by Ahmet Altan
“I don’t approve of the way the mullahs got mixed up in this, no one from the ulema approved of this, but it’s something else I’m afraid of, you know, politics always tries to find excuses for itself . . . ”
For a time they continued walking as if they hadn’t been talking about something important, then the Sheikh picked up where he’d left off.
“But religion shouldn’t be an excuse for politics.”
He stopped and looked at Ragıp Bey.
“Don’t make the soldiers hostile to religion. Never forget that religion is the morality and conscience of a society, if a society loses its religion, it also loses its morality and conscience. In a society like that, no one can have the right to live. Religion exists to defend the powerless from the cruel, to protect the moral from the amoral. I respect the person who has no religion, I see him too as a precious slave of God, if he has lost his way, I try to hold as much light as I can, I try to show him the light of God that illuminates the Lord’s fortunate slaves, but this isn’t the point . . . A society losing its religion is not like a person losing his religion. Moreover if you create an army that’s hostile to religion, you will darken this society’s future; don’t touch the people’s religion, their faith, or their hodjas. I believe that those who respect are respected in turn. Don’t confuse fake men of religion with genuine men of religion, if you do you will punish those who have committed no sin, the people will doubt your justice; if you become enemies of religion, the people will become your enemies. Don’t divide the people from the army and the people from religion, it’s easy to fight, but it’s difficult to make peace, Ragıp Bey . . . Any bloodthirsty tyrant can declare war, but it requires someone with a great heart to make peace.”
They started to walk toward the tekke.
Ragıp Bey thought about what Sheikh Efendi had said, but he didn’t give an answer.
“I’ve detained you with my talk, I beg your pardon. You want to see your mother, she’s fine and healthy, she’s a good woman, I’m grateful that you gave us the opportunity to host someone like her in our tekke.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The Sheik, smiled suddenly.
“She’s as tough as nails, too, God bless her.”
Ragıp Bey knew what the Sheikh was talking about and smiled too; two men, two friends, despite the courage and reputation and power they possessed, tolerantly and tenderly admitted their timidity in the face of the woman who both frightened them and earned their love.
“Go, don’t keep your mother waiting, I’m sure she’s heard you’ve come and is growing impatient.”
As Ragıp Bey was making his way toward the harem, Sheikh Efendi called out after him.
“Perhaps you should mention what we talked about with your older brother, I think it might be of more interest to him.”
Ragıp Bey realized that a warning was being sent to the Committee through him. Perhaps Cevat Bey could understand the seriousness of this warning, but he was already certain that the Committee headquarters would not heed the warning.
He held the wooden bannister as he climbed the stairs. His mother, in her white headscarf, the lines on her face growing deeper, greeted him; first she looked him up and down to see if he’d been wounded, if he was sick, if anything was wrong. Her expression was resentful, she extended her hand to Ragıp Bey. As usual, her hands smelled of white soap; he could see her bluish veins, these were decisive and irritable hands. She asked her son if he was hungry.
“Yes, mother.”
“Good, I had food prepared for you, I had the food sent to your wife’s room.”
“Thank you, are you well?”
“I’m fine, thank God.”
His mother stopped, frowned, and looked at Ragıp Bey.
“You’ve overthrown the Caliph . . . You’re beating hodjas on the streets.”
Ragıp Bey took a deep breath, he was tired, and everyone he met told him the same thing, he was on the verge of getting angry, but he realized that all the officers might have been welcomed home in the same manner. Later he would tell his brother Cevat Bey:
“Brother, we’re not fighting against hodjas but against our mothers, how could we win, is it possible to win a struggle like that?”
In a melancholy voice he said:
“I haven’t laid a finger on any hodjas, I would have punished anyone I saw laying a finger on any of them, but they sowed discord among the soldiers, why are you only angry at us?”
His mother looked directly into his eyes, she’d said the same thing to her oldest son the previous day.
