by Tariq Ali
If he had stayed on in Istanbul for another year and not rushed to New York and married the first woman who made eyes at him, I would have told him that we had a beautiful daughter and that all the fears regarding our children had been unfounded. If he loved me still I would have asked Iskander Pasha for my freedom and run away with Suleman to Damascus or anywhere else where we could start a new life. My parents would have found the scandal unbearable and Father might have lost a few wealthy patients, but none of that would have affected my decision in any way.
My love for him used to be so strong, but he chose to run away. He said the very thought of life without me in Istanbul was unbearable, that he would die rather than see me in public with another man, but all this proves is that the roots of his love did not go very deep. He said he could not stay in the Ottoman lands for wherever one was in the decaying Empire, one always dreamt of Istanbul. With the kind help of my father he decided on New York.
We have some family there, but they are so well integrated that they look down on those of us who settled here. We are too backward for them, but not for the letters of credit from the firm of my maternal uncle. Our wealth, however, is perfectly acceptable. How much did my father pay Suleman? I never wanted to know at the time, but now this question has begun to nag me. It won’t go away. His papers are still there in the house.
For a long time I avoided my own childhood home. My pain was so great, Stone Woman. I used to weep and pray for an inner strength that would help me forget, but whenever I went home I would hear his voice whispering to me: “Sara, are we alone? Are they all out? Should we go to your room or mine?” I last went when my father died. It was the first time I did not hear Suleman’s whisper in my ear.
Several months later, my mother showed me the letter she had received from him. In it he had made no mention of me, not even as a courtesy. Perhaps his conscience troubles him. Guilt, my daughter Nilofer tells me, can become both a self-protective and a self-deceptive emotion. Incapable of mentioning me, he wrote instead of his high regard for my father and how he would never forget the kindnesses he had been shown by our family. Kindnesses. I felt overcome by nausea. Towards the end of the letter he wrote that he was sure my mother would be pleased to hear that his wife was pregnant again. My mother may well have been pleased. She has never got over the fact that I was their only child and that she failed to produce a son to carry on my father’s healing tradition. As you can imagine, Stone Woman, my feelings on reading this were not warm. The sow, I remember thinking to myself. How many little pigs will she produce before she dies? My one Nilofer is worth all of them ten times over.
I will return to my home when this strange summer is finally over, Stone Woman. I will read all the letters. I want to know the exact number of silver pieces he took to forget me. Did he give my father a receipt for the kindnesses? Mother is, alas, getting too old to remember anything. Her memory has almost gone. Sometimes she doesn’t recognise me. What should I do, Stone Woman? I need to know that he is well. I cannot stay calm until I find out. I will write to my Uncle Sifrah in Istanbul to see if he can send a telegram immediately. Suleman has, in the past, done some work for their branch in New York and my uncle will find out if all is well or whether my fears are well founded.
Dreams are funny things. Why did such a dream ever enter my head? Why do we dream what we dream? Is there a simple answer, or is it what my father used to call an insoluble problem? I remember him saying to the guests at one of his dinner parties that there was a doctor in Paris and, I think, in Vienna who were both doing a lot of work on dreams. Have you ever heard of the Viennese doctor, Stone Woman? I can’t quite remember his name.
This dream may have changed more than I can imagine.
For a long time when Iskander Pasha used to come to me at night, I would shut my eyes and think it was still Suleman. I could not do this all the time because Iskander Pasha is a big man and bearing his weight was very different, but at the point when union dissolves into pure pleasure the image in my mind was that of my lost lover from Damascus. In that way I could enjoy the experience, but still love my Suleman. Iskander Pasha’s visits became less and less frequent, till a few weeks ago. Once again the image of Suleman entered my head, but now I have a very real problem. This dream has ruined everything. I can never imagine the old Suleman ever again. The cruel image of the dream has taken over. Perhaps I will now have to think of Iskander Pasha and him alone? The prospect is not as unpleasing as it might have been before. Something has changed in him.’
