The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

  I couldn’t resist teasing him. “How did you occupy yourself otherwise, Hasan Baba? I have heard that you began to dress like a Parisian and visited night clubs. Some say you even kept a Frenchwoman.”

  “May Allah pluck out the tongue that spread such poison,” he replied. “I spent most of my time in Paris studying the Koran.”

  The lie was so brazen that all three of us burst out laughing. Then he asked for permission to introduce us to his grandson, Selim.

  “He’s opened a barber’s shop in Istanbul, with three apprentices, one of whom is very talented. The Westerners are his main customers. He was reluctant to follow me, but I told him it was a privilege to circumcise the grandson of Iskander Pasha. Selim! Selim!”

  A young man who could not have been more than twenty-five years of age entered the room and bowed stiffly in our direction. My mother motioned that he should sit down and he took a seat without any trace of awkwardness. My first impression was favourable. He had an intelligent face. He was clean-shaven and dressed in Western clothes and did not look at the ground in fake humility when I spoke to him. Unlike Hasan, he spoke with a soft, reassuring voice.

  “Orhan Bey is nearly ten years old and I realise you must be worried about the ceremony, hanim effendi, but it will be safe and painless. The thought of it frightens him and that is what will make him scream, not the actual circumcision. Have you determined the day?”

  “In three days’ time. Are you sure you can be away from Istanbul that long?”

  He smiled. “I told them I would be away for a week, hanim effendi.”

  My mother indicated with a slight nod that the two men could leave. As he was walking away, Hasan remembered that he had not yet offered his condolences on my father’s affliction.

  “I am off now to pay my respects to Iskander Pasha. It will be the first time that I will do the talking and he will have to listen. Perhaps the shock will be such that Allah will return his tongue to him.”

  After they had left I asked my mother how we should break the news to Orhan. To my astonishment, she informed me that she had already done so and that the boy had been greatly relieved.

  “He tells me that he was teased at school for being different. He says he will bear the pain like a man.”

  “How else could he bear it, Mother?”

  And so it happened that Orhan was dressed in a beautifully embroidered silk robe and as the maidservants sang next door, Selim the barber snipped off the offending skin. Orhan did not scream or cry. He smiled. My father, who had insisted on being present, applauded and presented Orhan with a purse, pregnant with gold coins. It had been given to him on the day of his circumcision. The Baron and Uncle Memed entered the room and kissed Orhan. My mother had gone to the kitchen herself and supervised the making of ure. Orhan had not yet tasted this sweet.

  “What is it made of?” he asked my mother after he had tasted the first morsel she presented to him in a silver ladle.

  “They say that this was first made when Noah realised there was not enough food left in the Ark. He instructed the women to put everything in a pot for one last big meal. In the big pot went wheat and raisins and apricots and dates and figs and dried beans and the mixture was boiled for many hours, until it looked like this. Now will you stand up, Orhan, and come with me so that we can distribute the ure to the servants.”

  “Before I do that, can I offer some to Selim?”

  “Of course,” I shouted with relief. “He must be the first.”

  SIX

  Iskander Pasha asks his visitors to explain the decline of the Empire; the Baron points to a flaw in the Circle of Equity; Salman’s deep-rooted cynicism

  FATHER’S HEALTH WAS IMPROVING daily. He could now walk on his own and, as my mother confided to me, he was an active lover once again, all the more passionate for having lived through a period of denial. His face, too, was much improved. The paleness had evaporated and the sun had restored his colour. He was reading a great deal, mainly French novels. He loved Balzac and Stendhal, but hated Zola. He would write in his notebook that Zola was a scoundrel and an anarchist, but his written words never became an adequate substitute for speech. If he could speak he would have cursed Zola in language he was too embarrassed to put down on paper. He knew that his powers of speech had deserted him for ever and this was something he found difficult to accept.

  But he became more and more assertive, more and more as he used to be when we gathered in his room for our stories. He was now determined to prevent a discussion of family history. He wanted to encourage more elevated talk. One evening he inscribed a question in bold capitals on his book and Petrossian held it up before us in turn. It read: CAN ANY OF YOU EXPLAIN WHY WE DECLINE SO RAPIDLY? IF RUSSIAN TSAR AND AUSTRIAN EMPEROR ARE STILL SO POWERFUL, WHY NOT OUR SULTAN?

  Everyone was present. Memed and the Baron looked at each other wearily. Salman gave a sly smile. Zeynep kissed Iskander Pasha’s hands and took her leave. Halil, alone, showed any sign of interest.

  “We failed to renew ourselves, Ata. And this is the price we have to pay. We allowed the clergy too much power in determining the future of this state. Istanbul could have been the capital of invention and modernity like Cordoba and Baghdad in the old days, but these wretched beards that established the laws of our state were frightened of losing their monopoly of power and knowledge. I forget the name of the fool who told the Sultan that if the palace relaxed its control, our religion would be finished. At the beginning of the sixteenth century, every major city in the West had its own printing press, while Sultan Selim threatened any person who showed even the slightest interest in it with death.”

