by Ahmet Altan
That night for the first time he looked at Sister Clementine with the awareness that she was a woman, and with desire. Once he’d said, “Destiny created me to amuse itself.” And he was probably right, the first woman this man who was loyal to the wife who’d abandoned him became attracted to was a nun who had rejected her womanhood.
Osman, who was suspicious of everything and didn’t trust either life or the dead, didn’t think this was a coincidence; for Hikmet Bey, who couldn’t stand to be alone and without a woman, to choose a woman he could never be with meant he was still trying to remain loyal to his wife without realizing it.
Still, one of the strong bonds that tied Hikmet Bey to Mehpare Hanım had been broken; like all loves that can’t be nourished by hopes or dreams, this love showed its first sign of weakness and received its first wound when he took interest in another woman. The first sign that the bond of melancholy servitude was weakening saddened him deeply, but this didn’t diminish his interest in Sister Clementine.
He controlled his desire to touch her by keeping his hands under the blanket and clasping them the way she did; unable to see the entreaty in his own eyes, he asked a strange question that later surprised him, “Do you like to dance, Sister Clementine?”
The nun with a beautiful face tilted her head to one side, looked at him as if she wanted to say something, then put on her spiritual smile and stood.
“Go to sleep now, Monsieur Hikmet, it’s late.”
Hikmet Bey waited for her to turn and say something before she went out the door, but she didn’t.
Before Christmas, the patients who’d left the world of the healthy and the happy due to illness, pain, and injury felt a desire, of which they were secretly ashamed, to participate in the celebrations of the healthy during the holiday season. The wealthy gave money to the nuns to buy gifts for their fellow patients and the nuns, while the nuns bought gifts for the poor out of their own pockets.
On Christmas Eve they organized a small party in a hall on the ground floor that the nuns used as a cafeteria, and that smelled of boiled meat, coffee, and medicine. They made sherbets and bought cookies and put a large pine tree in the corner, and a chorus of nuns sang carols.
For the first time since he’d arrived at the hospital, Hikmet Bey got dressed, put on a tie, and became Reşit Pashazade Hüseyin Hikmet Bey. Despite the black rings under his eyes and the pallor that would remain on his face for the rest of his life, his stance, his expression, and the way he straightened his tie while speaking to the head nurse proclaimed that he was no longer a forlorn, wounded patient who needed tenderness but an Ottoman aristocrat who managed to carry the pride in which he had been steeped since childhood under all circumstances.
In his striped, black suit, with the bottom button of the vest left open, his starched shirt, his pearl-grey tie-clip, newly polished shoes, and newly re-shaped fez, he was no longer the wounded man who hadn’t managed to commit suicide and who everyone pitied, the unfortunate man whose wife had betrayed him, the patient with the childish expression who made all the other patients thank God that they were in better shape, and had suddenly become one of the leading Committee members of Salonika, Hüseyin Hikmet Beyefendi, the son of the Sultan’s physician. Of course it wasn’t the way he was dressed that impressed those who saw him, they’d all seen a handful of people who were wealthier and more elegant than Hikmet Bey; what impressed them was that this man who, while he was lying in bed in his nightgown, had looked at everyone as if he needed some kind of help but didn’t even know what kind of help, had, as soon as he got dressed, or rather as soon as the expensive fabric caressed his skin, suddenly regained his past, his family, his identity, and his wealth, which he unconsciously believed he’d lost when he came through the hospital door covered in blood, he once again became aware of who he was and of how much power he had; when Hikmet Bey remembered his power, everyone else was also reminded of it by the self-confidence that emanated from him.
His suit of English cloth, sewn by French tailors, had done more to help him pull himself together than any of the medications he’d been given. The nuns, who met people from every social stratum, noticed at once the aristocratic effort he made to conceal his disdain for this small party and the understanding expression he assumed when talking to people not of his class, and even though this didn’t diminish the tenderness they felt toward him, their behavior revealed that their friendship was now a more distant one. Sister Clementine was the only one who felt closer to Hüseyin Hikmet Bey as he was in his new clothes.