TWELVE
Memed and the Baron have an argument on Islamic history in which Memed is worsted; Iskander Pasha recovers his power of speech, but prefers to thank Auguste Comte rather than Allah
“I’M REALLY SURPRISED BY your lack of knowledge on this critically important aspect of the history of your religion and culture.”
The Baron sounded irate. The three of us were in the library, waiting for the others to arrive. Iskander Pasha, who had summoned the conclave, had decided to take a walk after dinner. It was beautiful and balmy outside, and with the windows of the library wide open the scents of the night were overpowering.
When I entered the room Uncle Memed and the Baron had been shouting at each other. They ignored my arrival, but lowered their voices. They were dressed today in cream-coloured shirts and white trousers, though Uncle Memed had, unlike his friend, responded to the weather and dispensed with his silk cravat.
“Well?” continued the Baron. “Do you still insist that the Ommayads and Abbasids were simply rival factions engaged in a power struggle and nothing more?”
“Yes,” replied Memed in a very stiff voice. “Your knowledge of Islam is taken from books, Baron. Mine is first-hand.”
“I see it all now. Everything is suddenly illuminated,” the Baron responded facetiously. “You were actually present yourself in Damascus during the eighth century. I can see you with your quill and parchment, noting down what the leaders of the rival factions were saying of each other and meticulously counting the number of dead bodies on the streets.”
“Reductio ad absurdum will not work in this case, Baron. Mock away if you like, but elevating the Ommayads and the Abbasids to the level of the world-spirit will simply not work. Feuerbach would have spanked you for resorting to sarcasm when argument failed.”
The Baron tapped his stick angrily on the wooden floor. “It is not your naïveté that amazes me, Memed, it is your obstinacy and arrogance. When knowledge of a particular subject has eluded you and an old and valued friend is attempting to dispel the clouds of ignorance that have descended on your raised eyebrow, you should, at least, do him the courtesy of hearing out his whole argument. It will help. Once you have been enlightened then, of course, you are free to disagree.”
Now it was Uncle Memed’s turn to sulk. “Have it your way, Baron. You always do.”
The Baron ignored the petulant tone. “Listen, Memed. They were rival factions. Of course they were, but what was the reality that underlay their hostility to each other? Power? Yes, but why? Let us not forget that thousands of lives were lost in this civil war. I see the entire struggle as one between the declining forces of the Arabs, who had monopolised Islam since the death of your prophet, and the, how should I put it, more cosmopolitan forces of Islam. Why were the Ommayad dynasty extinguished so mercilessly? Every surviving male except one was destroyed. I grant you that Abderrahman’s escape was a miracle of the imagination. He was an unusually gifted political leader and showed great initiative in heading for Spain. Once he was safe in Cordoba, the populace acclaimed him as the Caliph. But it was the acclaim of the soldiers that was decisive and they were loyal because they were Arabs. We agree? Good. I will continue.
“The battle for the Caliphate in the Arab heartland was between a Damascus-based Arab oligarchy represented by the Ommayads and the Abbasids who were backed by the Persians, the Turks, including your own ancestors my dear friend, the Kurds, the Caucasians, the Arameans and the Armenians an
d so on. These were the new converts, but their numbers were many and the arrogant refusal of the Ommayads to recognise this numerical superiority and share power in the greater interest of Islam, meant they had to be wiped out. A new legitimacy was needed because Islam had become a world religion. Arab vanity would not tolerate a compromise.”
Uncle Memed’s nose twitched slightly as he rewarded the Baron with a condescending smile. “Interesting, though, isn’t it, that the Cordoba Caliphate under the sway of the vain and short-sighted Arabs was far more advanced in many ways than your cosmopolitan Abbasids? The Ommayads in Spain were far more tolerant and far less susceptible to any nonsense on the part of the clergy. The Andalusian philosophers were continually being denounced in Baghdad as heretics. Scholars were discouraged from reading their books.”
