The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

  EIGHTEEN

  The death of Hasan Baba, who is given a Sufi burial; the return of Kemal Pasha; Sara’s anger

  THERE WAS A GENTLE knock. Selim was fast asleep. Nothing woke him. Nothing. I was convinced he could sleep through an earthquake. I thought it might be one of the children and got of bed quickly, covered myself with a dressing gown and went to the door. It was my mother.

  “You should wake him up,” she whispered. “The maids have just come and told me that when they took his breakfast to his room they found poor Hasan Baba dead. I’m going to tell your father now. He will be very upset.”

  I had to shake Selim really hard to wake him. He was shocked by the news and began to weep.

  “He lived a good life, Nilofer. It was a good life, he used to say, that is why I have lived so long. He was ninety-one a few months ago. And I know he was very old. I know he was old, but I didn’t want him to die. He was never orthodox. He used to ask me which animal I liked the most and I would reply ‘an eagle’ and he would say to me: ‘Selim, when I die I will become an eagle.’ He belonged to a Sufi tekke that believed that if you had achieved perfection in this world you could choose the physical shape in which to return to life after death. I will miss him, Nilofer. I will miss him.”

  We walked out of the house and crossed the garden to the little room where his body lay. Iskander Pasha rose as he saw us and embraced Selim. Both men began to weep.

  “You have lost a father and a grandfather, Selim. He is irreplaceable. I know that better than most people, but always remember, I am here if ever you need me.”

  Hasan Baba had asked to be buried on a mound a few hundred yards from where the Stone Woman stood. He had instructed the head gardener only a few weeks ago as to how deep they must dig and where, and since his death this morning they had been digging his grave according to his detailed instructions. Petrossian watched them, weeping. He had so many shared memories with the dead man. They had both grown up together in this household and, in the old days, travelled everywhere with Iskander Pasha. They knew more about this family than any of us did. Hasan Baba had taken many secrets with him to the grave. Petrossian was now the sole survivor. And he never talked about us to any living person.

  Hasan Baba had asked to be buried just before the sun set. Everyone from our household, men and women, master and servant, was present when his body was lowered into the freshly dug grave. The earth was moist and the scent of the wild flowers and trees would have pleased him. A few people had come from the closest village, a few kilometres from the house. We all cupped our hands and spoke the funeral verses from the Koran. Selim alone remained apart from us. He did not cup his hands. He did not offer any prayers. Instead, after we had finished, Selim’s voice soared like an eagle as he sang a Sufi verse to send the old man who had been his father and teacher on his way.

  “I sing this one for you, Hasan Baba.” Selim’s broken voice made me weep. “I sing it for you, my eagle.”

  O Sufi, to you the mosque and the tavern were one,

  The voice of the devout and the cry of the drunk were one,

  The remembrance of God and the goblet of wine were one.

  You gave up hypocrisy,

  Because for you the throne and the beggar’s stool were one.

  You burned with love,

  Because for you the candle and the moth were one.

  Become light and see, become light and fly,

  Because you and the eagle are one.

  By the time Selim had finished there were no dry eyes amongst those present. Petrossian and Iskander Pasha embraced and kissed Selim. They flanked him and, taking an arm each, escorted him inside the house. I followed them into the hall, where Selim slumped on the stairs and lost control of himself. He wept silently. He hit his head against the banisters. He wept loudly, talking to Hasan Baba all the while, referring to him as ‘Perfect Man’. I sat next to him and gently forced his head on to my lap, stroked his hair and forehead. How long we sat there I can no longer remember, but it was Petrossian who came and told us that the funeral feast was being served in the garden. Selim rose to his feet immediately, wiped the tears off his face and lifted me up. He was smiling.

  “Now let us celebrate his life.”

  It was dark outside, but oil lamps had transformed the garden. Iskander Pasha had sent a coach to fetch the musicians from a village about twenty kilometres from our house. They were dervishes and had begun to play their instruments as if in a divine trance, which Selim told me later that evening had been inspired not by the Creator, but by hashish. Three lambs were roasting on spits. Cauldrons of special rice had been prepared, and trays of fruit were laid out on all the tables. Individuals were singing the praises of the dead man.

  Without warning, the musicians stopped and rose. They clapped their hands to attract attention and signalled that all present should join them. We did and they began to whirl, urging us to do the same, which we did till we became giddy and fell to the ground to recover. A great deal of wine had already been consumed, but the musicians continued to whirl, till they, too, became exhausted and stopped. Instead of resting, like us, they began to play again with a renewed vigour.

