by Ahmet Altan
He stopped talking when the coffee was brought out, when the coffee man left he continued after taking a sip of coffee.
“When I was a prince I went one day to my brother’s house in Çengelköy to swim in the sea. One of my men came to tell me that my little daughter was ill and that I was needed at the palace. I got out of the sea at once, got into a boat, and set out for Dolmabahçe Palace; when they saw me approaching, many of the palace staff gathered on the quay. When I saw this I grew even more worried. I was impatient to reach the quay, I tried to go into the palace but people blocked my way. As I was trying to force my way through them, Marco Pasha came out, told them to let me through, and said they should tell me the truth. He turned to me and told me my daughter had been in an accident, part of her body had been burned, every possible medical measure had been taken, it was up to God and his mercy whether she would recover. When I heard this I fainted. When I came to a while later I rushed to my daughter’s room, they’d put the poor child in bed and wrapped her in cotton . . . part of her face was uncovered.”
The Sultan took another cigarette from the pack in the ashtray and lit it.
“I kissed her face, it was as if she was waiting to see me before she died, doctor, she opened her eyes and looked at me, I think she smiled when she saw me. Then she let go. I was beside myself for days. Later I looked into what had happened, her mother was busy with something, the child was unattended, she found some matches and started playing with them, a match ignited, her tulle silk dress caught on fire, they ran to her when they heard her screams but they arrived too late.”
He sighed deeply.
“Do you know, doctor, that I built the Şişli Etfal Hospital in honor of that child, so others wouldn’t experience the pain of losing a child.”
He inhaled, puffed out his cheeks, and blew smoke rings, then watched them drift away.
“Why are we talking about this? How strange it is, doctor, when a person is sad he can’t think of anything to cheer himself up, but he remembers earlier sufferings, it’s as if sorrow attracts sorrow.”
He waved his hand slightly and said, “Whatever,” as if he was answering someone.
“The coffee’s good, isn’t it, doctor?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, and it’s frothy.”
“They make really good coffee here. If you’re finished, let’s go, otherwise we’ll get cold, it’s not good to sit too long in cold weather.”
He left a small coin next to the coffee cup as if he was in a real coffeehouse.
“Good day, coffee man, your coffee was delicious, my compliments.”
“Good day, gentlemen, I hope to see you again.”
They walked through the trees and reached the bank of the stream, got into the boat, and paddled back the way they’d come; the Sultan was silent on the return trip, and as Reşit Pasha found it inappropriate to speak when the Sultan was silent, he said nothing.
When they got out of the boat, the Sultan started talking as if the pasha was aware of what he’d been thinking all that time.
“Trouble is coming, doctor, the like of which has never been seen. God help us.”
“Why do you say that, Your Majesty, everything has been sorted out, thank God.”
“Nothing has been sorted out, doctor, you know that as well as I do, but you don’t want to upset me; the nation is boiling deep down, it can’t keep going this way for long, there’s nothing we can do, the only thing I can say is that I hope God ends this well . . . ”
With a sadness that surprised even himself, Reşit Pasha realized that the Sultan had grown older; he had an attitude of resignation, he observed what was going on, he saw where it was heading, but instead of struggling against it he resigned himself. It was as if he was slowly preparing himself for the day he would leave the palace, like a prisoner accepting his sentence, he was saying farewell to his palace, to his garden, inwardly hoping that what was coming would happen as soon as possible.
Perhaps this wasn’t so, but Reşit Pasha recorded this stroll through the garden in his memory as a farewell visit; he was also touched by the sorrow in the Sultan’s voice and in what he said. Later he told Osman, “In fact I knew that the Sultan had a changeable nature, at the time I knew that if conditions had changed in his favor he would change instantly and become a powerful fighter again, but still, his moods had a strong impact on me, upset me.”
That day Reşit Pasha left with sense of sorrow; he wasn’t able to come up with a precise analysis of his feelings for the Sultan, was he frightened, was he angry, did he love him, was he grateful to him, perhaps he felt all of these things simultaneously.
Their relationship contained all the complex feelings that existed between master and slave; Reşit Pasha didn’t know when or how this had happened, but he sensed that his life had become connected to the Sultan’s, he was also aware that this feeling was not mutual, if Reşit Pasha was the one who was defeated the Sultan would carry on with his life without being too upset, but if the Sultan was defeated it would shake the doctor’s life deeply. The pasha didn’t find this disparity between them strange, even though he’d been defeated he was still a sultan and he was a subject, he’d never questioned the Sultan’s divine authority and it was too late to start doing so now. That the person to whom he’d bound his life had grown older made him older as well, his defeat meant his own defeat.
He arrived at Hikmet Bey’s mansion without having been able to overcome his disquiet. When Hikmet Bey saw his father, he immediately asked if anything was the matter.
“How are you, is anything the matter? You seem upset.”
“This morning I strolled through the palace garden with the Sultan.”
Despite his sadness, he was secretly proud of having had this privilege bestowed upon him.
Hikmet Bey waited in silence for his father to continue.
