by Defne Suman
‘Your mother, unfortunately… did not survive the Great Fire.’
When I let go of his chin, the chair rocked back and forth a few times. Avinash was gripping its arms in fear. I kicked the slippers off my feet, lay back on the bed and lost myself looking at the scrap of Sumbul’s pink sash that still hung from the beam. Another warplane zoomed by above us. I closed my eyes and thought of Akis, in a settlement outside Athens, grieving for the rest of his life; of Katina swallowed in flames; of the lives and dreams destroyed by war; of my youth, also destroyed by war. For some reason I mourned most deeply not for my mother, who died in the most painful way imaginable, but for my father, who lost everyone he loved on earth and died all alone in exile.
By the time Avinash began to speak again, the sea breeze had picked up and my tower was filled with the rosy light of evening. The neighbours in Nea Smyrna had been unanimous in claiming that Grocer Akis’s daughter, like her mother, had died in Smyrna. Some had seen me being lifted up by a Turkish officer and thrown over the back of his horse just as I was about to jump into the sea. They had raped me behind Gumruk, as they had the other girls, then slit my throat.
That’s what they told Avinash.
A woman who had been raped many times by soldiers but had managed to stay alive said that she’d been at my side when they cut my throat. When I pictured my father all alone in that settlement imagining such scenes, I again began to cry.
My God! Who deserved that much pain?
After hearing those stories, Avinash returned to Izmir and rented that old house in Tilkilik, where years later his body would be found in front of the fireplace. Apparently, he wanted to die in the city where he had met his one and only love, where he had spent the best years of his life. But death forgot him, just as it has forgotten me.
A quarter of a century passed and still Avinash had not died.
Almighty God had not taken his soul because the universe was waiting for the coincidence to arise that would bring him to me. That’s what he said. If he wasn’t a nutcase, then what was he? But as it turned out, that crazy theory of his proved to be true. One spring morning, the day after his ninety-fourth birthday, Avinash Pillai left his house in Tilkilik and was on his way to the coffeehouse beside the Hatuniye Mosque, when he ran into Gypsy Yasemin. The peddler wasn’t at all surprised to see him; in fact, it was almost as if she’d been waiting for him, there, in that deserted passageway behind the mosque.
‘Well, you have finally come, Avinash Efendi,’ she said. ‘Please, follow me.’
As I’ve said, Avinash was pushing a hundred at that point. His spine was as crooked as the handle on a walking stick. His hair was still long but bore no trace of his erstwhile black curls and fell down his back like a silver rat’s tail. As for his beard, it was down to his belly. He was skinny, as puny as could be; you could count the ribs beneath his shirt. They probably treated him like a white-haired crazy in those old neighbourhoods. He still attended the music sessions at the Dervish lodge, he said. I thought the Mustafa Kemal Pasha had ordered all those lodges closed, so either there were still some underground meetings or our Avinash really had lost his marbles. He also claimed that he’d walked all the way here, to the Mansion with the Tower, from there, following behind Yasemin. Yasemin wasn’t any younger than he was, so I don’t know how they managed to get here from Tilkilik.
I’m not minded to believe any of that Gypsy Yasemin nonsense, but I can’t think of any other way to explain how, out of the blue one morning, the former spy finally found me. He’d spent thirty years searching for me without success, pounding the streets, interrogating old Smyrna residents in the suburbs of Piraeus and Athens, leafing through church records and population registers. If you asked Avinash, he’d say that Yasemin’s was one of those deaths that had to wait so that I could learn my story. Ah, Panagia mou, Mother of God! Where is this story straight that I should say this part is crooked?
On that day, just before dawn, when Midwife Meline returned from the Lamarck mansion and ran with the baby swaddled in her arms from the Greek Orphanage on the corner of Hadji Frangou to the French Hospital, Yasemin had been one of the gypsies reading fortunes on the corner of Chan Street. Avinash was impressed that the old gypsy had made the connection, but Yasemin had simply snapped back, ‘I added two and two and got four. Why are you surprised, Avinash Efendi?’ Avinash, however, maintained that Yasemin had used supernatural powers to determine how the story would end. I think the ancient spy had gone bananas. Anyway, thanks to Juliette Lamarck having acted on a last-minute whim – a whim that would cost her her life – he knew that an orphanage was involved in the story. Yasemin filled in the blanks. Everything slotted into place.