She went over to him, smiling her spiritual smile.
“Can you come here for a moment, Monsieur Hikmet, I want to show you something.”
They found a quiet corner and Sister Clementine took a package from her pocket and gave it to him. For a moment, probably because of his clothes, he’d forgotten where he was and who he was talking to; he took the package, said, “Merci, madame,” and opened it calmly.
Inside was an 1808 edition of Abelard and Heloise, of red leather that had turned brown and with some of the yellow letters on the spine missing. Hikmet Bey was familiar enough with antique books to realize that this book had been purchased from a collector, and for a considerable sum of money. Sister Clementine had wanted to give an expensive gift to the man who’d reminded her of her past, and she did so with a book that looked ordinary and cheap.
Hikmet Bey leafed through the book with genuine joy and let her know he knew its value without putting her in a difficult position.
“An 1808 edition . . . That must have been difficult to find in Salonika.”
“I saw it at a friend’s house and bought it . . . Have you read it?”
Hikmet Bey replied with a smile that childishly lit up the face the nuns thought looked like a pansy.
“I was innocent once too. Like everyone else, I read the stories about lovers who could never be united before I read the stories about lovers who separate, like many of my friends I discovered the pleasures of touch on my own, but this book taught me about the terrifying pleasure of not being able to touch.”
He paused and looked into the nun’s eyes.
“Thank you, thank you so much . . . I’ll keep this for the rest of my life, it’s such a lovely gift.”
Then, unable to contain himself, he added, “Very innocent as well.”
The nun’s large, shiny forehead flushed for a moment; Hikmet Bey realized he’d embarrassed her and he felt embarrassed by this, so he hurriedly took the gift he’d bought from her out of his pocket and gave it to her.
“I got something for you too.”
Sister Clementine made an exaggerated effort, struggling with the gilded ribbons on the package, and didn’t look at him.
It was a copy of Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal; the title was embossed in gold on the cover of the morocco-bound book, and Sister Clementine’s name had been embroidered on the bottom. Next to Sister Clementine’s expensive but humble-looking gift, Hikmet Bey’s gift seemed too showy; he felt he needed to offer an explanation.
“I couldn’t get out of the hospital so I had to order it, they made it a bit too showy.”
Sister Clementine leafed through the book as if she hadn’t heard what he’d said. When she looked up it was as if, as a Christmas gift, God had granted her the right to behave like a woman for a few minutes, and she put the persona of Sister Clementine aside, took back her real name, and became Baroness Roucheau of the Paris salons. For her the real gift was not the book but Hikmet Bey himself, who without condemning her had given her the chance to revive a past that had never fully died despite being overlaid with a new identity, prayer and rosary beads.
She smiled like a woman and not like a nun.
“My gift was very innocent, monsieur, yours was very sinful.”
The reply was given not to the nun but to the baroness.
“We need both of them, madame, in order to be w
ounded and in order to recover.”
“Why would we need to be wounded?”
“In order to recover, madame.”
That Christmas Eve Sister Clementine allowed a sinful miracle to occur through the intercession of two soft, chestnut eyes and relived the past for a moment, then immediately went back to being a nun. Perhaps people could kill themselves and their identities once, but it was impossible to do so twice; after having eradicated a baroness, she didn’t have the strength to eradicate a nun. There, that night, she realized this with pain and with a regret, who knows, she might never be able to confess that for a few minutes she’d relived a past that she’d long forgotten and she accepted this reality with the resignation that being a nun had taught her,
“Please sit down, Monsieur Hikmet, don’t tire yourself.”
“Thank you, Sister Clementine, tonight I recovered. After all, I’m being discharged tomorrow.”
As Hüseyin Hikmet Bey told Osman later:
“For those who live with deep, sharp pain, it’s almost impossible to find a great happiness that will make them forget their great sorrows; even when the possibility of happiness is present, those oppressed by a suffering that’s difficult to bear can’t find the strength and courage to open the door, they even remain silent so this unexpected visitor will go away; the talisman that will revive a melancholy person and make them smile again is hidden in small, sudden, brief moments of joy.”