“He was like a melancholy old man, his mood made me sad as well, I think that when I see the way he’s aged, I see that I’ve also aged.”
“Don’t you find it a bit out of place for you to pity the Sultan, sir, he would never feel the same way about you.”
“Of course not, he’s the Sultan, who am I?”
To offer his father some consolation, Hikmet Bey spoke with a smile that made it clear he was making fun of him.
“You’re a doctor, if you were to move to another country today, to another land, you could find yourself a job and some standing; could the Sultan find a job if he moved to another country? What country has a vacant Sultan position?”
The Pasha nodded.
“For you . . . ”
He stopped, searched for a word, and when he couldn’t find it used the French word.
“There’s no symbole, you don’t have a symbole that expresses the meaning of life. The Sultan is that symbole for us, when we lose him we lose a great deal.”
“You can’t think that way, you don’t really, do you? How can you say we don’t have symboles that express the meaning of life, are words such as ‘the people’ and ‘the nation’ meaningless to you, do they mean nothing, don’t these words stir your soul?”
“How can the people be a symbole, my son, when the people need a symbole, how should I put it, if they’re in need of a concept how can they be a concept. What is the people, who are they, what are they a symbole of? The people is nobody . . . Yes, you can say you do something for the people, there have always been people who said this, but what have you done, are they wealthier than they were, freer than they were? You don’t help the people, the people help you come to power.”
Hikmet Bey had engaged in this conversation unwittingly and was truly surprised by what his father had said.
“Do you really think that I used the people in order to get somewhere?”
The pasha looked at his son.
“No, I don’t think that about you, you aren’t one of the people
who was seeking power, but the people saved you, too, in another sense . . . ”
Reşit Pasha stopped speaking, afraid to hurt his son; as for Hikmet, he understood what his father was implying, he bit his lip as he looked straight ahead, continuing this conversation would end up hurting both of them.
“Don’t take me seriously, son, I’m getting older too, our age is almost over, life isn’t what it used to be. Come on, when are we going to set out? Let’s go see Mihrişah Sultan’s waterfront mansion while there’s still daylight.”
They left the house, and before getting into the carriage both of them grabbed the collars of their coats, pulled their coats across their chests, and glanced around the garden; for a moment they were like two shadows of the same person rather than different people. These small gestures were so similar that even someone who didn’t know them would be able to tell they were father and son; even though they were men of different opinions, of different beliefs, engaged in different struggles, even though they were enemies, their similarities distinguished them from other fathers and sons in the same way that a fingerprint distinguishes a person from everyone else, in little habits, the pronunciation of words, an expression of anger, a laugh, in small details that a stranger wouldn’t notice unless he looked carefully; the similarities between Hüseyin Hikmet Bey and Reşit Pasha, who hadn’t noticed they’d made identical movements when they left the house, was not limited to these details. They held in common that despite the sincerity of their faith, neither made their faith the center of their lives, and even looked down on those who shared their faith.
The sincerity of their faith was rooted in the sincerity of the pain they had suffered, and the reason they seemed to neglect their faith somewhat was that they saw they could bear their pain, they could continue living with this pain; both of them had fallen in love with very beautiful women, both of them had been abandoned, neither of them could get over their love, it was almost as if they had built their lives around this pain in order to be able to forget it.
The winter sun shone on the garden, giving it a bluish tint as flowers poked through the snow, the icicles hanging from the trees, on the point of melting, gave off a bluish mist; the flowers with the larger tufts reflected a whitish purple in the sun, this edged the blue of the garden with purple in some places and white in others.
Reşit Pasha took a long look at the garden; Hikmet Bey was cold and wanted to get into the carriage, but he had to wait because his father didn’t move.
Whatever it was that Reşit Pasha had been thinking about, he suddenly turned and put his arm through his son’s, as they walked toward the carriage he spoke as if he was murmuring.
“It’s not worth it, Hikmet.”
At that moment Hikmet Bey didn’t take heed of what his father had said, but for the rest of his life, whenever he encountered something beautiful he remembered this passing statement that hadn’t meant anything to him at the time and to which he now attached great importance; this was perhaps the most unforgettable statement his father had made to him.
When they got into the carriage both of them, and particularly Reşit Pasha, suddenly cheered up; the blue mist of the garden had dissipated the heavy atmosphere between them, they seemed younger and almost giddy; throughout the trip they talked about palace gossip, the bad manners of the Committee members, the tragicomic romantic adventures that sometimes spilled out of the pashas’ mansions.
They were still cheerful when they arrived at the waterfront mansion. If Hikmet Bey had allowed it, the Pasha would have looked at every single room in the house, but he told his father that there was no need and that all the rooms were in good condition.
Reşit Pasha took his son at his word, but warned him mockingly, “Look, if your mother finds any faults she’ll make life hell for you, are you sure every part of the house is suitable for her?”
“I’m sure, Father, I think Mother will like this place. What do you think?”
“Yes, it’s nice, you found a good place.”