But let me not speak ill of the dead. He put a lot of effort into getting me to believe this story, which I thought was total nonsense at first. Because Edith stuffed all of Juliette Lamarck’s journals that had been kept in a locked box into a suitcase at the last minute while she was running from the fire, those journals have survived to this day. There were also photographs that had been taken over the following years in Paris, and diaries full of confessions that the woman had written as she got older. All of the letters and the diaries that survived were brought to the tower.
After Edith died, Avinash contacted her closest friend from the school in Paris, Feride. He even visited her at her home in Istanbul. Feride was aware that during Edith’s Christmas vacation in 1904, which was extended for two months because of her father’s illness, Edith had had a secret affair with a car repairman in Bournabat named Ali. She was pregnant when she returned to school. By May of 1905, her stomach had begun to show even under the loose school uniform and the nuns packed her off to Marseille, where she boarded a boat for Smyrna. Feride was with Edith at that time. In later years the two friends kept in touch with letters and visits. Feride was sure that Edith’s daughter had died at birth. Avinash did not contradict her.
In truth, there was no need for Avinash to have brought all those sacks of letters and notebooks to my tower. The photographs that he took out of a leather case and placed in front of me were enough to prove his story correct. The young woman in the photograph taken in a studio against a backdrop of deer and trees was me. I even found myself thinking: I don’t remember that white scarf at all. Wondering in which year and at which studio I’d had it taken, I turned it over and saw the date, 1903, written in pencil. The young girl looking at me from between the faded cardboard with torn edges was Edith Lamarck.
The resemblance continued in photographs my mother had had taken during her years in Paris. In particular, in a photograph taken at a café during the war, every line and shadow of the face was exactly the same as the face in the mirror that Avinash placed in my hand. In one of the photographs Edith was smiling in such a way that all her teeth were visible. There was the exact same gap between her two front teeth that I had been so ashamed of when I was young and had always tried to cover with my lips.
Thank you, Maman.
Okay. I accepted it. Now I knew. So what were we supposed to do? Was I surprised? Was I upset? A half-century had passed since the early morning Sumbul found me in her garden. Ever since that day, I had lived in that Turkish house as the silent Scheherazade. I was sixty-nine years old. Sumbul had died. Hilmi Rahmi, unable to bear her absence, died shortly thereafter in the grip of a feverish illness. After all that time, so what if the past, my identity, my mother and my father were not as I’d thought?
I had already died once, on the night when I lost everything, and was reborn. So if Avinash Efendi had added to my past one more death and one more rebirth, what did it change?
I am Scheherazade, Hilmi Rahmi’s mute concubine, whom he saved and then abandoned to loneliness. I will continue to wait calmly and silently for my death in my tower overlooking a city which has lost its memory.
Not counting that one time, when he was dying and I whispered my name in Hilmi Rahmi’s ear, I had not spoken a single word in fifty-two years. After all that tim
e, I wasn’t about to open my mouth and tell Avinash what was on my mind. The nasty spy nodded his head as if he’d read my thoughts. He had done his duty. Death could take him now. He could surrender himself peacefully. From his case he brought out a thick, leather-bound notebook, the one in which I am now writing these words, a gold-plated fountain pen and a box containing hundreds of ink cartridges. Attempting to straighten his crooked spine, he got up and walked round the bed to the tower’s small window. Back then, they’d not yet demolished the stone house in front of the tower or erected an apartment block in its place, so you could still see the sea from the window. Without taking his eyes off the glittering water, which had turned a magenta colour in the setting sun, he spoke.
‘Those people who saved you and took you in did not give you the name Scheherazade for nothing. Until you tell this story, death will not come knocking at your tower.’