  It was while we were feasting that a coach drew up and a man of medium height with thick grey hair stepped out and began to breathe the sea air. Petrossian, ever watchful, had heard the noise of the wheels on the gravel. He rushed to receive the guest.

  “Glad you’re still here, Petrossian.” The man’s voice was strangely familiar. “What in the name of Allah is going on here? Is it a wedding or a funeral?”

  “A funeral, Kemal Aga. Old Hasan Baba died in his sleep last night.”

  When did Uncle Kemal return to Istanbul? I rushed to find Salman, and we both went to greet him.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Petrossian,” said Uncle Kemal. “I’ll miss the old rogue, even though he used to cut my hair too short when I was a boy. He claimed he was carrying out our mother’s instructions, but I’m not so sure. Salman! Good to see you again, my boy. And you’re smiling again.”

  The two men embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks.

  “And you?” he said, inspecting me carefully. “Which one are you?”

  I laughed at his frankness. “Nilofer.”

  “Of course! Can’t see your green eyes. Pity they don’t shine in the dark. Where are your children? I’m sorry about the Greek school teacher. Very bad news.”

  “She’s married again,” Salman informed him.

  “Good,” said Uncle Kemal. “I hate long waits myself. And here are my brothers.”

  After they had hugged each other and laughed, Uncle Kemal demanded a room, a bath and a meal.

  “I was looking forward to not hearing you speak, Iskander. It would have made a change in my life. Trust my luck. I return and hear that you’ve recovered your speech. All the way back on the ship I was dreaming of how I would entertain you with my stories and how you would not be able to interrupt me with a stupid joke, but no. This was not to be. Why couldn’t you have waited another week?”

  The brothers laughed and escorted Uncle Kemal to his room. He was exhausted and did not come down again. Petrossian took some food and wine to his room and, no doubt, answered his questions on the state of the family. It was only when Petrossian came down that my mother asked when Kemal had returned to Istanbul.

  “His ship docked at the harbour at lunch time, hanim effendi,” said Petrossian. “He went home, ordered a coach to bring him here and did not stay at his house long enough to change his clothes.”

  My mother burst out laughing. “What a strange man your uncle has become! If he can’t bear the sight of them, why doesn’t he do something?”

  “But he does, Mother Hatije.” Salman had joined us in the library and now shut the windows to keep out the noise of the musicians. “He travels the whole world and avoids their company. I think he’s happy with this life. He could divorce his wife, but he would still have to maintain her and his ugly daughte
rs, so why bother? I think it suits everyone concerned.”

  “Is he really happy, Salman?” asked my mother.

  “Which of us is really happy, Mother Hatije? I don’t believe there is any such thing as real happiness. It’s an invention of the poets. All our lives go through different stages and one of these is usually happiness, but does it last for ever? I do not believe so. There is permanent emotional disorder in our lives, which does not permit any settlement of the happiness question. Nilofer disapproves of my theory?”

  “Selim and I are very happy together, Salman!”

  “And long may you remain so, my beautiful Nilofer. I would never deny that there are exceptions to my rule, but far from contradicting what I have said they prove the exact opposite. Uncle Kemal seems to be very cheerful, which is not a good sign. It means he will start his stories at breakfast and we will still be listening to them when the evening meal is being served. I am going to bed so I can build up the necessary energy to survive tomorrow. Peace be upon you both. One more thing, Nilofer, lest I forget. Please tell Selim that his song moved me deeply. I was weeping like everyone else. He has a very fine voice. It will be wasted in the army.”

  I was about to go into the garden again and sit with Selim, but my mother advised me to leave him on his own tonight. She felt it was better if he bade farewell to Hasan Baba in his own way, without any restrictions. I had left sharing a goblet of wine with the musicians and had promised to go back, but Mother convinced me otherwise.

  “It is likely he will stay up all night and sing again at the grave when the sun rises. Let him be. It’s a beautiful night. Come with me and have some mint tea.”

  I was exhausted. My mother gently massaged my neck while I sipped the tea. For a long time we did not speak. She had not done this for such a long time that the touch of her hands brought all the emotions of the day to a head. I felt weak and overpowered, and tears began to wash my cheeks. My mother remained silent as she wiped the tears away and kissed me. I told her then of the offer Iskander Pasha had made regarding a trip to New York to see my real father. This surprised Sara as much as it pleased her, but she approved strongly of what he had said regarding blood relations.

