Tariq Ali - The Stone Woman

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The Stone Woman: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Each year, when the weather in Istanbul becomes unbearable, the family of Iskender Pasha, a re-tired Ottoman notable, retires to its summer palace overlooking the Sea of Marmara. It is 1899 and the last great Islamic empire is in serious trouble. A former tutor poses a question which the family has been refusing to confront for almost a century: 'Your Ottoman Empire is like a drunken prostitute, neither knowing nor caring who will take her next. Do I exaggerate, Memed?' The history of Iskender Pasha's family mirrors the growing degeneration of the Empire they have served for the last five hundred years. This passionate story of masters and servants, school-teachers and painters, is marked by jealousies, vendettas and, with the decay of the Empire, a new generation which is deeply hostile to the half-truths and myths of the 'golden days.'
is the third novel of Tariq Ali's 'Islam Quartet'. Like its predecessors—
and
—its power lies both in the story-telling and the challenge it poses to stereotyped images of life under Islam.

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“I’m pleased you’re still alive, Ata. Heaven alone could have helped me if Allah had decided to make us orphans. This brute of a brother of mine would have ordered Petrossian to strangle me with a silken cord.”

The thought was so ridiculous that a smile appeared on the face of the old man, a signal for the loud laughter from the entire assembly that woke me so rudely. But the headache had disappeared and I jumped out of bed, wet my face with water and ran downstairs to greet them. I arrived in time to see Halil take Orhan in his arms. He tickled the boy’s neck with his moustache and then threw him up into the air, hugging him warmly as he came down again. Then he introduced Orhan to the uncle he had never seen. Orhan looked at the new uncle with a shy smile and Salman awkwardly patted the boy on the head.

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.

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