  Iskander Pasha was waving his hands to interrupt his son. Halil paused while I read my father’s note.

  “The fear wasn’t totally unjustified, Halil. The Sultan’s ministers kept a very close watch on Europe. The Grand Vizier was aware that in three crucial years, from 1517 till 1520, the printing press destroyed the monopoly of the Catholic Church: three hundred thousand copies of Martin Luther’s work were printed and distributed in this time.”

  “With great respect, Ata, I was aware of that fact, but the price we paid for our retreat into the past was a heavy one. We sealed off the Empire from a crucially important technological advance. The ulema, may they roast in hell, opposed modernisation on principle. Most of the Sultans and the eunuchs and janissaries who surrounded them accepted this view. It is an outrage that we kept the printing press at a distance to prevent the spread of knowledge. And even if you disagree on the printing press, though I really can’t see how you can, surely you must accept that the ban on public clocks was simply senseless. Here, too, the damned beards insisted that time was not linear. It was sacred and circular and could only be determined by the muezzin’s call to prayer. I think our decline is well deserved. This Empire is melting away before our eyes and the clergy and the Sultan watch in silence. It’s too late now. There’s nothing they can do. The Prussians and the British want to keep us alive for their own reasons. If this had not been the case, the Russian Tsar would have eaten us alive by now. We live on borrowed time and borrowed money. Some of us in the army are already discussing the future. The Empire is gone, Ata. The only interesting question is what will take its place.”

  Halil’s speech had made everyone thoughtful. It was Uncle Memed who was the first to speak after him.

  “There is much wisdom in what you say, boy, but I don’t think our troubles are the result of simply ignoring the printing press. I think the decline started a long time ago, even before Yusuf Pasha’s exile. Our rulers were so delighted with our military successes that they failed to observe their limitations. There was a missing link in the Circle of Equity. Am I not correct, Baron?”

  The Baron nodded his agreement. “The Circle was useful, but like the Qabus Nama it was first formulated by a Persian and as we are aware, the Persians make good poets, but bad politicians and even worse priests.”

  My father signalled for attention. I rea
d aloud what he had written.

  “My son Halil surprises me by his astuteness. I think the failure to modernise ourselves at the beginning of this century is a result of our refusal to accept the printing press and other inventions from Britain and France. Could the Baron explain why he holds the Circle of Equity in such contempt? We were taught its uses when we were being educated in the art of governance. I see nothing wrong in the political theory that has governed our Empire for centuries. It is much better than all this democracy tolerated by Bismarck.”

  The Baron, who had been busy munching grilled almonds and pistachios, cleared his throat in a hurry, almost choking in the process. He washed the remnants of the nuts down with some water and then moved his chair close to where my father sat cross-legged on his bed.

  “We shall discuss Bismarck another time, Iskander Pasha, but it would be foolish of you to underestimate his genius. He has created a new Germany. In doing so, he has dynamited the scaffolding that protected the Austrian Empire. Berlin matters now, not Vienna. But I will save Bismarck for another day.

  “This Circle of Equity which you Ottomans love so much was built on flimsy foundations, Iskander Pasha. It sounds very impressive. It was designed not to solve problems, but to make an impact. Listen now how it rolls off the tongue like Memed the Conqueror’s artillery outside Constantinople. No sovereign authority without an army. No army without wealth. No wealth without loyal subjects. No loyal subjects without justice. No justice without harmony on earth. No harmony without a state. No state without law. No enforcement of law without sovereign authority. No sovereign authority without a Sultan or Caliph.”

  The Baron had recited the Circle with such authority that everyone present burst into applause.

  “I told you it sounds good, but it always had a fatal flaw. It was based on the devshirme. You took babies from all over the Empire and created a caste of soldiers and administrators through long years of training and education. The state owned them, but they began to believe that they owned the state and sometimes that they were the state. It was an ambitious plan which your rulers refined, but as your great and incomparable historian Ibn Khaldun warned many centuries ago, it is dangerous to expect a group without common ties of kinship or solidarity or class to remain loyal to the sovereign authority. A common training is fine for the production of French chefs, but not for creating a strong state.

  “These soldiers and bureaucrats own no property. They are not permitted any hereditary rights. It is Utopian to expect them to remain selfless and pure and unaffected by wealth and privileges. Naturally, they try and acquire wealth and close ties to wealthy families. They observe the clergy. They ask themselves how it is that the Durrizade family has made the ulema a religious nobility from the seventh century to this day. They know it is unfair and they attempt to remedy the discrepancy. But their rise has been too sudden. They are painfully aware that what they have done is illegal. It could be used against them by their rivals or when the Sultan wishes to have any of them executed. This reduces them to a state of permanent insecurity. It creates the basis for constant intrigue. It is, therefore, impossible for these men to become pillars of stability on which the state can rest with confidence. And so, my dear Iskander Pasha, your Circle of Equity becomes a descent to chaos, a circle of self-delusion, an inferno. Without solidarity and stable institutions, old Empires crumble. New ones take their place. You have lost both the war and the battle for survival. Memed the Conqueror wanted to make Istanbul the new Rome. He succeeded too well. The Ottomans have mimicked its decline and fall in a remarkable fashion.”