  “You know, Nilofer, if Suleman were to see you now he would be embarrassed. Your presence would be a permanent reminder of his cowardice. Even if he wanted to, he could never love and appreciate you as much as Iskander Pasha.”

  I agreed with her, but if this was the case with me, surely it could have been the same for her. Why had she not even tried to fall in love with her new husband?

  “You’re a great one for clever phrases, Nilofer. Look what happened when you tried to fall in love with that poor skinny Greek. You convinced yourself beautifully and, alas, him. Look at the result. You left him. He got himself killed. My babies are fatherless and now you have fallen in love again. I know, I know. This time it’s the real thing. Well, I had the real thing and it let me down badly. I still think of his betrayal, you know. The other day I was thinking that even if we couldn’t have a child we should still have lived together. He should not have crumbled in the face of my father’s superior knowledge—which turned out to be wrong anyway—or his money. Perhaps we were not really suited to each other. My mother must have said that a hundred times each day. My Uncle Sifrah echoed her when he came to our house for his weekly lunch. All my friends repeated it after he had run away to New York. They never said that when we were happy together. Never when I told them of my adventures with Suleman. Never when they saw us together on a few rare occasions and noticed how close and natural we were with each other. It was only after it was all over, and he had deserted me like the little rat he was about to become, that everyone suddenly discovered how bad we were for each other. I knew it was rubbish, but I believed them at the time. I wanted to believe them. I had to believe them. It was the only way to rebuild my life again and move on.”

  I sat up cross-legged directly opposite her and looked straight into her eyes.

  “Don’t do that, Nilofer. It reminds me of him.”

  She was in an impossible mood, but I persisted. “Listen, I know what you felt about him and why you’re still angry, almost thirty years later, but that is not what I am asking you. You still talk as if it happened yesterday. The wounds can’t possibly still be hurting, Mother. I was asking you something else. Five or ten or twenty years after I was born, you could still have tried and made Iskander Pasha love you. He’s such a lovely person and—”

  “Stop it, Nilofer! I’ve had enough of this nonsense. My husband is a good and generous man and I am attached to him. There is no tension in our relationship, but nor is there much passion. Neither of us wants anything else. So spare me your matchmaking at this stage of my life and concentrate on your own happiness. Sometimes I think there is too much romance in you. You are too impulsive. Too instinctive. You don’t think before you act.”

  I began to laugh at her. “And where do you think I inherited that from? Not him! It couldn’t be him, because he accepted Grandfather’s gold pieces—and I’m sure it was gold, not silver—and deserted you and every instinct in his own body. Isn’t that correct, Mother? Whom do you think I take after? You, or that rat?”

  She did not laugh as I had hoped. She smiled. “Go to bed now, child. You’re very tired.”

  NINETEEN

  The fragments of Kemal Pasha’s life and his ambition to create the world’s largest steamship company; Nilofer reflects on happiness and the meaning of life; the death of Mariam

  “NO, IT WAS NOT as you say, Iskander.”

  We were still at the breakfast table and the three brothers who, I had to remember, had not been around the same table since their father’s death nearly thirty years ago, were dominating the conversation. Petrossian stood in the corner, listening to every word and permitting the odd smile to lighten his face.

  My father had just suggested that Uncle Kemal had been such a self-sufficient and solitary person even as a child that their father had been impressed and thought he might become a great thinker or philosopher. Kemal Pasha denied this assertion. “I suppose that was one possible interpretation. The reality was otherwise. I learnt to depend on myself from an early age not because I was morose or preferred my own company, but because Memed and you demanded so much attention from everyone all the time. I remember our mother saying to me on one occasion how nice it would have been if I had been born a girl, so that she could have dressed me in her clothes and jewellery. It was her way of wishing she had paid me more attention.”

  Memed smiled affectionately. “My memory is somewhat different. I remember being reprimanded quite severely for ignoring you. Father once asked me whether I was jealous of your arrival. The question bemused me and he must have seen that on my face. He explained that the property, apart from this house, which thanks to Yusuf Pasha’s insistence could only be inherited by the oldest son, would now have to be divided three ways. I think Father did not believe it when I said the thought had never occurred to me. I suppose when he was growing up these questions dominated discussion in their household and the arrival of every new son was greeted by the elder brother as a catastrophe.”

  “That may all be true, Memed,” said Kemal, “but the fact remains that you and Iskander left me no other option but to amuse myself. What was really irritating was that your self-importance had infected the servants as well. Petrossian was devoted to Iskander and accompanied him everywhere. Isn’t that the case, Petrossian? Well, answer me, man.”

