Tariq Ali - The Stone Woman

All my love was diverted to our child, Nilofer. As she grew older, she would laugh just like Suleman used to laugh when we were on our own. A deep, throaty, abandoned laugh. I cannot believe he laughs like that with anyone else, but I’m probably deluding myself. People who have been betrayed in love often fall prey to self-deception.

The dream I had last night was not a nice dream, Stone Woman, and it would not stop. It went on for most of the night, or so it seemed to me. When it finally woke me up, I was in a state of great agitation. My body was covered with sweat. My throat was completely parched and I consumed a whole jug of water.

My Suleman looked so different in the dream, Stone Woman, that I could not bear the sight of him. His hair had gone white and his slim body, which I used to love for its feminine softness, had hardened. He was now bloated and ugly. That was the first shock. He was naked in bed with a very young woman. She could not have more than twenty-four or twenty-five years old. She must have been one of his models, because there was a canvas not far from the bed and even in my dream I noticed that the breasts matched. I did not object to the model at all. I preferred him to be with anyone but his wife.

Then two other women entered the room in my dream. I suppose the fat ugly woman must have been his wife and the other one her friend or sister. They screamed at the naked pair. His wife took a paint brush and began to whip Suleman. Her friend suddenly produced a bottle and began to pour liquid on the model. The poor young thing screamed in anguish. I can still hear her and see her disfigured face. She was blinded in one eye and ran out of the room naked. While all this was happening Suleman lay helpless. He did not help the woman or try and stop the other two from harming her. It was when they moved towards him with knives in their hands that he shouted my name three times: “Sara! Sara! Sara!” At this point I sat up in bed trembling. It was not yet dawn.

I have never been superstitious or believed in signs or omens, Stone Woman, but this was so real. You know me well. We have spoken often since I first came here though I admit I have avoided you for the last few years. But this dream has become a load on my heart. It is a premonition. I feel he is in trouble or perhaps even close to death. As you know, I never forgot Suleman, but I was very disappointed in him and, deep down I can’t rid myself of the feeling that my father paid him a very large sum of money to help him establish himself in New York and give me up.

Poor Suleman. He was always a deeply insecure man. His own parents had, in their different ways, abandoned him. He longed to be part of a family and always wanted to please and be praised in return. He was never like that with me, but this craving for some form of recognition was embedded in his character.

If he had stayed on in Istanbul for another year and not rushed to New York and married the first woman who made eyes at him, I would have told him that we had a beautiful daughter and that all the fears regarding our children had been unfounded. If he loved me still I would have asked Iskander Pasha for my freedom and run away with Suleman to Damascus or anywhere else where we could start a new life. My parents would have found the scandal unbearable and Father might have lost a few wealthy patients, but none of that would have affected my decision in any way.

My love for him used to be so strong, but he chose to run away. He said the very thought of life without me in Istanbul was unbearable, that he would die rather than see me in public with another man, but all this proves is that the roots of his love did not go very deep. He said he could not stay in the Ottoman lands for wherever one was in the decaying Empire, one always dreamt of Istanbul. With the kind help of my father he decided on New York.

We have some family there, but they are so well integrated that they look down on those of us who settled here. We are too backward for them, but not for the letters of credit from the firm of my maternal uncle. Our wealth, however, is perfectly acceptable. How much did my father pay Suleman? I never wanted to know at the time, but now this question has begun to nag me. It won’t go away. His papers are still there in the house.

For a long time I avoided my own childhood home. My pain was so great, Stone Woman. I used to weep and pray for an inner strength that would help me forget, but whenever I went home I would hear his voice whispering to me: “Sara, are we alone? Are they all out? Should we go to your room or mine?” I last went when my father died. It was the first time I did not hear Suleman’s whisper in my ear.

Several months later, my mother showed me the letter she had received from him. In it he had made no mention of me, not even as a courtesy. Perhaps his conscience troubles him. Guilt, my daughter Nilofer tells me, can become both a self-protective and a self-deceptive emotion. Incapable of mentioning me, he wrote instead of his high regard for my father and how he would never forget the kindnesses he had been shown by our family. Kindnesses. I felt overcome by nausea. Towards the end of the letter he wrote that he was sure my mother would be pleased to hear that his wife was pregnant again. My mother may well have been pleased. She has never got over the fact that I was their only child and that she failed to produce a son to carry on my father’s healing tradition. As you can imagine, Stone Woman, my feelings on reading this were not warm. The sow, I remember thinking to myself. How many little pigs will she produce before she dies? My one Nilofer is worth all of them ten times over.

I will return to my home when this strange summer is finally over, Stone Woman. I will read all the letters. I want to know the exact number of silver pieces he took to forget me. Did he give my father a receipt for the kindnesses? Mother is, alas, getting too old to remember anything. Her memory has almost gone. Sometimes she doesn’t recognise me. What should I do, Stone Woman? I need to know that he is well. I cannot stay calm until I find out. I will write to my Uncle Sifrah in Istanbul to see if he can send a telegram immediately. Suleman has, in the past, done some work for their branch in New York and my uncle will find out if all is well or whether my fears are well founded.

Dreams are funny things. Why did such a dream ever enter my head? Why do we dream what we dream? Is there a simple answer, or is it what my father used to call an insoluble problem? I remember him saying to the guests at one of his dinner parties that there was a doctor in Paris and, I think, in Vienna who were both doing a lot of work on dreams. Have you ever heard of the Viennese doctor, Stone Woman? I can’t quite remember his name.

This dream may have changed more than I can imagine.

For a long time when Iskander Pasha used to come to me at night, I would shut my eyes and think it was still Suleman. I could not do this all the time because Iskander Pasha is a big man and bearing his weight was very different, but at the point when union dissolves into pure pleasure the image in my mind was that of my lost lover from Damascus. In that way I could enjoy the experience, but still love my Suleman. Iskander Pasha’s visits became less and less frequent, till a few weeks ago. Once again the image of Suleman entered my head, but now I have a very real problem. This dream has ruined everything. I can never imagine the old Suleman ever again. The cruel image of the dream has taken over. Perhaps I will now have to think of Iskander Pasha and him alone? The prospect is not as unpleasing as it might have been before. Something has changed in him.’

Memed and the Baron have an argument on Islamic history in which Memed is worsted; Iskander Pasha recovers his power of speech, but prefers to thank Auguste Comte rather than Allah