Tariq Ali - The Stone Woman

It was while we were feasting that a coach drew up and a man of medium height with thick grey hair stepped out and began to breathe the sea air. Petrossian, ever watchful, had heard the noise of the wheels on the gravel. He rushed to receive the guest.

“Glad you’re still here, Petrossian.” The man’s voice was strangely familiar. “What in the name of Allah is going on here? Is it a wedding or a funeral?”

“A funeral, Kemal Aga. Old Hasan Baba died in his sleep last night.”

When did Uncle Kemal return to Istanbul? I rushed to find Salman, and we both went to greet him.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Petrossian,” said Uncle Kemal. “I’ll miss the old rogue, even though he used to cut my hair too short when I was a boy. He claimed he was carrying out our mother’s instructions, but I’m not so sure. Salman! Good to see you again, my boy. And you’re smiling again.”

The two men embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks.

“And you?” he said, inspecting me carefully. “Which one are you?”

I laughed at his frankness. “Nilofer.”

“Of course! Can’t see your green eyes. Pity they don’t shine in the dark. Where are your children? I’m sorry about the Greek school teacher. Very bad news.”

“She’s married again,” Salman informed him.

“Good,” said Uncle Kemal. “I hate long waits myself. And here are my brothers.”

After they had hugged each other and laughed, Uncle Kemal demanded a room, a bath and a meal.

“I was looking forward to not hearing you speak, Iskander. It would have made a change in my life. Trust my luck. I return and hear that you’ve recovered your speech. All the way back on the ship I was dreaming of how I would entertain you with my stories and how you would not be able to interrupt me with a stupid joke, but no. This was not to be. Why couldn’t you have waited another week?”

The brothers laughed and escorted Uncle Kemal to his room. He was exhausted and did not come down again. Petrossian took some food and wine to his room and, no doubt, answered his questions on the state of the family. It was only when Petrossian came down that my mother asked when Kemal had returned to Istanbul.

“His ship docked at the harbour at lunch time, hanim effendi ,” said Petrossian. “He went home, ordered a coach to bring him here and did not stay at his house long enough to change his clothes.”

My mother burst out laughing. “What a strange man your uncle has become! If he can’t bear the sight of them, why doesn’t he do something?”

“But he does, Mother Hatije.” Salman had joined us in the library and now shut the windows to keep out the noise of the musicians. “He travels the whole world and avoids their company. I think he’s happy with this life. He could divorce his wife, but he would still have to maintain her and his ugly daughters, so why bother? I think it suits everyone concerned.”

“Is he really happy, Salman?” asked my mother.

“Which of us is really happy, Mother Hatije? I don’t believe there is any such thing as real happiness. It’s an invention of the poets. All our lives go through different stages and one of these is usually happiness, but does it last for ever? I do not believe so. There is permanent emotional disorder in our lives, which does not permit any settlement of the happiness question. Nilofer disapproves of my theory?”

“Selim and I are very happy together, Salman!”

“And long may you remain so, my beautiful Nilofer. I would never deny that there are exceptions to my rule, but far from contradicting what I have said they prove the exact opposite. Uncle Kemal seems to be very cheerful, which is not a good sign. It means he will start his stories at breakfast and we will still be listening to them when the evening meal is being served. I am going to bed so I can build up the necessary energy to survive tomorrow. Peace be upon you both. One more thing, Nilofer, lest I forget. Please tell Selim that his song moved me deeply. I was weeping like everyone else. He has a very fine voice. It will be wasted in the army.”

I was about to go into the garden again and sit with Selim, but my mother advised me to leave him on his own tonight. She felt it was better if he bade farewell to Hasan Baba in his own way, without any restrictions. I had left sharing a goblet of wine with the musicians and had promised to go back, but Mother convinced me otherwise.

“It is likely he will stay up all night and sing again at the grave when the sun rises. Let him be. It’s a beautiful night. Come with me and have some mint tea.”

I was exhausted. My mother gently massaged my neck while I sipped the tea. For a long time we did not speak. She had not done this for such a long time that the touch of her hands brought all the emotions of the day to a head. I felt weak and overpowered, and tears began to wash my cheeks. My mother remained silent as she wiped the tears away and kissed me. I told her then of the offer Iskander Pasha had made regarding a trip to New York to see my real father. This surprised Sara as much as it pleased her, but she approved strongly of what he had said regarding blood relations.

“You know, Nilofer, if Suleman were to see you now he would be embarrassed. Your presence would be a permanent reminder of his cowardice. Even if he wanted to, he could never love and appreciate you as much as Iskander Pasha.”

I agreed with her, but if this was the case with me, surely it could have been the same for her. Why had she not even tried to fall in love with her new husband?

“You’re a great one for clever phrases, Nilofer. Look what happened when you tried to fall in love with that poor skinny Greek. You convinced yourself beautifully and, alas, him. Look at the result. You left him. He got himself killed. My babies are fatherless and now you have fallen in love again. I know, I know. This time it’s the real thing. Well, I had the real thing and it let me down badly. I still think of his betrayal, you know. The other day I was thinking that even if we couldn’t have a child we should still have lived together. He should not have crumbled in the face of my father’s superior knowledge — which turned out to be wrong anyway — or his money. Perhaps we were not really suited to each other. My mother must have said that a hundred times each day. My Uncle Sifrah echoed her when he came to our house for his weekly lunch. All my friends repeated it after he had run away to New York. They never said that when we were happy together. Never when I told them of my adventures with Suleman. Never when they saw us together on a few rare occasions and noticed how close and natural we were with each other. It was only after it was all over, and he had deserted me like the little rat he was about to become, that everyone suddenly discovered how bad we were for each other. I knew it was rubbish, but I believed them at the time. I wanted to believe them. I had to believe them. It was the only way to rebuild my life again and move on.”

I sat up cross-legged directly opposite her and looked straight into her eyes.

“Don’t do that, Nilofer. It reminds me of him.”

She was in an impossible mood, but I persisted. “Listen, I know what you felt about him and why you’re still angry, almost thirty years later, but that is not what I am asking you. You still talk as if it happened yesterday. The wounds can’t possibly still be hurting, Mother. I was asking you something else. Five or ten or twenty years after I was born, you could still have tried and made Iskander Pasha love you. He’s such a lovely person and—”

“Stop it, Nilofer! I’ve had enough of this nonsense. My husband is a good and generous man and I am attached to him. There is no tension in our relationship, but nor is there much passion. Neither of us wants anything else. So spare me your matchmaking at this stage of my life and concentrate on your own happiness. Sometimes I think there is too much romance in you. You are too impulsive. Too instinctive. You don’t think before you act.”