For the first time since I had opened the door to my tower and seen his face that morning, I smiled. If I could have spoken, I would have said, ‘My dear Avinash Bey, you are mistaken. Scheherazade tells her story to keep herself alive, not to allow death to visit.’ Actually, I didn’t need to speak. Like Sumbul, Avinash could read my mind. He understood the shame I would feel, as one who had managed to survive, if I were to take it upon myself to speak for the dead. Still, he left the brown leather notebook and the fountain pen on the table, then picked his hat up off the faded pink iron bed rail where he’d hung it that morning and placed it on his head.
Just as he’d done a half-century earlier when we met on the quay, he brushed my hand with his fleshy purple lips as he murmured, ‘There will come a day, Panagiota, when you will be so constrained by the dark eternity in which you have hidden yourself, where you hear no voice except that within you, that as Scheherazade longed for life, you will long for death. That will be the time to tell your story.’
Part V
PARADISE LOST
The Silence of the Church Bells
When Hilmi Rahmi returned home, everybody, even Mujgan, who was in mourning for Huseyin, rejoiced. Ever since he’d ridden up Bulbul Street in his spotlessly clean colonel’s uniform on his shiny black horse, the house had been filled with laughter and tears, tears and prayers.
It wasn’t only Bulbul Street. All the Turkish neighbourhoods had been celebrating. From Konak to the Caravan Bridge, everywhere was decorated as if it were a holiday. Red flags hung from shops, from the doors of houses, off balconies; red ribbons were tied around lampposts and the necks of carriage horses. Children had put on their holiday clothes and were singing and dancing in the streets; women opened their hands and gave thanks to Allah for creating Mustafa Kemal Pasha, then hugged and kissed each other, crying with joy. The sound of drums and pipes reverberated from the steep, narrow, labyrinthine roads around the cemeteries. In wealthy homes, gramophones played cheerful records. Young girls holding baskets full of flowers threw roses in the path of the soldiers marching down Hukumet Avenue.
The three-year Greek occupation had ended. Smyrna had become theirs again.
Sumbul wore a purple silk dress she’d taken out of the trunk. For the first time in years, she’d woken up in her husband’s arms. Hilmi Rahmi had lost weight, and aged somewhat, but he’d proved he was still a strong and healthy man by making love to his wife many times, despite his exhaustion.
Even though Sumbul tried to hide her happiness so as not to make Mujgan sad, when she came into the kitchen with her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, all the women of the house, from Nanny Dilber to Great-Aunt Makbule, knew at one glance that she’d had a night filled with pleasure. Her cheeks were flushed as if she’d just come from a steam bath, and a deeply peaceful glow had settled in her green eyes. When the image of Hilmi Rahmi in that fancy dark green uniform came into her mind, the delights of the night played over her body and a spontaneous smile lit up her face, like a new bride.
The night before, when she was helping Hilmi Rahmi to undress, he’d told her that the uniforms had been given out the morning before they entered the city. They had come as gifts to Mustafa Kemal Pasha’s officers from the Bolsheviks. Someone from one of the influential Levantine families in Bournabat had had the uniforms tailored for the officers and then sent to the frontlines. His boots were jet black like his fez and came up to the knees. His silk necktie was the same red as the star and crescent embroidered on his fez. The tailoring of his jacket was perfect, with not a button missing. Hilmi Rahmi couldn’t stop talking about the strength and nobility of the horses which had been a gift of the Italians to the Pasha’s army.
Like a child who’d received a prize after a difficult examination, he had forgotten the painful war years passed in hunger and thirst. He just kept describing to Sumbul the pomp of their entry into Izmir.
‘Captain Serafettin was at the front, and we made such an entrance at the quay, Sumbul, on our splendid horses. We showed the whole world what a well-disciplined army we are. Everyone exhibited great restraint and when the Christians fled from our horses, we calmed them by repeating over and over, “Do not be afraid, do not be afraid, do not be afraid.” Just wait until Kemal Pasha comes to Izmir and you will see how well-trained his soldiers are. He made those mountain villagers into an army and defeated the infidels. My Sumbul, we are going to create a brand-new country. The Pasha has a great vision. We will be a European nation. I am going to take you to Kraemer’s and to dances at Kordelio. You won’t hide in a corner drinking beer; you will wear low-cut gowns and dance. Why do you lower your head? Do you think I don’t know that you want to get all dressed up like those European ladies and promenade? Come on now, get up and I will show you how we will dance together at the balls!’