“Very true,” replied the Baron, “but the conditions in al-Andalus were very different. The Ommayads confronted Christiandom. They were fighting on the borderlands of the two civilisations. They needed their philosophers to help them win new converts to Islam. There it could not simply be done under the shadow of the sword. The situation demanded intellectual triumphs. I am extremely partial, as you know, to the Andalusian philosophers. Without them the Renaissance in Europe might have taken a different form. But understand that they were allowed to develop their brilliant minds only because they were faced with a powerful intellectual enemy in the Catholic Church. When the Bishops decided that the enemy could not be overwhelmed by argument they backed a Holy War and the Pope gave Europe the Inquisition. All this proves, Memed, is that new ideas develop best when they are engaged in struggle against orthodoxy. The synthesis is usually original and exciting.
“The Catholic scholars were careful when they subjected Islamic culture to an auto-da-fé in Granada in the fifteenth century. They removed the manuals of medicine and other learned books, which they needed for their own survival, from the fire. Have I convinced you, my dear old thing?”
Uncle Memed looked at his friend and raised an eyebrow. I had always envied him this capacity. It was an art, he explained, that could not be taught.
“You may not have convinced me completely, Baron, but you have certainly compelled me to think.”
“It is these small victories that enrich one’s life,” muttered the Baron as my father, flanked on either side by Halil and Salman, entered the room.
Father and sons were followed by grandfather and grandson. Hasan Baba and Selim must have been waiting outside for my father to return before they entered the library. Hasan Baba could not overcome years of habit and still maintained the posture of a retainer. Selim suffered from no such inhibitions. He walked in with his head naturally erect. My heart quickened its pace as I saw him. He smiled. My eyes softened. I looked around the room casually to see if anyone had noticed. Father had taken his customary position in the armchair closest to the window. Petrossian entered with a large jug filled with the fresh juice of oranges. Glances were exchanged between the Baron and Memed, who could not believe that they were being deprived of alcohol for the evening. Their worries were premature. Petrossian’s grandson walked in with the champagne and wine glasses that I had never seen before in the house. The sight cheered the two friends.
“Well, Iskander,” began Uncle Memed, “why have we been summoned this evening? What delights await us today?”
My father did not reply. He waved his stick in the direction of Halil.
“It was my idea that we meet tonight.” Halil’s soft voice compelled Hasan Baba, who was getting more and more deaf with each passing day, to move close to the speaker and cup his good ear in the direction of the sound. “For the last few days I have been discussing matters of some importance with my father and brother. They concern the future of our Empire.”
“What future?” the Baron interrupted. “If we’re going to speak frankly let us confront reality.”
Halil smiled. “Baron Pasha! You have stolen my words. It is because the Empire has no future that we need to speak and not simply that, but to act. I am a simple soldier. I am not a philosopher of history or a political thinker, but even I have come to realise that if we do nothing, if we simply sit still and watch our country being devoured, everything will be lost. Our people will wake up one morning and find themselves, like our Sultan, enslaved by Britain, France, Russia and the new Germany. It is our good fortune that these powers are not in agreement. Each needs us alive in order to prevent its rival from eating us whole. There is deep unrest in the army. The young officers want to act now. They wish to depose the Sultan and establish a republic.”
He paused to see if anyone had reacted. Memed clapped his hands in delight.
“It has to be done, Halil, but we are already a hundred years too late. We should have learnt from the French much sooner.”
Hasan Baba frowned and shook his head. “No good will come of it. It is not possible for a fly to lift an eagle and dash it to the ground.”
Selim disagreed. It was the only time he spoke that evening. “Halil Pasha speaks the truth. It is we who are the eagle, Hasan Baba. The Sultan and his corrupt courtiers are the fly. They are the parasites who have clipped our wings and lived off us for centuries. Now we want our wings back and there is no height that we cannot reach.”
My brothers smiled. I simply felt like kissing his lips.