He discovered this truth that Christmas Eve in the hospital cafeteria whose smell would cause him to make a face when he remembered it. That a woman had changed her identity for him even for a moment, their brief but unforgettable chat had become an exit, a bridge to life for Hikmet Bey, who had recently been lying in an iron bed with grey rails in a room painted snow-white, believing his life was over, taking himself to account and blaming himself mercilessly like any honest man who has lost.
The next day he woke in a good mood; he ignored the pain he still had in his shoulder, stretched in his bed like a little boy, got up, and looked into the mirror on the wall, happily looked at the pale face that for some while had been reminding him of bad times, and then dressed carefully. He said farewell to and thanked each of the nuns in turn, except Sister Clementine, who’d vanished, went to see the hospital director and made a generous donation to the hospital, then climbed into the carriage that was waiting for him and left the hospital.
Even though it was the end of December, it was a warm, sunny day. As he left the hospital’s well-kept garden he turned to take a last look at the large, yellow, rectangular building with its smooth façade. He set out for home with a wound in his shoulder that for the rest of his life would ache in damp weather, a deathlike sorrow that would never disappear, and a small but lively delight that would conceal them.
When Hikmet climbed agilely out of the carriage and went into the house, he stopped for a moment, he’d been on the point of going to the master bedroom as usual to change into his house clothes but realized he didn’t want to go there, he didn’t want to go to the study where he’d shot himself either; he was confused about where to go and stopped in the large entrance.
Then he realized what was missing, the sound of Mehpare Hanım’s heels as she came to greet him, the children’s laughter, the nannies talking, the servants whispering, the accustomed sounds of the house were gone. The servants who’d gathered in the kitchen were silent, they’d been awaiting his return with a fear whose cause they couldn’t find.
At that moment Hikmet Bey realized the extent to which his life had been emptied, in his own words, he realized it when he was faced with that “horrible silence.” It occurred to him to turn around, leave at once, spend the night in a hotel and never step foot in that house again, but when he saw the butler looking at him, he made a last effort to pull himself together, strode into the hall, and said, “Tell them to bring me a coffee please, Latif.”
The entire house had been cleaned thoroughly, the floorboards had been scrubbed, there was a smell of soap and lavender one only encounters when moving into a house that’s undergone major cleaning.
There was no human smell, none of the smells of cooking and furniture that seep into the walls over time, and which make a house a home; the smells had disappeared like the sounds, the house had lost its memory like someone who’d received a head injury.
For Hüseyin Hikmet Bey the house was at the same time familiar, he knew the rooms, the corridors, the furniture, the view from the windows, and alien, he couldn’t find any of the familiar sounds or smells, or signs that left traces on his soul rather than in his mind’s eye.
The mansion was more difficult to bear like this. In this house full of memories he could tolerate remembering and reliving the pain, in a new house with no connection he could spend his life trying to forget the past, but it was difficult for him to stay in a place that was at the same time so familiar and so alien.
He walked angrily past the study where he’d shot himself five months earlier. Like every other room in the house, it was perfectly clean, but there was a dark and resistant bloodstain, turned brown over time, where he’d fallen after shooting himself. He looked at the stain for a moment, then opened a drawer, took out a sheet of paper, sat at the desk, and wrote a short letter to his mother in French that began, “Chére Maman.”
“I’m out of the hospital. I’m well. I’m leaving for Istanbul at once. Please send the children there. I kiss your hands.”
He put the letter in an envelope, sent it to the post office, had his coffee, then told Latif to pack his bags and make a reservation for him for the next day on the Istanbul ferry.
He wanted to get away from Salonika and from this house as soon as possible, to go to Istanbul and forget the past.
The following day he boarded the Istanbul ferry.
