Tariq Ali - The Stone Woman

“And the Jews of Istanbul and Salonika?”

“They will remain Jews. Why should there be a conflict?”

“And what of the Greeks who do not wish to leave Istanbul or Izmir? They would prefer to remain Ottoman, but you will either force them to be Turks or drive them into the sea. That is what my brother Salman fears might happen.”

Selim did not reply. His hands had begun to wander across my body. It was a convenient but pleasant way to end our argument. I offered no resistance to the young Turk rising between his legs. My Selim would never be a eunuch-general.

A mysterious Frenchwoman of uncertain disposition arrives unexpectedly and demands to see Iskander Pasha, who later reveals how he used to spy on a married woman in the baths in Istanbul

“A FRENCH LADY HAS arrived to see your father, but Iskander Pasha is not at home. He has gone for a walk with Selim and the children. Will you please come down and receive her?”

Petrossian had been running up the stairs and was out of breath. It was unlike him to lose his calm over the arrival of a visitor, however unexpected.

“Have you shown her to the reception room? Offer her some refreshments. I will be down in a minute.”

I hurriedly brushed my hair, examined myself in the mirror to make sure I was presentable, and descended at a dignified pace to receive the French woman. In the hall just outside the reception room, I encountered Petrossian and Hasan Baba, deep in a conspiracy. They fell silent at my approach. I had entered this room twice since I arrived here and on both occasions the reason was the same: Orhan and Emineh wanted to see every room in the house and I was forced to humour them.

This room was so large that my family rarely used it, even when there were visitors. They sat either in the garden or in the library. Yusuf Pasha had insisted on the size, despite the objections of the architect. Our ancestor had wanted a ballroom on the European model so that he could entertain his friends, including European ambassadors, in a grand style. Later, orchestras were hired from Istanbul to play for special occasions, but those days were over. The room was furnished in an opulent French style, though the summer sun had faded the rich colours. Iskander Pasha claimed that neither the fabrics nor the furniture had been touched since the house was built.

The Frenchwoman was standing by the open windows and admiring the view out towards the sea. I mustered my best French to greet her.

“Bonjour, madame.”

She turned round and smiled.

“You must be Nilofer. Your father mentioned you often and described your green eyes to me in great detail. You are very beautiful.”

“Thank you, madame, but I really have no idea who you are or why you are here, but whatever the reason, welcome to our house.”

Her laughter was genuine. “My name is Yvette de Montmorency. My husband, or should I say my second husband, is Vicomte Paul-Henri de Montmorency. He is the new French ambassador to Istanbul. We both knew your father well when he was Ambassador of His Most Exalted Majesty in Paris. I heard you were in your summer residence and I thought I would come here and surprise you.”

I smiled politely. I took an instinctive dislike to her. She was wearing a crimson dress and the layers of make-up on her face did not succeed in concealing her age. She must have been approaching her sixtieth birthday. Her corset was tied very tight because the lift of her breasts was too pronounced and, as a result, unconvincing. How could she bear the discomfort? She was of medium height and, I must admit, well preserved for her age. The rolls of fat on her neck were still under control, though the tiny hairs that had sprouted on her upper lip had been removed a bit too effectively; the resulting smoothness was false.

“Well, you certainly have surprised me, madame. My father, who is out with his grandchildren, has never mentioned you or the Vicomte. The only Comte ever mentioned in this house is Auguste Comte. Are you by any chance familiar with his works?”

She shook her head in horror. “He was not a real Comte! You know that, of course. He was a dangerous radical and the Vicomte’s uncle, the late Bishop of Chartres, had to denounce his teachings in church in very strong fashion. Oh no!”

To my utter delight, something that I had been secretly wishing for was granted the moment the thought crossed my mind. The Baron and Uncle Memed walked into the room and gave us both an exaggerated, but very comical bow. I made the introductions using the Baron’s full name and stressing his title. Yvette began to simper with delight. I noticed the slight rise in the Baron’s temperature and left the room on the pretext of organising some refreshments.

My serenity disappeared the minute I stepped outside the door. I was assailed by a wave of giggles, which I could not control. I slumped on the stairs and tried to stop my laughter, but without success. Hasan Baba came and sat next to me on a stair. I hugged him and carried on laughing. He smiled.

“Why does she make you laugh so much?”

“Who is she, Hasan Baba? Who is she?”

He looked around to see if we were completely alone.

“Now, I am not telling you this and you never heard it from me! Blame Petrossian if you have to name anyone. Please blame him. He is so discreet. It would be good to destroy his reputation. Who is she? Let me tell you. Many years ago in Paris, for a few weeks only, she became your father’s wife.”

The information sobered me instantaneously. “What? I can’t believe this!”

“It was nothing serious. She came to a reception at our embassy and was entranced by the Ottoman experience. Iskander Pasha did those things in great style. Once I remember he told us all to dress like dervishes and sing Sufi songs in the presence of the British ambassador just to avoid discussing anything serious. He said it was a special day when we could do nothing but listen to devotional songs and once a guest entered he could not leave till the singing was over. If the dervishes observed any person leaving the room they could rush after him and stab him with a devotional dagger. The Englishman was allowed to leave after an hour.”

“That is funny, Hasan Baba, but what about this woman?”

The old man started laughing at the memory. “She refused to share his bed unless he married her. He summoned Petrossian and me to the bedroom and told me, with a wink, to marry them. Petrossian signed a piece of paper witnessing the event. I muttered some nonsense and put their hands together. Iskander Pasha told her they were now married and he asked us to leave the room, making sure I took the signed paper with me. After being pleasured for three or four weeks, he tired of her. She was divorced in our presence in the same room, but they parted on good terms. I think she realised the ceremony wasn’t serious, though if we had wanted it could have been a formal marriage. A few months later he was invited to attend her wedding to some aristocrat. She had been engaged to him all the time.”

“Did the lustful Turk attend?”

“Of course. He is very proper on these questions. He went dressed in full Ottoman regalia, including a ceremonial sword, with Petrossian accompanying him in the uniform of a janissary, even though the janissaries had been abolished by then.”

“Why do you think she’s here?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders as Orhan and Emineh burst into the house with shells of different colours, their faces rosy with exertion. My father and Selim followed a few minutes later.

“A guest awaits you in the reception room, Father.”

“Why the reception room?”

“Petrossian thought it was appropriate and I agreed.”