Tariq Ali - The Stone Woman

It was difficult to breach the silence. Young children experience the death of a parent or grandparent in different ways. It is so remote from them that they find it difficult to comprehend its finality. I remember when the mother of Zeynep and Halil died. She had always been nice to me, treating me in much the same way as she did her own two children. We were all upset when she died so suddenly, but I don’t remember any of us crying. It had seemed unreal. I know that I would have liked Iskander Pasha or Sara or Petrossian or any grown-up to talk about it, to tell us what had happened and why, but they never did, assuming, perhaps, that because the feelings of children are still undeveloped they can be left to heal on their own.

I began to talk to my children. I told them what a loving father Dmitri had been and because of that I would always cherish his memory. I spoke of the letter he had written me and told them they could read it whenever they wished, but they might understand it better in a few years’ time. I did not lie or exaggerate. I did not wish to be insincere even in the slightest degree. It is not easy to discuss the death of a father with young children. Orhan noticed I was about to cry and he sought to divert me.

“Selim says that the men who killed Father are ruffians, worse than animals. He says they will soon be found and punished. Is that true, Mother?”

“I don’t know, child. I doubt it myself. We are living in very uncertain times. The old order we have known all our lives is dying. The Sultan is no longer powerful and the Empire of which Petrossian speaks has itself become a fairy-tale now. Everything is being taken away and nothing is ready to take its place. It is this that turns many ordinary people into madmen and assassins. They do not know what lies ahead and they find it convenient to blame everyone except those who are to blame. They cannot do anything about the Sultan or the Great Powers who are dismantling our country. In the face of the real enemy they are powerless. Killing a few Greeks makes them feel better. Whatever happens to those who killed him won’t bring your father back to life. Do you understand me, Orhan?”

“Of course I do. I’m not stupid. What will happen to father’s books? Did the ruffians burn them all?”

“We know that all his books are safe, including all those notebooks in which he used to scribble so much and the copies of all his reports on the schools he inspected. Everything is intact. It shall be kept for both of you.”

“Where will we live now?” asked Emineh.

“In Istanbul, in a house which neither of you has seen. That’s where I grew up.”

“Is it as big as this house?”

“No, Emineh, no!” I held her close to me. “Much smaller, but don’t worry. It’s large enough for both of you to have your own room.”

Hasan Baba was approaching us and Orhan began to giggle.

“Emineh.” He looked at his sister with a mischievous grin. “Just wait and see what I do. I’ll make this old man laugh and you can see that he hasn’t got any teeth at all.”

“Then how does he eat?” asked Emineh.

Hasan Baba was dressed in a clean pair of trousers and a loose shirt. He had shaved and his bald head was, uncharacteristically, covered by a black cloth cap. I had never seen it on him before, but it was vaguely familiar. It made the children smile.

“It looks like the cap we saw on that funny performing monkey in Konya. Remember, Emineh?”

Orhan’s memory was accurate. The children burst out laughing. I controlled my own laughter with some difficulty.

“Allah bless you, grandchildren and daughter of Iskander Pasha,” the old man began to wail. “Allah will protect you. What a tragedy has befallen our household. Rogues and ruffians are assembling in all our cities. Where will it end?”

The condolences over, he patted both children on the head.

“Hasan Baba,” Orhan said with a completely straight face, “tell us the story of the Grand Vizier with square testicles.”

I pretended I had not heard the remark, but it did make the old man laugh and Emineh gasped in awe at his empty mouth. Both children ran away to laugh in private.

I was pleased to be alone with the old man. I told him of my conversation with Iskander Pasha earlier that day and how surprised I had been by his warmth and openness. Naturally I did not mention the subject of my own father. Hasan Baba smiled and nodded sagely.

“He was always like this as a child and a young man. The death of Zakiye hanim changed everything. In the Ottoman lands he played the part of a strong nobleman well. It was the same when he acted the strong father who tolerated no insubordination and whose daily routines were fixed and irreversible. What I can’t understand is how he could carry on like this for such a long time. I know it often tired him. Sometimes when I was shaving him, which I did every morning as you probably recall, he would look at me and wink. That’s all. No smile. Not say anything I might repeat in the kitchen and which would get back to the house, but just wink. That was the only message he sent to the outside world.

“It was different when we were in Paris. He was much more like his old self then and even though he had to dress in his robes and turban on official occasions, underneath it all he was the dervish , constantly mocking their ignorance, but drinking in the knowledge. We all did that — and not just knowledge. The wine cellar in the Ottoman embassy in Paris was considered to be the best in Europe. Those French women fawned over him as if he were a beautiful stallion. They would feign innocence and ask after the Sultan: ‘Excellency, is it true that the Grand Seignior still keeps a harem with twenty women?’ Iskander Pasha would stretch himself as high as he could, fold his arms and reply in a deep voice: ‘Twenty, madame. That is even less than the size of my own harem. The Sultan, may his reign last long and may Allah give him strength to fornicate every day, has three hundred and twenty-six women to serve his needs. A new one for each day except during the month of fasting, when he prefers young boys from the Yemen.’ They would pretend to scream and faint, but this was only a cover to conceal the turbulence and anticipatory excitement that lay underneath their long dresses. Forgive me, Nilofer hanim. I forgot myself.”

I smiled. “Hasan Baba, you are of a certain age and wisdom and you must always say what you wish in my presence or that of anyone else in this family. I do not like formality or ceremony any more than the real Iskander Pasha does. What you’re saying is that he was his true self only when he was abroad, but was transformed into a totally different person at home. Did this not cause some mental imbalance?”

The old man became pensive.

“I had never thought about that before, but perhaps it did and perhaps that incident with the photograph was the first manifestation of this imbalance. Allah help us. Allah protect us. Everything is reaching its conclusion.”

Sara recounts her dream to the Stone Woman, igniting other memories and a few bitternesses

‘LAST NIGHT I SAW Suleman in a dream again after almost twenty years, Stone Woman. Do you remember when I first came here? I was still young. I was nursing a wounded hurt and my child at the same time. Nilofer was about seven or eight months old. I remember coming here and weeping at your feet. I know you have no feet, but if they had existed they would have been where I wept that day. I thought I heard you speak. A voice asked me what was wrong and I remember saying: “The one I love has gone far away.” And then your voice said something very sad and beautiful: “Love is the longing of the flute for the bed from which the reed was torn. Try and forget.” I did try, but I never could forget. However, I did become accustomed to his absence. Time can never completely heal our inner wounds, but it softens the pain.