He stopped, looked at his son, and laughed as he added, “Sometimes you surprise me, are you becoming a man of the world? You did this job well.”
Hikmet Bey would never have guessed that such a simple compliment would make him so happy, the pasha’s cheer and satisfaction reflected on his son as well.
Before they went back, they sat at a coffeehouse on the shore and looked out across the sea as they had coffee together as father and son, and Reşit Pasha told his son amusing stories about his own childhood.
Later Hikmet told Osman, “I’ve probably never seen my father that cheerful. I don’t know if the strange beauty of the garden touched him, or if he was happy because Mihrişah Sultan was returning, I was never able to figure that out.”
9
As it prepared for a bloody and unforgettable uprising whose effects would be felt for a century, the capital, focused on its own problems within a frightening chaos, noticed Mihrişah Sultan’s arrival despite the inwardly seething military barracks, the dank rooms within the thick walls of the madrassas where thousands of dirty tricks were paving the way for disaster, the fear and alarm that increased daily in government offices, Committee meetings where angry shouts echoed off the walls, the panic in the mansions of the wealthy and powerful whose concern about the future deepened every day, and the rage that burned toward the point of explosion in the muddy neighborhoods where poverty and desperation continued to grow.
It was as if everyone suddenly fell silent and the entire city watched the red-haired lady and her long-faced granddaughter debark the Marseilles ferry with her negro servants in matching uniforms, chests filled with silk clothing that took twenty carriages to transport, and her French ladies in waiting, each of whom was uniquely beautiful.
It pleased her to enter a city as if she was entering a salon, making everyone stop and look at her, and even though she had to create a larger spectacle than had been necessary on her previous visit to Istanbul to turn people’s heads, she got what she wanted, and despite the discontent exhibited by Rukiye, who disliked displays of any kind, she made this complicated city talk about her, at least for a while.
The mullahs talked about her lack of religion, the officers talked about her beauty, the merchants about her wealth, the women about her clothes, and the denizens of the palace about her lack of tact. In that strange and complicated time, it was as if the city settled down for one night, as if animosity was forgotten for one night.
As for Sheikh Efendi, he sat in the zikr room and listened expressionlessly as Hasan Efendi told him about her arrival. Hasan Efendi told him in detail about Mihrişah Sultan, her servants, her ladies in waiting, and Rukiye, though he didn’t mention her long face and preferred to say she looked healthy.
When he’d finished he said that Mihrişah Sultan “would probably visit the tekke soon.”
All Sheikh Efendi said was that their door was open to everyone, but he felt, with great shame, that he wanted to see her as soon as possible. However, what the Sheikh felt was unlike the kind of longing other people felt. He had pledged his loyalty to God at a young age, when he was still a child, and he’d sworn to avoid everything that God and religion considered a sin; in order to remain loyal and keep his oath, he had to avoid missing anyone he was forbidden to miss, and he was not allowed to miss, think about, or imagine any woman other than those in his harem.
Sheikh Efendi was so sincere in his faith and in his loyalty to his religion that when he wanted to see a woman he wasn’t supposed to miss, when he felt a desire like this, he did not even accept that it was a desire, a longing, and far from accepting this, his soul declined to notice that he felt this. He realized that there was a sinful desire growing within him, and even though he was unable to name this desire precisely, he knew of it from the deep pain he felt and from the way this sinfulness was shaking his conscience.
The desire never emerged as a clear, obvious,
and observable feeling, that desire was concealed even from Sheikh Efendi himself, all he felt was the pain of an unrequited desire and the shame caused by his doubt about the source of this pain.
Perhaps what was stranger was that Sheikh Efendi, who used to be impatient to see her, who used to miss her, and who now successfully concealed from himself that he’d missed Mihrişah Sultan, had in fact previously made a great effort to miss her without even realizing it. He struggled to miss a woman he could see occasionally rather than missing his former wife Mehpare Hanım, who he knew he would never see again, in this way easing slightly the sorrow of carrying an impossibility in his life, he’d made a great effort to replace Mehpare Hanım with Mihrişah Sultan, but all of these feelings and efforts made him like a person who sensed the sun was behind the clouds, indeed who knew it was there, but who could not see the sun when he looked at the sky. Sheikh Efendi’s feelings were concealed behind the clouds generated by his own beliefs, there was no other possible way, he couldn’t voice this desire even when he was alone with himself, he couldn’t accept its existence. He struggled to both create and destroy his feelings for Mihrişah Sultan and to conceal both of these efforts from himself. He had to carry all of this turmoil without letting anyone, including himself, sense it.
To do what was almost impossible for a human being, to not be satisfied with not gratifying his desires but to conceal their very existence from himself even as he felt them, to transform these desires into a nameless and uncertain feeling, to accept that even imagining a reunion was a sin did not negate the feeling he had. It transformed the desire into a nameless sorrow and Sheikh Efendi, wearied by all this effort, was now unable to free himself from the sorrow that penetrated his soul further by the day or of the guilt, he became a melancholy person who was ashamed of his melancholy.
