Tariq Ali - The Stone Woman

He declares himself for the republic, but only if it has Gambetta at its head and isolates the hotheads of the extreme left. Another guest, whose name I cannot remember, collapsed at the table, exclaiming that he had seen the most terrifying vision imaginable. Everyone stopped talking in order to listen to him. He spoke of the large amount of oil outside the gates of Paris, and his fears that the Prussians will throw it into the Seine and set it alight, burning the banks on both sides, just as the Ottoman Admiral Barbarossa threatened to do to Venice. Everyone looked at me for confirmation. I smiled.

I began to feel suffocated by the evening and took my leave. Montmorency said to me: “Don’t treat us too badly in the despatches you send to Istanbul. It is all the fault of the Emperor.” I smiled and said nothing.

23 September 1870

There is a terrible shortage of food in the city. As the Prussian artillery fire hits Paris, people complain of the lack of fresh vegetables and meat. Some restaurants are closing down. Others are beginning to serve horseflesh, while pretending it is beef fillet. Yesterday I was told that there were no more oysters available. There has got to be a revolution.

21 October 1870

A stranger delivered a very large parcel to the embassy. Petrossian was nervous, but brought it to my office with the attached letter. I cannot believe that he managed to do this. The letter is in the familiar hand of the Baron. He’s remembered my birthday and the parcel contains the following: 2 bottles of champagne, a dozen oysters, a bottle of claret, a large piece of beef fillet, mushrooms, truffles, potatoes and, unbelievably, fresh lettuce. The cook, not knowing the Baron, was even more amazed than I am. I shared the feast with the others, though Hasan insisted that the wine he drank when he invaded the palace with the crowd was much better — as was the company. I toasted the Baron and wonder whether he is with the Prussian Army outside Paris.

31 October 1870

Everywhere I hear cries of “ Vive la Commune ”. I walked with Petrossian (who has armed himself to defend us in case of attack) and Hasan Baba to the Hotel de Ville, where the embattled government realises its isolation. I fear that France is on the verge of a civil war. Paris is for the Commune, but it is isolated and will be crushed. I do not wish this to happen, but it seems inevitable.

7 November 1870

The Prussians have rejected the French call for an Armistice. Bismarck’s Memorandum shows the iron will of the German leader. He has no equivalent in France. This Government, which has done so little to defend itself against a foreign enemy, is preparing seriously to take the offensive against its own citizens. A fresh egg, our cook now informs me, costs 25 sous.

“What are you reading, child?”

The Baron had arrived for breakfast and I put the journal away.

“Iskander Pasha’s diaries of 1870 in Paris. You’re mentioned.”

He laughed. “The food parcel on his birthday?”

I nodded. “How did you do that? Were you actually there on the other side?”

“Yes, of course. Surely you agree that Bismarck was more progressive than that coxcomb Napoleon the 103rd or whatever he called himself. Utter scoundrel. Disgraced the name of his great forebear. Memed was very tickled that I had managed to get that parcel in on Iskander’s birthday.”

“Yes, I was,” said Uncle Memed, yawning as he joined us at the table. He wanted to know why we were discussing the parcel. When I told him, he immediately took the journal from me.

“Hmm. I will read this later. Did you know that your Selim’s grandfather played a heroic role in that ill-fated encounter?”

“Yes, but I hadn’t reached that bit and…”

“When he first came back from Paris, Hasan was determined to organise a Commune in Istanbul. I think the Baron pointed out to him that it was foolish to mimic a defeat. Do you remember how angry he became, Baron?”

“Yes, yes. I remember. The problem was not so much copying a defeat, but the fact that the Istanbul crowd was still fiercely attached to the bloody mosques. The Parisians, thanks to 1789, had been cured of that disease. They were ferociously anti-clerical.”

“You’re right, Baron,” said my father as he inspected the state of the table and noticed the absence of eggs, without which his day was incomplete. “Petrossian! I’m here. My eggs, please. Why are we discussing France, Baron?”

I explained for the third time that morning.

“As a matter of fact, it was the shortage of eggs during that siege, Baron, which made me pledge that once it was over I would never be without eggs ever again. It’s all your fault.”

Memed tittered softly. The Baron was pleased to be the centre of attention.

“Father,” I asked him, “was Hasan Baba really affected by it all?”

“Yes, we all were. Petrossian became very excited as well, but the execution of the Communards by Thiers and his soldiers changed him around again. I think he saw the power of the state and it frightened him. Thiers was a bloodthirsty butcher. But Hasan was unshakeable. I agree with the Baron on Istanbul. We never had our 1789, let alone 1793. If that had happened here everything could have been different.”

My father’s scrambled eggs had arrived, complete with a sprinkling of fresh coriander and black pepper. As he busied himself with his breakfast, the Baron resumed the conversation.

“Yes, Iskander, but the whole point is that it could not happen here. In France there was an aristocracy that sucked the blood of its peasantry. Here, the Ottoman state was everything: Mosque, Sultan, Owner of the Land and Controller of the Army. That was its strength, as Machiavelli pointed out, but also its weakness. Your family was given fiefs by the Sultan in return for your services, but Yusuf Pasha of blessed memory had no power or land on which to raise his own army. In England and France the nobles were like miniature kings. Not here.”

“Baron,” pleaded Memed. “Please! Not while we’re eating breakfast. You know how fragile I feel at this time of the day.”

I could have kissed my uncle. I knew exactly how he felt.

“Does anyone in the house know where Halil has been for the last two days? Nilofer? You’re part of the conspiracy, aren’t you?”

I chose to ignore the provocation. Iskander Pasha was not convinced by the Committee and had been shaken by the affair of the eunuch-general. He had told Halil to be very careful and not to think that the eunuch was either the first or the last person to spy and report on them. It was a father’s concern for his son’s safety, but I felt there was something else as well. His Paris journals had revealed a side of him that had previously escaped my notice. The thought had not occurred to me before, but given the two sides of his emotional character, might there not be a similar dichotomy in the rest of his life?

There was the urbane Iskander Pasha in Istanbul who, dressed in formal clothes, called on the Vizier once a week and floated through the evening effortlessly while banalities were exchanged on the state of the Empire and the health of the Sultan. His face remained expressionless when he was entertaining visiting dignitaries at our house in Istanbul. But the charming smiles and the display of surface calm was a pure deception. This was the same man whose fists were often clenched in pain and anger. The journals were the strongest indication of this, even though he had been a young man at the time.

He was obviously worried that Halil might end up in prison or worse, but he was also irritated at being excluded from the affairs of the Committee, especially as he knew that I was involved. My interest in politics had been limited till the arrival of Selim in our house. The storms of passion he aroused had shaken the very core of my life. I had to rethink many things, both in my inner life and the world outside. These were things I had always taken for granted, such as the conviction that I and no other person would ever be in control of my emotions, and the idea of the Empire as something eternal. Iskander Pasha was looking at me impatiently.