“Your great grandfather was a mufti, would you have allowed him to be beaten too if he was alive?”
“We didn’t give orders for them to be beaten, this kind of thing won’t happen anymore, sometimes misdeeds like this are committed in wartime, there’s no need to blow it out of proportion.”
The next question demonstrated that his mother’s resentment was not just about the hodjas being beaten.
“Are you going to stay tonight?”
“I’m going to leave, I have to go back to the barracks, tomorrow I’ll come and take you and Hatice Hanım to Göztepe.”
“You spend too much time in the barracks.”
“That’s part of being in the army . . . ”
“This much army isn’t good, son, a man should put aside time for his family as well.”
“You’re right, I’ll be back tomorrow, we’ll go together. Do you have any complaints about the time you spent in this place?”
“No, how could I have, Sheikh Efendi didn’t leave us wanting for anything, thank God, but still, there’s no place like home.”
“Is there anything you need me to do?”
“No,” said his mother, “what could I need you to do, finish what you have to do so we can go home already and you can stop skulking around the barracks. There’s no place like home, my son, if you stay away from home you’re liable to get into trouble, don’t forget that.”
This indirect warning about Dilara Hanım was the limit to which mother and son could go, it wasn’t possible for his mother to cross this line or for Ragıp Bey to say anything about it, both their traditions and their upbringing didn’t allow them to be more familiar.
Ragıp Bey nodded to show he understood.
His mother extended her hand for him to kiss.
“Now go and see your wife and your child.”
When Ragıp Bey went into the room, his wife was sitting by the window, holding her child in her arms. She didn’t even move slightly when she saw her husband come in, she just glanced at him briefly and then turned back to the window. No one knew when the hatred between them had begun, on their wedding night or before then, when it was decided that they should marry, or later with the desperation that Dilara Hanım’s presence caused in both of them; they couldn’t remember, and none of the dead could say exactly when, but now they couldn’t bear to touch each other or even look each other in the eye because of this hatred that was reminiscent of disgust. Ragıp Bey asked how she was in a dry tone.
“I’m fine.”
Ragıp Bey went over to his wife and looked at the baby in her arms, with his eyes closed tight and his already prominent cheekbones he looked like a little Ragıp. He had a strange feeling he’d never had before, it felt as if he was drinking something warm that tasted very good. Just like all fathers, Ragıp Bey needed help from his friends and family to name the emotions he had for his son, to give them form, but because he was almost never home, he never had time to turn this warmth he felt into an established love.
For a moment he wanted to take the baby in his arms, but he was afraid he might drop him, his hands were too big and clumsy for a baby. He reached out slowly and touched his cheek with his finger, he was surprised by how soft the baby’s skin was. When he reached out his hand, his wife held the baby more tigh
tly and gave Ragıp Bey the sense that she didn’t want to give the baby to him; he sensed that she saw the baby as her child, that she would not be pleased if her husband laid any claim to him. Just as when he sensed a bad omen, he saw his wife holding the baby more tightly as a sign that his son would be raised to be his enemy; his son would see him as an enemy, in the future his wife’s hatred would turn this baby into his mortal enemy.
Ragıp Bey looked at the tray of food in the corner, there were shallow, copper-lidded frying pans, sliced bread, and a jug of water, he was starving, Hatice Hanım saw him looking at the food.
“Your mother sent food, have some if you want.”
Ragıp Bey looked at the food once more.
“I have to go now, they’re waiting for me at the barracks . . . I’ll eat later.”
“As you wish.”
“How’s the baby?”
“Well, thank God.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“What could I need, we have everything, thank God.”
“I’ll come tomorrow and take you to Göztepe.”
“Fine . . . In any event, I’m sure your mother has already prepared everything.”
