by Ahmet Altan
Ragıp Bey hadn’t beat up the hoodlum to impress her, but nevertheless, when he didn’t see the admiration he expected in the woman’s eyes, he felt angry, as if his actions had been met with ingratitude. As for the woman, she touched Ragıp Bey’s arm lightly and, in a strong and vibrant voice that evoked a sense of trust and respect in all those who heard it, and with a slight accent that made her words more effective, said:
“Thank you for rescuing me, I don’t know what would have happened to us without you.”
Even though he found the gratitude in her voice that he hadn’t found in her eyes, Ragıp Bey felt uneasy; he’d never encountered a woman with a voice like that, but like all men, he instinctively recognized something in the woman’s voice that suggested the end of male dominance and that each step he took from here would lead to captivity, and he was astounded; this was not a familiar feeling for him.
“It was nothing,” he grumbled, “these hoodlums are getting out of hand these days, it’s our job to get them back in line.”
Then, as if to indicate that the conversation was over, he nodded and tried to walk past her, but she wouldn’t let go of his arm.
“Which way are you going, sir?”
Ragıp Bey looked at her as if to say he found the question inappropriate.
“I didn’t catch that, ma’am.”
The woman acted as if she didn’t understand what he was implying.
“I asked which way you were going.”
Ragıp Bey answered reluctantly:
“I’m going to Akaretler.”
The woman smiled as if she found his irascibility amusing.
“Oh, what a coincidence, I’m going to Nişantaşı, I can give you a lift, the driver can drop you off after me.”
Ragıp Bey rejected this offer decisively.
“No need, don’t trouble yourself, I’ll walk, I need the fresh air.”
Dilara Hanım squinted her eyes, frowned, and pursed her lips, from her manner it was clear she didn’t take his attitude or his words seriously.
“No need? How can I let you walk in this weather, who looks for fresh air in bitter cold like this, if you keep dragging this out the cold is going to make me sick as well.”
The snow was getting heavier, Ragıp Bey would look ridiculous if he insisted on walking, Dilara Hanım had forced him to make a choice between looking ridiculous and looking indecisive. He didn’t want to prolong this strange discussion in the falling snow, so he made a face and said, “Let’s go then.” They got into the carriage, and Dilara Hanım hunched on the edge of the navy-blue velvet seat.
“It’s ice-cold in this carriage too.”
They didn’t speak at all until they’d reached Taksim Square, as they passed through the square the interior of the carriage had warmed a bit and the windows had become misted over from the passengers’ breath. Dilara Hanım opened the upper part of her abiya as if she was alone in the carriage; it was the first time since they’d met that Ragıp Bey got a good look at her face.
Her braided hair was the color of the shiny horse chestnuts that used to fall into the garden and emerge from their thorny green pods when he was a child. Her face was illuminated by a strange light that set her apart from everything around her, as if someone was shining a light on her from some hidden corner; she was wearing neither blush nor eyeliner, this natural look, as if she’d just washed her face with lots of fresh water, sheltered an innocence that was at odds with her disdain as well as a lust that was at odds with her innocence. Her eyes, under eyebrows that were a little uneven at the ends and gave her face a mocking expression, bulged a bit in a way that reminded him of paintings of the Virgin Mary he’d seen in Germany, under her perfect, Slavic looking nose were small but fleshy lips that looked as if they’d been drawn by hand; it was difficult to decide whether her face was beautiful or not, but one still wanted to look at it.
With every movement of her face, when she raised her eyebrows or pursed her lips, her expression changed; when she leaned back, raised her eyebrows, and looked straight ahead, she looked like a reserved lady one would hesitate to speak to, when she leaned forward slightly and smiled she had a flirtatious air that would make any man feel it would be easy to chat with her.
The humble sturdiness of the carriage, which had clearly been brought from Europe, the softness of the velvet seats, the respectful manner of the driver who was clearly accustomed to working for wealthy households, her attire, the fabric of her abiya, and the emerald brooch on her collar hinted at wealth and breeding in a way that was not recognized at once but that commanded respect.
Dilara Hanım wiped the condensation from the window with her hand, the snowfall had become much heavier; the streets were deserted and the houses and pavements were becoming covered with snow.
“And you wanted to walk in this weather, you would have frozen to death, God forbid.”
Ragıp Bey, who had been lost in contemplation of her face, was startled as if he’d been caught doing something inappropriate. He was seized by the disquiet and unreasonable anger that proud poor men feel toward wealthy women. He realized that the woman was interested in him, but instead of the self-confidence that such obvious interest would make him feel, he felt humiliated, because he thought she was showing her interest so openly because she looked down on him.
As if getting ready to give the order to attack, he tightened himself and squared his shoulders, raised his head, and took shelter in the only place he could, his manhood. He was about to say that he was used to weather like this, when he suddenly realized how laughable he was being. As he slowly unbuttoned his grey greatcoat, he looked up with the mocking smile that appeared on his face when he hit someone he was fighting.
