plan to seize power.”

“Why?”

“Because, Nilofer, we have been promised reforms of such magnitude that our action is unnecessary. It would be criminal to spill blood unnecessarily. Moreover, the Vizier accepted that next year leading members of the Committee would be appointed to the Government so that they can supervise the reforms themselves.”

“Allah! That is amazing news. We have won without a single shot being fired.”

“Yes,” said Halil, “but they knew very well that if they did not move, shots would be fired—and not just shots. They know full well what happened to the eunuch-general. His disappearance was just accepted. No one asked us any questions. This inaction reveals a great deal about their state of mind.”

Selim was looking very unhappy. “Both of you seem to have a surprising degree of confidence in the Vizier’s capacity to deliver all that he has promised. He might think: appoint the ringleaders to positions of power and corrupt them in the process. Let some reforms through but resist any attempt to abolish the Sultan or diminish the powers of the clergy.”

“Selim,” said Halil, “if that happens, shots will be fired. Our young friends in Salonika share your doubts and your impatience. I am not as radical as you or them, but I know one thing for sure. If we fail to modernise over the next few years, we are finished. I don’t mean ‘we’ as an Empire. I mean ‘we’ as a new, modern state. That is why people like me—soft, moderate, cautious—will side with the hotheads from Salonika to ensure that the reforms do not fail. We have waited two hundred years. A few more months or even a whole year will not make too much difference.”

Selim relaxed a little and smiled. I asked Halil about the twins.

“Are the children back?”

“Yes, thank Allah. They are both well. I offered to bring them here, but they were desperate to see their friends in Istanbul. I left them with Zeynep.”

“And will they stay with you permanently from now onwards?”

“Yes. That makes me very happy. I have told their mother she can see them whenever she likes, but I have granted her the divorce she sought. Now that the palace has given us a respite, I might do something about finding a new mother for my twins. Any ideas on this crucial question, Nilofer? Sighted any beauties of late?”

“I always thought you were the one who carried a list with the priorities clearly marked.”

He began to laugh. The return of his sons had cheered him enormously and it was nice to see his forehead free of frowns once again.

“I stopped making a list a long time ago. Don’t mock my lists, you wretched girl. Sometimes they can be a very useful prop for one’s memory.”

“No wonder women find you so romantic, Halil. You really know how to excite them!”

My brother smiled. “Once they have been selected, I release a charge of passion whose depth first surprises and later delights them.”

We ended the discussion as the library was invaded from all sides. Iskander Pasha and Sara entered with my children from one side while the Baron and Memed strolled in casually from the garden. They were followed a few minutes later by Salman, whose face, darkened by the sun, was set in sharp relief to his white hair. It had become much more relaxed and he looked happy. He was carrying his old copy of Verlaine, a book I had first seen him read when I was eight years old. Its cover was now completely faded and discoloured by the Mediterranean sun and, perhaps, the tears of its owner. Everyone was pleased by the sight of him, especially Orhan and Emineh, who had become attuned to his changing moods. Children feel our problems far more acutely than we can ever imagine.

The Baron was in a mellow mood, but without permitting it to dull his competitive edge. “Why don’t you recite your favourite poem from Verlaine and let me see if I can match it with one from my favourite poet?”

Salman put the book down on the table.

“This one is called ‘Mon rêve familier’ from his
Poèmes saturniens
and I translated it myself though, like all poetry, it is best in its own language. Here then is Verlaine’s ‘Well-Known Dream’:

Often have I this strange and penetrating dream

Of a woman unknown, loved and loving me,

And who each time is neither quite the same

Nor yet another, and loves and understands.

For she understands me, and my heart, transparent

For her alone, alas, is a problem no more

For her alone, and the fevers of my pale brow,

She alone, weeping, knows how to cool.

Is she dark, fair or auburn?—I know not.

Her name? I remember it is soft and clear

Like those of loved ones banished by life.

Her gaze is like the gaze of statues,

And her voice, distant, and calm, and grave,

Has the inflexion of dear silenced voices.

There was a silence. Halil looked at his brother affectionately. Perhaps Verlaine had struck a few chords in the breast of my general-brother. The effect could only be positive. Salman smiled at the Baron.

“Match that if you can, Baron.”

The Baron rose and walked to the shelf containing Latin and Italian poetry, one of the most under-used collections in our library. He climbed up the tiny wooden platform and, having immediately found what he was looking for, gave a little triumphant grunt to himself as he stepped down.

“It gets a bit dusty up there, especially when it isn’t used much. None of you, apart from Memed and Salman, have even understood these languages. Well I, for one, will not read a translation. That would be a travesty and there is not yet a good one in German or French. It is the
terza rima
that baffles them all. It is Canto V of the
Commedia
, when our poet meets the lovers Francesca and Paolo in the Second Circle of Hell. Listen closely, Salman, and tell me honestly if the silken verses of your beloved Verlaine can match this gem from the Florentine Renaissance:

Quand’ io intesi quell’ anime offense,

china ’il viso, e tanto il tenni basso,

fin che ’l poeta mi disse: “Che pense?”

Quando rispuosi, cominciai: “Oh lasso