There was a strong resentment in the way she said this. She resented the way her mother-in-law acted as if she didn’t exist and never left a single thing for her to do. She wasn’t allowed to be the lady of the house, she lived in the mansion in Göztepe like a respected guest, but there was no love underlying that respect. Her intolerant piety, so different from her father’s, was like a cold rock that destroyed the friendly feelings of anyone who approached her; as her faith and her belief grew, so did her anger at people, it was impossible for anyone to love her or for her to love anyone; she saw signs of unbelief everywhere, in every action, she showed this and made people of faith like her mother-in-law angry.
One of the main reasons she hated Ragıp Bey, apart from his betraying her with another woman, was that he was polluted because he’d committed adultery and he carried that sin into her house, into her bed; she feared that if she touched him she would touch sin, this was why she couldn’t touch her husband. She turned the cleanliness of the soul into an obsession by washing her hands constantly and causing the skin on her hands to become irritated, her soul became irritated and lacerated by purification; no one could touch her anymore.
She didn’t see people, she saw their sins and weaknesses, and as she fled these sins she also, without realizing it, fled the friendliness and love that were right next to those weaknesses. Sheikh Efendi was more saddened than anyone by his daughter’s fanatical belief, which led her to reject human weakness, Sheikh Efendi sensed more than anyone else that this was not worship, not love of God, that it was a sickness. As he said to Osman, “You can’t love God without loving people.” But his daughter didn’t love people, and this made her father sadder than any sinner could.
Sheikh Efendi wasn’t the only one who was sad about this, Ragıp Bey thought that he was the reason for this spiritual odor that smelled of rotting fruit and that was diffused by a dying soul, he suffered from the sense of guilt he felt every time he saw his wife, and he hated this woman who constantly reminded him that he was a sinner.
He left the tekke as if he was fleeing, without even bidding farewell to the Sheikh.
When he went out the main gate he leaned his back against the wall and took a deep breath; it was as if he was leaving a cemetery, during his very brief visit with his wife he’d missed the cool smell of life. He inhaled the smell of seaweed, lilac, and roses along the Golden Horn, he looked at the undulating sunlight that glided like gold coins on the water, he wanted to light a cigarette, but his desire to get away from that place was greater; he strode down the street looking for a carriage, he wanted to go, to be with Dilara Hanım as soon as possible, to be free of the smell of suffering that clung to him.
When he arrived at the mansion in Nişantaşı, the distress his wife had created in his soul had turned into a weak shadow. They brought him into the living room as usual. A little later when Dilara Hanım entered the room almost at a run, the last shadow flew away from him, as Ragıp Bey felt himself trembling inwardly, he stood almost without moving, as for Dilara Hanım, she rushed over to him and gave him a big hug.
“Ragıp, thank God you’re back.”
She stepped back to look at him.
“You’re fine, aren’t you? There’s nothing wrong? Lord, how I worried about you.”
She hugged Ragıp Bey again and leaned against his chest. Ragıp Bey didn’t move at all, he stood still because he didn’t know what to do in a situation like this, he just lowered his head to smell her hair without letting her notice, this was the only loving thing he could do, and he tried to do it without letting her notice.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, I’m starving.”
Dilara Hanım immediately had the table set for him, she served the food herself, she changed the plates herself, even though they usually never touched each other except in the bedroom, that day she caressed Ragıp Bey’s hair as he ate, stroked his cheek, hovered over him like a little ladybug with the excitement of a woman in love.
At that moment she truly was in love with Ragıp Bey.
In any event all of Dilara Hanım’s feelings were the feelings of a woman in love; she’d missed him as a woman in love, worried as a woman in love, was anxious like a woman in love, and rejoiced as a woman in love when she saw that he’d come.
All of these feelings were real.
She experienced each feeling, longing, wonder, anxiety, delight as a woman in love, but though these feelings of love were real when they were alone, when all of these feelings were felt together, love didn’t emerge; Dilara Hanım didn’t have the magnificent renunciation to hold these different feelings together and turn them into a real love, renouncing herself, existence, life. She was aware of herself and of her life at every moment, she never forgot them, as she confessed to Osman once, “Unfortunately love didn’t emerge unless you forgot life, people, and yourself, unless you renounced them.”