“Thank you, I owe you my life.”
At first she frowned with the surprise and anger of a woman who was accustomed to confusing men with her mockery when she in turn was mocked, and, with the secret delight they feel when they’ve attained something they sought, she tidied her hair, assumed the distant, respectable lady expression, then the lines of her face softened and she let out a little laugh.
“Please, anyone would rescue a freezing officer in Beyoğlu.”
With this little laugh she let out, with the secret guidance are women use to show men they are attracted to how to impress them, she was telling Ragıp Bey know how he should behave without actually telling him. Ragıp Bey had understood this as soon as he heard her laugh.
He had regained the defiant self-confidence, which women recognized at once, of men who were proud of their power and who were sure that in the end all women, whether rich or poor, beautiful or ugly, hardheaded or scatterbrained, would utter the same cries of pleasure.
Dilara Hanım realized that this man had a capacity for the kind of violence she’d just witnessed when he broke a hoodlum’s nose without hesitating, that it was not something that had been brought out by a street fight and that it could come out anywhere at any moment; oddly, she hadn’t noticed it during the fight, but only when he mocked her.
Just as Ragıp Bey recoiled from her mockery, she recoiled from his savagery, just as he was attracted by the charm of her mockery, she was attracted by the charm of his savagery.
Like any woman who has intuited that the man she is with could touch her profoundly, she first pulled back and became the distant lady only so that she could move closer.
“Where are you stationed?”
“At Taşkışla.”
“So, you’re one of the soldiers who came from Salonika.”
He replied with the same pride that all the officers who’d come from Salonika felt involuntarily.
“Yes, I came from Salonika.”
“You’re one of the people who made our father the Sultan angry.”
Ragıp Bey looked at Dilara Hanım to see if she was serious, but when he saw the same mocking smile he realized she was j
oking.
“In fact one of those who made him very angry.”
Ragıp Bey took out his cigarette case but stopped before lighting a cigarette.
“May I?”
“By all means, but we’ve reached my house, we’ll have them make hot tea for us, you can have your cigarette with tea.”
This time Ragıp Bey didn’t decline the invitation, he put his cigarette case back in his pocket; meanwhile the carriage had entered the mansion garden and stopped in front of the marble steps that led up to the large front door; as they left the carriage, the snow was falling in large, heavy flakes.
The door was already open when they got out of the carriage, and a butler in a black frock coat and a Greek servant in a white, lace cap came rushing out to greet them; they entered the house, Dilara in the lead followed by Ragıp Bey. In the large vestibule, as the servant helped her take off her abiya, Dilara Hanım calmly gave orders.
“Bring us tea in the living room, and don’t forget to bring cognac and cakes.”
Through a door to the left they entered a large living room where a fire was roaring in the fireplace and the windows looked out onto the garden.
“Please sit, I’ll be right with you.”
Alone in the living room, Ragıp Bey went and warmed his hands over the large logs that crackled as they burned.
He watched the red, yellow, lilac-tongued flames move across the logs; first the flames touched a log then retreated, then they touched it again, moved over it like red water, then retreated again; watching it, it seemed as if the fire would never ignite the log, it would keep moving over it and then retreating, then suddenly a tiny flame appeared on the side of the log. When the other flames retreated, it continued burning, then another tiny flame appeared on the other side and then the log was burning.
As he watched the game the flames were playing with the logs, he felt he’d warmed up enough and moved away from the fireplace, he glanced at his reflection in a crystal mirror with a gold-leaf frame hanging on the opposite wall, walked past two winged armchairs, went to the window, and looked out at the garden.
Large, heavy snowflakes continued to fall. The bare trees were covered in white, and the dark, stagnant water in the pool had started to freeze around the edges.
As he contemplated the sad loneliness of the garden in winter, Ragıp Bey suddenly felt alone, alienated and fragile. He remembered walking in fear on a snowy morning like this after beating a Pasha’s son and feeling as if he no longer had a future. He left the window, went back into the warmth of the room, and sat in one of the large armchairs.
There was a settled warmth in the living room that gave a sense of security; he lit a cigarette and left it in the crystal ashtray on the coffee table; a book in German had been left open on the coffee table, he picked it up, it was Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther. As he was leafing through the book the door opened and Dilara Hanım entered, followed by the servant bringing the tea. Ragıp Bey put the book down in a hurry as if he’d been caught doing something forbidden.
The servant placed the tray on the long coffee table in front of the sofa then left them alone, and Ragıp Bey looked at Dilara Hanım.
“So, it seems you know German.”
“Yes, why do you ask?”
Ragıp Bey gave the shy smile he always gave when the subject of books came up.
“I saw your book . . .”
Dilara Hanım looked around in surprise.
“My book?”
When Ragıp Bey picked up the book and showed it to her she smiled.