As Sumbul wandered around the kitchen, she hummed the song that was being played in all the cafés that year, ‘Le tango du rêve’. Then she sang ‘Izmir’in Kavaklari’. She lifted the lids of the pots bubbling on the stove to check on the food they were preparing for the feast in honour of Hilmi Rahmi’s return and Izmir’s independence. Her father-in-law Mustafa Efendi would also attend. She heard her sons’ voices outside the kitchen window. Cengiz and Dogan had put on boots under their baggy trousers and were waiting for her at the courtyard gate that opened onto the street. She threw a robe around her shoulders and joined them.
When he saw his mother, Dogan gave an excited yelp. ‘Mummy, you are coming with us, aren’t you? To see Kemal Pasha?’
Sumbul leaned down and straightened the wide red sash around her younger son’s waist. When she saw that there was a crown of flowers under his fez, she smiled indulgently. ‘Who put that crown of flowers on your head, I wonder?’
‘It was Ziver,’ his elder brother Cengiz interjected, before Dogan could answer. ‘He made it himself. I wouldn’t let him put one on my head. Flowers don’t look good on a man’s head.’ He looked to his mother for approval.
Releasing Dogan, she turned to her elder son. His crimson fez was too big for his shaved head and came right down over his slightly protruding ears. Unlike his father, Cengiz was short and chubby, with languid round green eyes. As she gazed at her sons, her heart filled with love. She wanted to take them in her arms as she had when they were babies.
‘Come, let me hug you boys. Today is our happiest day.’
‘Yes, because our father has returned!’ said Dogan, as if reciting a lesson he had memorized.
Hearing the lack of genuine feeling in her younger son’s voice, Sumbul reminded herself that Dogan didn’t really know his father at all. For the past nine years, ever since Dogan was born, Hilmi Rahmi had been at one battlefront after the other. Dogan had grown up without a father.
‘Not because of that, stupid,’ Cengiz scolded. ‘Today our Kemal Pasha is coming to Izmir. Today is our independence day. That’s what our mother said, isn’t that right, Mother?’
Dogan tugged at Sumbul’s robe. ‘Mummy, you are coming to see Kemal Pasha, aren’t you?’ he repeated.
‘Of course I’m coming, child. I want to
see Kemal Pasha too. We’ll all go together – your Aunt Mujgan, the girls, your father, Ziver, Nanny Dilber, maybe even Aunt Makbule. We’re just waiting for your father and grandfather to finish their coffee. Why don’t you run to the men’s quarters and see if they’re ready.’
Dogan had just opened his mouth to say he didn’t want to go into the men’s quarters when a commotion broke out in the street. Women were screaming, drums were booming, and children were running beside the drummer shouting, ‘He’s coming! He’s coming!’
Cengiz rushed to the gate. ‘Mother, Kemal Pasha is coming! Hurry!’
The door to the men’s quarters opened. Mustafa Efendi came out first, leaning on his cane, followed by Hilmi Rahmi, standing tall in his immaculate uniform. Seeing her husband with his cartridge belt and sword at his waist, Sumbul felt that silly grin creeping across her face again. Her insides fluttered; it was as if she were a fifteen-year-old girl and not a thirty-five-year-old woman.
Mujgan’s daughters and Nanny Dilber flew out from the kitchen. At the last minute, Mujgan had changed her mind and decided to stay at home with Aunt Makbule. She couldn’t bear all that rejoicing while she was crying bloody tears inside. So as not to leave the women at home alone, it had been agreed that Ziver would stay with them. Hearing this, the poor Ethiopian boy looked crestfallen, but as Hilmi Rahmi mounted his handsome black horse that had been tied up in the courtyard, he promised he would take Ziver to Konak to see Kemal Pasha later.
Mustafa Efendi, the women and the children joined the crowds going down Iki Chesmelik Street towards Konak to the accompaniment of the drum and pipe band. Hilmi Rahmi dug his spurs into his horse and headed off to take his place in the cavalry unit that would line both sides of the Caravan Bridge as Kemal Pasha’s cavalcade entered the city.