“I agree with young Selim,” said Salman, whom I had not seen with such shining and alert eyes since he had first arrived here. “I agree with Uncle Memed that we should have acted a hundred years ago. But let us not forget that the French, too, have been playing musical chairs with their history. They execute the King and crown Napoleon. The English and Austrians topple Napoleon and the French restore their King. Another revolution gives us another republic and then we get an imitation Napoleon, who calls himself the Third, and so the circus goes on. When we act—and act we must—let us do so in such a way that there can never be a restoration. These cursed Sultans have let us decay for far too long. Let them take their jewel boxes and go and live on the French Riviera.”
Iskander Pasha had been listening intently to the discussion. He tapped his stick gently on the floor to demand attention and then, to the amazement of everyone present, he began to speak, low and stuttering. But it was speech! It had returned. We all rose spontaneously, amazement and happiness written on each face, and moved towards him. Tears shone in Hasan Baba’s eyes as he threw his arms around Iskander Pasha.
“Allah be praised. This is nothing less than a miracle. How could this happen?”
“The human body remains a mystery,” said the Baron. “If he could walk again, I suppose we should not be surprised that he can talk again. This calls for a real celebration.”
Iskander Pasha told us all to sit down. Hearing him speak again was unreal. I found it difficult to contain my happiness. The first thing I will do tomorrow, I told myself, is bring Emineh to him so she can hear his voice.
“Please,” he said in a slightly hoarse voice, “I did think of remaining silent and announcing the return of my speech tomorrow, because what we speak of tonight is much more important than our individual lives. Let us continue. The question we confront is not the Sultan or the Caliphate. All that is over. What will we put in its place and will we have a place or will they carve us into tiny slices and share us out? My speech returned a couple of days ago when Nilofer asked me whether I had heard of Auguste Comte. I was relieved to hear that she had heard the name from young Selim, who I knew could only have got it from Hasan. After Nilofer left the room, my lips repeated the name Auguste Comte and to my astonishment I realised I could speak. It was Comte, you see, and not Allah. So, my dear Hasan, from now on I want you to say ‘Comte be praised’ or ‘There is only one Comte and he is Comte and we are all his prophets.’”
Everyone laughed, including Hasan Baba, though he could not resist muttering dire warnings. “The first thing you do with your recovered tongue is to speak blasphemies. Careful lest it be taken away from you again.”
“Speaking of tongues, Father,” said Salman with a glint in his eye, “do you recall the remark attributed to Yusuf Pasha, the glorious builder of this beautiful house?”
Iskander Pasha shook his head.
“One day, he was visited by a group of courtiers from Istanbul. They had brought him gifts and honeyed words fell off their tongues with great facility. Yusuf Pasha knew they had come to spy on behalf of the Sultan. The Ruler of the World wanted to know whether his old friend had truly repented so that his exile could be ended. The courtiers, who feared our ancestor’s influence, wanted to prevent such a calamity. At first, Yusuf Pasha refused to receive them, but after many entreaties he agreed that they should be allowed into his library, this same room where we have all assembled today. He looked at them sternly and warned them that if they did not repeat his exact words to the Sultan, he would ensure that they were all punished. The courtiers trembled a little, but nodded obsequiously. Then he told them: ‘Your visit today has been very welcome, but I have an important piece of advice for you. If you value the life of our Sultan and Caliph, act on it the moment you return. As you all know, I revere and love the Sultan since we grew up together. I am seriously worried about his health. Since your tongues spend so much time up the Sultan’s posterior, I am worried that you might infect him with some dangerous disease. I have discussed the matter with my physician and he insists that courtiers in your important positions must have their tongues circumcised without any further delay.’”
I have never seen Iskander Pasha laugh in such an abandoned fashion as he did that night on hearing Salman’s joke. Even the Baron, momentarily, lost his poise.
Salman, too, had changed. Like his father, he appeared to be a very different person these days. When he had first arrived here he gave the impression of suffering from a deep inner despair. His whole being had been infected by a cynicism of the coarsest variety. His father’s affliction and recovery had rekindled something in him or perhaps it had been his long discussions with Halil or perhaps both had played some part in his recovery. Whatever the cause, the result was a joy. Yesterday he had spent the whole afternoon playing with my children, without once mentioning his own.