As he leaned on the railing and looked back, he realized he wasn’t leaving a city but a woman he knew he’d never forget. The woman he loved would remain there; he was removing the possibility, which had been nourishing his dreams, of meeting her at a social event or on the street, or rather he supposed he could do so just by boarding a boat. He would carry the woman he’d expelled from his life in the depths of his soul, moreover with an even stronger longing.
He did not yet know this.
3
Major Ragıp Bey wrapped himself in his thick, grey military greatcoat as he walked from Galatasaray to Taksim through the newly falling snow, and just as he was passing the Odeon, the famous beer hall’s large door opened and three tipsy young officers spilled out, followed by a cloud of condensation that smelled of alcohol, women’s perfume and white almonds. It was only just past noon, but apparently the officers from the Salonika units that had been sent to the capital to prevent possible riots had already started drinking.
An angry expression appeared on Ragıp Bey’s face.
These young officers had listened to the Beyoğlu adventures of more experienced officers during long watches on Macedonian nights and had turned them into unattainable fairy tales with the new details they added to their dreams each night, and now, in Istanbul, with a fearful hunger in their souls from those nights of isolation, they were throwing themselves into the Greek whores’ beds and becoming regulars of the dens of iniquity. The barracks had been left under the command of sergeants and inexperienced officers, drills and training had been abandoned, and lack of discipline reigned.
What was most frightening was the fierce hostility between the officers from the Committee and those who remained loyal to the Sultan; just the other night two officers had pulled guns on each other during a political argument, and Ragıp Bey had only been able to avoid bloodshed at headquarters by intervening at the last moment.
The Major, who disliked chaos and was close to hating what he’d seen in the past few days, berated himself for not rebuking these three officers, and he walked through the increasingly heavy snow with a fury fa
nned by his psychological makeup, which tended to rapidly amplify even the slightest sense of anger.
Just then, through the snowflakes that were getting into his eyes, he saw an old man, who he later learned was a carriage driver, whose expression reflected shame about his helplessness rather than fear. At the time he didn’t even think about it, but later, every time he thought about the event that would change the course of his life, it always struck him that the first person he noticed was the one who had the least significant role; at that moment he wasn’t even able to think this. He looked around to see why the man was reacting this way, he saw a woman whose veil was open and who was trying not to show her fear as she looked around for help, and the nasty grins of the two hoodlums who were pulling off her abiya.
He didn’t hesitate, he strode up to the man who was pulling at her abiya, grabbed him by the throat, and pushed his head back. The hoodlum, who had just smoked hashish and thought himself much larger than he was, looked in surprise at the man who’d grabbed him by the throat and reached for the knife under his armpit, but the strange smile had already appeared on Ragıp Bey’s face as, almost cheerfully, he punched the hoodlum in the face as if he wanted to feel the man’s nose as it broke beneath his knuckles.
When he saw that his friend had collapsed and that blood was pouring from his nose, the other hoodlum reached for the gun in his belt, but when he saw Ragıp Bey reach for his gun he stopped, either because he thought his opponent would be too quick or he didn’t have the nerve to engage in gunplay with an officer in the middle of Beyoğlu, mumbled through his moustache, and helped his friend to his feet.
With the animallike naturalness often seen in the underworld these hoodlums inhabited, he submitted to someone more powerful without any wounds to his pride, he walked away with his friend, who pressed a large scarf to his nose, to seek weaker prey, leaving bloodstains on the pavement.
After he was sure that they’d really gone, Ragıp Bey turned and looked at the woman; there was no sign of the gratitude, fear, or admiration he’d expected to see in her eyes, on the contrary she looked pleased, as if she’d enjoyed what she’d seen. Later Ragıp Bey would notice that this woman, whose name he would learn was Dilara, wasn’t afraid of men no matter what they did, that she saw their braggartly weakness even when they were at their most violent and aggressive, and that she treated them like puppets created for her amusement, but what would really surprise him was that Dilara Hanım always did this in a kind and respectful manner and was able to conceal the mockery that lay beneath.
