Tariq Ali - The Stone Woman

It had been declared on many occasions, and in public, that they were not masters in the tradition of Leonardo or Michelangelo or even Bellini, but were, in reality, gifted merchants who had learnt the art of painting as a trade. Giulio’s grandfather, Giovanni, the last of the painters and the first of the photographers, had replied to these slurs on his family honour, though never in public, with the response that the only reason why the Bragadinis had never been permitted to paint a Sultan was that they had consistently refused to bribe the relevant courtiers. This was a case, Uncle Memed had once remarked, of both sides being right at the same time.

Despite all the arguments, the Bragadinis prospered. With the invention of the camera, their long battle for imperial recognition came to an end. They obtained the exclusive privilege of photographing the Sultan and being appointed the official photographers to the Court.

Four chairs were laid out. The first of the photographs consisted of the family alone and was simply organised. My mother sat on Iskander Pasha’s left as he faced the camera and Uncle Memed on his right, with the Baron seated next to him. Zeynep, Halil, Salman and I stood behind them and little Orhan, looking every inch a Pasha, sat between the feet of his grandfather and great-uncle. Giulio was now in complete control of the operation. From a distance, behind the camera, all the servants, marshalled in their feast-day clothes for the occasion by Petrossian, stood and stared at us, the gardeners solemn and the maids trying to control their giggles as they muttered obscenities. The Baron, for some reason, had always been a special target for their venom. The ritual words, always uttered on occasions of this sort where the family and the servants were together, were spoken by Uncle Memed, who walked to where the retainers were gathered, smiled and said: “Allah be praised. It seems that festive looks are all the fashion.” The Baron nearly choked with disgust at this totally meaningless display of formality.

The first photograph taken, we were all seated in chairs with Orhan in the centre and behind us came Petrossian, flanked by Rustem the Bosnian, who was the principal chef and controller of the kitchen and, next to him, Luka the Albanian, the head gardener, and Hasan Baba. This photograph, too, passed off without incident. Then a couple of benches were placed behind Petrossian’s row and everyone clambered aboard them. The noise increased till my mother stood up and raised her hand, demanding silence. The ordeal could not last much longer.

As the participants in the photograph disbanded and returned to their posts, Iskander Pasha sent for Giulio Bragadini. He showed him a note. The photographer appeared to be puzzled. Petrossian and I both hurried forward to help Father. Giulio showed me the piece of paper. On it was written: “Now please take a photograph of me alone with Zakiye.” I signalled in the direction of Hasan Baba. He understood immediately. He removed all the chairs except two. He told Giulio not to ask unnecessary questions, but to take the photograph. Petrossian shepherded the servants out of the garden. The family stayed behind. Father looked pleased, but he rushed indoors, indicating he would be back very soon. He could not have gone to relieve himself since he often did so in the garden.

Fifteen minutes later everyone gasped in astonishment. Iskander Pasha had returned dressed in the clothes of a dervish. None of us spoke. Giulio appeared to be delighted. He seated Iskander Pasha and tried to remove the empty chair lying next to him, but received such a ferocious scowl that he fluttered away to his camera. Iskander Pasha refused to look at the camera. He insisted on smiling at the non-existent occupant of the empty chair, adjacent to his own and that is how he was photographed by Giulio Bragadini.

Afterwards nothing was said. We all acted as if it had been the most normal behaviour imaginable. Our reaction was wise. Some time later, that strange photograph, the outcome of a nostalgic mysticism that had seized Iskander Pasha that day, would travel the world and appear in most of the books on early photography. It would also, and this fact subsequently caused a great deal of merriment within our family, immortalise the name of Giulio Bragadini. The fame that his forebears had been denied by the old Sultans had finally been achieved as a result of a sudden whim on the part of a sad old man who had lost his power of speech. I was told that Giulio gave a public lecture in Paris on that photograph, explaining to his admiring listeners the many hours of planning and forethought that had been required to achieve the perfect texture and composition. News of his latest portraits often appeared in the artistic columns of the European press, but we must not be diverted. The fantasies of the Bragadinis have no real place in this story and I must not run ahead of my time. The past is difficult enough.

Everything had now been cleared. The events of the afternoon had become distant, but the change in Iskander Pasha could not be ignored. He decided that he did not wish us to visit his room after the evening meal.

“I do not crave your attention,” he wrote in his note, which was circulated to each of us in turn. “I yearn for solitude. You are all free to stay or return to your families.”

Uncle Memed had convened a family conclave to discuss the matter. All the participants of the photograph excepting Orhan and Iskander Pasha were present. We had invited Hasan Baba to join us for coffee. Who would be the first to speak? We looked at each other, offering silent encouragement to whoever wanted to begin. Unsurprisingly it was the Baron who spoke first.

“The worst reaction on our part would be an over-reaction. Knowing the history of this family, I thought his behaviour eccentric, but not a real cause for concern on our part. He was overcome by longing for Zakiye hanim and decided to honour her memory in our presence. I found it quite touching.”

Hasan Baba had been nodding vigorously while the Baron spoke. “I do not wish to offend anyone present, but to me Iskander Pasha’s behaviour is reassuring. He loved Zakiye hanim more than everything else in this world put together. He never stopped thinking of her. Salman Pasha suffered as a result since he was held to be the cause of her death. My advice is to be patient. I think, far from being mad, he has decided to become sane again.”

My mother usually remained silent on these occasions, but not today. “In the past he often spoke of Salman’s mother. He told me he could never love again. Charred wood, he used to say, can never be relit. I understood him perfectly. However, as we all know, he has always been a very private person. It is not his emotions that worry me, but his desire to display them in this fashion. Where will it all end?”

Salman cleared his throat. “I agree with my Aunt Hatije. His initial hostility to me is of little concern now. Naturally, I, too, wished I had seen my mother, though from what I have heard it is perfectly possible that she might have packed me in a bundle and run away from Istanbul. Hasan Baba knows this well. My mother shared the nomadic instinct of the early Ottomans. She was never happy in one place. It is pointless speculating about such matters. What worries me is the streak of insanity that runs through our family. Uncle Memed, when we were children you often spoke of one of our great-great-great-uncles whose insanity was legendary. The same blood courses through our veins.”

Memed began to laugh. “Great-great-great-uncle Ahmet. Well, he was very special. Even the Sultan smiled at his escapades. How many of you here know the story? Only Salman? This is odd. Perhaps the rest of you were shielded from it for your own sakes.