  The Baron paused for breath and refilled his glass.

  “Have you quite finished, Baron?” inquired Uncle Memed with mischief.

  The Baron gave him a withering look as he sipped his champagne. “This is no time for levity, Memed. We are discussing the future of your Empire.”

  “But I thought we had none. Our history, according to you, has come to an end. The future clearly belongs to the Prussians, which is why I’m pleased we are such close friends. If Istanbul is renamed and handed to the Greeks by the Western powers, I shall move to Berlin.”

  Nobody smiled. Everyone present had been struck by the Baron’s words. For a few minutes there was complete silence. Only the roar of the waves outside disrupted the reflective mood. Then my brother Halil, usually very reserved, began to speak again.

  “I doubt whether the Western powers will ever agree on the future of Istanbul. Mr Disraeli knows that we have protected the Jews for many centuries. He will not wish the city to be returned to the Greek Church. Bismarck will resist change for fear that the Greeks will be too weak and that either Great Britain or Russia will become the real master of Istanbul. The Pope in Rome will do everything to prevent the re-emergence of a rival. The result of all this will help us rebuild and prosper. Do not imagine that we have all been overcome by inertia. Let me inform the Baron that though I agree with much that he has said, including the fact that this Empire is finished, there are many officers in the Ottoman army, men like myself who are forward-thinking in their approach. We will not let everything crash to the ground. We will carve out a new state from the ruins of the old. And if the Western powers try and prevent us, we shall fight them with all our might. In this regard we shall not mimic the Roman Empire. Italy has only just emerged as a unified state, many, many centuries after the fall of Rome. We will not make the same mistake.”

  The Baron replied, but this time he said nothing new. They talked of ancient Rome and Istanbul. I began to lose the thread of their argument as they became more and more repetitive. Throughout this conversation, Salman had given me the impression of a person completely detached from his surroundings. His heavy eyelids and languorous movements reminded me of a dervish who had smoked too much opium. At one point I thought he was fast asleep. Perhaps Halil had awakened him.

  “What does this mean, Halil? Should I warn my friends to evacuate their families and their trade from Alexandria? Should they move to Damascus or are we going to lose everything?”

  “I’m not sure. Egypt is already out of our control, but I am nervous on behalf of your friends. I think the Bedouin will go with whoever promises them the most money. We are too weak to control that world. The fact that we are all of the same faith matters the least when power and money are at stake. The Arabs have never been sentimental in this regard. He who will pay, will have his say. Come back to Istanbul, Salman. Everything is about to change.”

  Salman smiled at his brother. “If someone like you has become infected with the new ideologies that are sprouting all over Europe, then perhaps there is still reason to hope. Perhaps change will come like a hurricane or an earthquake. When the wind has died down and the tremors have ceased, then I shall return to Istanbul. Not a day before. And I expect you to receive me with all the respect that I deserve. Now, if you will excuse me, I will retire. All this talk of the rise and fall of Empires has given me indigestion.”

  Halil laughed as he stood up to embrace Salman.

  “Even I would not be so crude as to blame the short-sightedness of our Sultans for your interminable flatulence. You move too little and you eat too much. The East has not been good for you. When you return I really would not recommend Istanbul as a residence. There you will only get bigger and slower, like a female elephant about to give birth. The indigestion, as you so delicately put it, will get much worse. The city I would suggest for you is Ankara. The air is clean and vices are few.”

  Salman stroked his brother’s cheeks affectionately. “You can bury me in Ankara, if you please, Halil, but not till I’m dead. It will cost you to shift this carcass from Istanbul, but you have my permission. The Baron is our witness.”

  Salman’s departure brought the evening to a close. Iskander Pasha was very pleased with himself for having manipulated the discussion so successfully. There had been no personal reminiscences of the family, no discussion of our past, and this pleased him. His speech had been paralysed, but
his memory had not weakened and there were recollections with which he wanted no contact at all. I felt close to him again. He had once told us that whenever he returned to Istanbul after a stay in Paris or Berlin, he found the odour of stupidity at home extremely reassuring, but was terrified that it might suffocate him if, for whatever reason, he was never able to travel again. I would ask him about that before the summer was over, but not tonight, when he looked so happy. I kissed his head and took my leave.

  Silently, I followed the Baron and Uncle Memed to the moon-drenched terrace. We sat down at a table beautifully laid with silver bowls filled with almonds of three different varieties, walnuts and fruits. Petrossian uncorked another bottle and served the two men. Memed told him they would help themselves and instructed him to retire for the night.