“My daughter Dilevser is reading that.”
“Why did you laugh, don’t you read books?”
“Of course I do, but this book is more suitable for a young girl than for a woman of my age . . . As the title says, it’s about a young person.”
Dilara Hanım stopped as if she’d made a gaffe and offered an explanation.
“The title of the book, The Sorrows of Young Werther.”
Ragıp Bey nodded.
“I saw that.”
“Oh, do you know German?”
Ragıp Bey answered as if it wasn’t something important:
“I spent some time in Germany once, I was serving with a German regiment.”
As she poured tea and passed it to him, Dilara Hanım asked:
“How long were you there?”
“Almost three years.”
“That’s a long time, did your wife accompany you?”
“I wasn’t married at the time.”
Dilara Hanım looked at him as she poured cognac from a cut crystal decanter into a large tumbler.
“You’ll have some cognac, won’t you, it’ll warm you up in this weather.
“I will, thank you.”
“Did you like Germany?”
“They’re good soldiers.”
Dilara Hanım smiled.
“Not everyone in Germany is a soldier, or did you never leave the barracks?”
Ragıp Bey remembered the unforgettable love he’d lived in Germany.
“Of course, they’re good people, I enjoyed my time in Germany.”
Dilara Hanım poured cognac for herself as well.
“I didn’t like it much, they seemed a bit too cold to me, a bit too, how should I put it? A bit too calculating.”
“Why were you there?”
“My husband and I went to a spa, to Baden-Baden, in fact Baden-Baden is a lovely place, have you ever been there? It’s so green, it’s a fun place, but still, I don’t know, it seemed to me as if there was a severity under that fun.”
“What does your husband do?”
“Unfortunately he passed away some time ago, he was much older when we married, and we used to go to Baden-Baden for his health.”
It grew dark outside, the playful red of the long-tongued flames was reflected from the crystal mirror into the living room. Every time Dilara Hanım moved in the dimly lit room with the white seen through the large window behind her it created a pleasant illusion, it was as if he was watching rippling red silk. As he lost himself in this silky undulation, whose softness could be sensed from a distance, silence reigned in the living room.
Dilara Hanım rang the silver bell next to her, and when the servant appeared she said,“It’s dark in here, light the lamps.”
And at that moment Ragıp Bey understood the reason for the uneasiness he’d felt since he entered that house: in this wealthy and respectable mansion, the servants didn’t find it odd that their mistress brought a stranger home and drank cognac with him. Apparently guests like this were common here.
He put his cognac down on the coffee table.
“I should be on my way.”
“I won’t hear of it, look how heavily it’s snowing, wait for the weather to improve, the driver will take you wherever you want to go, but right now it’s snowing too heavily for the horses to move; and why are you always in such a hurry to leave, ever since the moment we met you’ve wanted to leave. Do you find me so boring?”
Ragıp Bey rushed to say, “By no means. I don’t want to impose.”
The woman had an openly inviting manner, but at the same time, perhaps because of the mocking tone in her voice, or the confidence that came from being wealthy, she also seemed distant and inapproachable, and seeing these two conflicting manners confused him, because he expected women to adopt a single manner that he could understand.
Dilara Hanım picked up the crystal decanter, looked at Ragıp Bey, and asked, “Would you like some more,” and when he nodded yes she poured cognac first into his glass and then into her own.
In every movement she made there was the refined, educated elegance of a woman who’d been born and raised in the palace, but there wasn’t even a trace of the insincerity women from the palace almost always had. She commanded respect without
effort, wandered at will through the respect she’d created, and confidently amused herself with her guest. She didn’t have the latent fear aristocrats usually have of people from lower classes, she could consort with men of any class without hesitation; she was sure no one would touch her if she didn’t want them to, though she didn’t know why, and indeed had never thought about it.
They continued their conversation slowly and gently, in harmony with the snow falling outside the window, and like any man and woman meeting for the first time, they talked about their lives and their past, or rather Dilara Hanım talked and Ragıp Bey listened.
Dilara had been born in Poland as the daughter of a German small landowner, had taken music lessons from her mother, who was the daughter of a patriotic Polish teacher, had discovered a taste for literature, and from her father had learned to keep people at a distance and to manage them with her glances. At thirteen she was abducted in a raid on her village and became part of a group of that was sent as a gift to the harem of the Ottoman palace; in the harem she was ostracized because she was more intelligent and less beautiful than the other women, and when she was eighteen she was given away as a bride to an elderly Pasha from Crete. The Pasha truly loved his young wife, took it upon himself to complete her education, got her to take oud lessons, taught her French himself, received permission from the Sultan to take her to Europe, where he travelled often because of his poor health, brought her to the most beautiful cities, where they stayed in the most comfortable hotels, gave her the life of a European woman, then departed the world, leaving her a large fortune. Since then Dilara Hanım had lived a calm, safe, and secure life in that mansion with her daughter.