Despite all of her amorous behavior, the thing Ragıp Bey felt was missing but couldn’t name or comprehend was the lack of renunciation, Ragıp Bey was never able to put a name to it; even if someone had told him, he probably wouldn’t have understood what it meant. He had the same disquiet throughout their relationship, he saw love in everything the woman he loved did, but each time he parted from her it was with a strange, vague sense of loss.
After dinner she took him to the bathroom and washed him; with a painful patience that burned her skin, Dilara Hanım touched his entire body in that steamy bathroom without making love. As for Ragıp Bey, he didn’t touch his woman even once, although his lustful body consented to allow the woman to wash him, his childish shame didn’t allow him to move.
As Dilara Hanım washed him, she told him about the days of the uprising, the days they’d spent in Hikmet Bey’s mansion.
Because she understood why Ragıp Bey’s body tensed suddenly as he listened to this adventure, that he was jealous, she offered an explanation that would put him ease.
“I think Hikmet Bey likes Dilevser.”
“How do you know?”
Dilara Hanım smiled.
“I just know.”
“What does Dilevser have to say about it?”
“She’s a bit confused, she’s flattered, but she hasn’t quite understood what’s happening.”
When they went to the bedroom after the bath and stretched out on the lavender-scented sheets and pulled the quilt over themselves, Ragıp Bey overcame his shame; the bed, like the battle field, was a place Ragıp Bey felt comfortable and self-confident.
They made love with appetite, like two healthy animals who’d met in the jungle, without talking, without playing any games. Dilara Hanım gave herself to the man with love and desire, there wer
e finger marks, which later turned into bruises, on her hips, legs, and breasts, later she looked at them in the mirror in delight.
When they calmed down, and Ragıp Bey closed his eyes, which had seen hundreds of deaths, there was a happy expression on his face, just like the one he’d seen on his son’s face as he lay in his wife’s arms.
20
That year, summer arrived suddenly.
The city went to sleep on a cool spring night, in the morning it woke to the sounds and colors of a new season whose humid heat smelled of the sea; the playful sparkling of the sea was reflected on the entire city, Istanbul warmed suddenly like a colorful sea-stone. Shouting vegetable peddlers spread out through the city streets, baskets hanging from both sides of their donkeys, artichoke sellers wandered through neighborhoods of mansions with mocking smiles, shouldering wicker baskets of the vegetable that was said to be good for manhood, there was a proliferation of the voices that announced the arrival of the women who sold bedsheets and decorated cloths, there was satisfaction on the peddlers’ faces.
The city was as silent as if it had fallen into a restless sleep under the hot, mother-of-pearl brightness that moved, spread, grew; it had not been able to overcome fear, but it had become accustomed to it. Perhaps the only entertainment the city experienced during this time of fear was the stories about how the new Sultan was afraid of Mahmut Şevket Pasha; there was a story about how when the Sultan was in the harem, reviewing the new concubines that had been presented to him, he dropped a handkerchief in front of the one he’d chosen, then hurriedly asked the people with him what Mahmut Şevket Pasha would say about it. People in the coffeehouses were still laughing about this.
When the Sultan gave him a very valuable horse as a gift, Mahmut Şevket Pasha rejected it and said, “I don’t have a stable worthy of such a valuable horse, Your Highness,” adding a well-deserved respect to the fear the pasha inspired.
In this stagnant environment, the only segment of society that spoke with ambition, spirit, and passion was the officers. The officers were divided as to whether or not the military should engage in politics; the group led by Mustafa Kemal Bey and İsmet Bey held that “the military should get out of politics and get back to its actual job immediately,” and the supporters of Enver Bey, who as Mahmut Şevket Pasha’s deputy was involving the military in politics, claimed that the situation in the country would get out of hand and the religious fanatics would start stirring things up if the military retreated to the barracks.
