Tariq Ali - The Stone Woman

I showed her Istanbul. I took her to the oldest parts of the city. I sat with her on the edge of the water as the Golden Horn shimmered in the light of the full moon and we sipped the most delicious Istanbul coffee I have ever tasted.

I took her home. She saw the twins and held them in her arms. She met Halil, who liked her and was pleased I had found a friend. I asked to paint her and she was flattered and agreed. She was in Istanbul for one whole month and I painted every curve, every line of her face and body. She would not undress for me, but I imagined what was hidden underneath the folds and she was amazed at my accuracy.

Then she left for Florence. We wrote to each other regularly. She described the hills around Fiesole, the light just before sunset and just after dawn, the work she was doing and how much she missed my company. She wrote of seeing a painting, studying it for nearly an hour, trying to work out how many times the master had changed his mind, how many layers of paint had been used. She turned around to discuss it with me and became sad because I was not there looking at it with her. I was often overcome by an urge to leave everything here and join her in Florence, but Maria Galfalvy advised caution and I bowed to her experience. Instead, I would disappear with my sketchbook and draw Rachel as I pictured her in different parts of Istanbul. She lived in Florence for three years.

Now she has returned to Cairo and the leeches are gathering. Each mother wants Rachel for her son, which is not surprising. Her father is a wealthy Jew; she is very beautiful. There is an inevitability about her fate that fills me with melancholy. I am tired of living without her, Stone Woman. I will return to Cairo with my children. Rachel will have some of her own. We will console each other and paint each other and find a studio in Alexandria for the summer months when Cairo becomes unbearable.

And what of Halil? He will survive. He will find another wife, someone who will love and give him the pleasure he never had from me. I gave him two sons. I think I have done my duty.

I wish you could see this canvas. I have drawn you as a giant rock, Stone Woman, but only now do I see how much your eyes resemble those of Rachel.’

A messenger arrives from New York with a letter for Sara; Memed plots to marry Jo the Ugly to one of Kemal Pasha’s daughters

“WHO IS THAT NOISY son of a donkey?”

Emineh thought the remark was directed at Orhan and started giggling, but it was not the children who had disturbed my uncle. It was a very hot day and Uncle Memed had decided, wisely, to take his afternoon siesta out of doors in the shaded part of the garden, where the sea breezes make the heat tolerable. I was sitting in a chair next to him trying to make sense of Auguste Comte. The children were playing some stupid game, aiming unripe walnuts at each other from a distance.

What had wakened Uncle Memed was the noise of a carriage and strange voices from the front terrace. A gardener was walking towards us followed by a strange apparition. Uncle Memed raised himself and glared at the two men.

The gardener pointed towards me and retreated. The apparition gave Memed and me a slightly awkward bow and began to speak in the worst French I have ever heard in my whole life.

“I arrived a few weeks ago in Europe from New York. I have a packet to deliver to Madame Sara, the wife of Iskander Pasha, but I am under very strict instructions to deliver it only into her hands.”

Petrossian had appeared out of nowhere, annoyed that a stranger had breached our privacy. I told him to organise some refreshments for our visitor. I decided to put on my most sophisticated French accent.

“I will inform my mother of your arrival and see if she can receive you presently. What is your name, monsieur?”

“Er, Joseph Solomon, but Jo will do. Everyone calls me Jo.”

“Petrossian, please show Monsieur Jo to the reception room.”

As they walked away, Memed guffawed. “I’m glad you’re making him sweat in the punishment room.”

The name the Baron had given the ballroom after Yvette’s visit had become a long-running joke in the household.

“Did you notice,” my uncle continued, “how ugly he was? I mean really ugly. A perfect match for one of Kemal’s daughters. Come on, Nilofer, let us matchmake a little mischief. We shall tell Kemal’s wife that a new Sultan, a Sultan of money, has arrived from New York by the name of Jo the Ugly.”

I laughed. Memed was cruel, but accurate. It was not simply that Jo Solomon was ill at ease with himself. The suit he wore was far too tight and the armpits of the jacket were soaked. That in itself was unforgivable. What made it worse was that he was large and fat, with a plump, placid and pockmarked face dominated by a bulbous nose, reminding me of the diseased cucumbers discharged by our vegetable gardener into the sea. Was Jo the Ugly in need of a dowry? That was the question of the moment. If the answer was an affirmative, we might send him back to New York with a bride.

At first I took him to be a jeweller bringing a gift for my mother from Uncle Kemal, who was always sending us presents. But I realised that he was too badly dressed to be a messenger. And then I knew. He must be the son of Suleman.

What did that packet contain? I threw my dignity into the sea and ran towards the house, just in time to join my mother who was sedately descending the stairway. Before I could warn her that the visitor might be my half-brother, Petrossian threw open the door of the punishment room and amazed me by announcing in a grand voice and very good French accent: “Madame Iskander Pasha et Madame Nilofer Selim Pasha.”

We giggled at his audacity, but entered into the spirit of the comedy and, taking each other by the arm, swept grandly into the ballroom. Jo Solomon was impressed. Petrossian had understood his mentality very quickly. Jo the Ugly bowed to my mother.

“I am delighted you could receive me, madame. This is a very fantastical room. What a great palace you have here! I am Joseph Solomon, madame, and I have a packet which I was instructed by my late father to hand to you and you alone.”

Sara paled considerably. “Your late father?”

“Yes, madame. Suleman of Damascus, as you once knew him. He never ceased to speak of your family’s generosity.”

My mother sat down on the sofa and demanded some water. She looked at Jo the Ugly carefully. It was obvious that his presence angered her.

“I am sorry to hear that Suleman has passed away. You look nothing like him.”

Jo the Ugly handed the packet to my mother.

“He never stopped reminding me of that, madame.”

She moved to the seat near the window as I gave Jo the sickliest smile I could manage. He smiled back and at that moment I really felt ill. His mouth was maggot-infested. All his front teeth were stained a strange brownish-yellow and every single one had decayed at the edges. This was inhuman. I was relieved when Salman walked in, on Uncle Memed’s recommendation, to see this person for himself, as he later told me. I excused myself and went and sat with my mother at the other end of the room.

She had her back to Jo the Ugly and Salman and was weeping in silence. I put my arms around her. Silently, she handed me the letter she had just finished reading.

My dearest Sara,

Our capacity for self-deception is infinite and I have suffered all my life as a result. This is a letter of explanation, Sara. I will write the truth. It is futile for a dying man to do otherwise.

For the last six months I have been slowly dying. The doctors have no cure because they have no idea what beast is devouring my insides. It’s too late to regret that I became a painter rather than a physician. Who knows? I might have cured myself. Perhaps what is eating me is my own remorse, which has never left me since that fateful morning I boarded a ship destined for Liverpool and New York.