  Everyone’s gaze shifted to the old man with the red beard who stood near the door. He did not answer.

  “Please answer him, Petrossian,” my father pleaded. “Otherwise your silence will count against us in the ledger he has been preparing for twenty years.”

  Petrossian smiled. “I was ordered by the master to make sure that Iskander Aga did not get into trouble. They were always worried for him. He was considered very impulsive. That is why I went with him everywhere.”

&n
bsp; Kemal was not impressed. “He only replied because Iskander asked him to do so. All of you have witnessed it. Nothing changes. I have no doubt that Father gave him the instructions, but so what? It doesn’t change anything as far as I’m concerned. Hasan Baba, bless him, shaved Memed and cut his hair with such delicacy that from a distance it seemed as if he were painting a portrait. With me it was always in a hurry. I was a permanent afterthought in this family.”

  My father burst out laughing. “I’m so glad you’re here, Kemal. We hear of your amazing life from people who have run into you in the strangest parts of the world. Welcome home.”

  Kemal Pasha softened. “It is nice to be here, but let me get the last complaint off my chest. It has burdened me a long time. Have I your permission, sister Hatije?”

  My mother smiled. “You don’t need my permission, Kemal. This is your house and you must treat it as such.”

  Petrossian came to refill our cups and though he usually went first to Iskander Pasha, on this occasion he served Uncle Kemal before everyone else with a look of exaggerated servility. The three brothers exchanged smiles.

  “I will speak my last bitterness,” warned Kemal, “and then move on to more pleasant subjects. When it came to our future lives, what happened? Memed was allowed to settle in Berlin with the Baron. And I was pleased for him. Iskander went into a Sufi phase and married the lovely Zakiye. And I was pleased for him.”

  Everyone knew what was coming and laughter began to spread even before he had finished.

  “Oh, yes, it is very funny for all of you. I was forced by Father to contract an arranged marriage. He was straightforward. The dowry was phenomenal. I was not even allowed to see the woman. I’m not surprised they didn’t permit that...”

  “Kemal,” interrupted my father. “You could have spied on her in the baths.”

  “I tried. She never went to the cursed public baths. You think those women are unaware that we spy on them? They know. I don’t think Leyla liked baths! So I was compelled to marry her, sight unseen. And as Allah is my witness I shut my eyes very tight and did my duty. Three children. All girls. Mother was delighted, till they began to develop and grow. When the youngest of my three graces turned six, our mother realised that the game was over. It was unfortunate that each of them had inherited their mother’s features, but even that did not bother me. I could have ignored that if just one of them had been intelligent or, at least, not completely stupid. It is not a nice thing to say of one’s own children, but it is even worse to engage in self-deception. To be bovine in appearance and half-witted at the same time is too much of a punishment for one person to bear. Did I ever tell you what our mother said to me a few months before she passed away? She had just finished her card-game with our aunt and had won some money. She was, as a result, in a generous mood that day. She kissed my cheeks and apologised to me. She’s the only person who ever acknowledged the weight of my burden. She said to me: ‘I’m sorry, my little sparrow. We knew your wife was no fairy, but your father and I had hoped the children would be like our side of the family. We were wrong. Terrible fate. It has dealt you such a repulsive hand.’ I decided that it was pointless to bemoan my misfortune any longer. I decided to become a seafarer. Contrary to what you imagine, I have rarely been on my own. Each ship has a crew of fifty sailors and they are never of the same nationality. They speak different languages. They have different gestures to express the same thing. Some nod their heads when they mean ‘no’ and others will shake their heads when they mean ‘yes’. Their customs are never the same. Then there is the captain. He may be the silent type who thinks only to himself and rarely speaks unless it is to issue a command or he could be loquacious to the point of irritation, talking of his adventures and presuming on the politeness of his listeners. There may be anything up to fifteen passengers. They may be adventurers in search of a fortune, traders, women escaping from misfortune, younger sons from wealthy families whose father has died and the house has gone to the oldest brother. They need anonymity in a remote corner of the world. I always have company on the boat. I have learnt a great deal in this way. Some of the conversations have been very rewarding. One does not have to cultivate insincerity as in the society we all keep in Istanbul or Berlin or London or Paris or any other big capital. My ships have made me truly cosmopolitan. I have learnt to flow like a wave and sometimes, when I am lucky, I find a wave-brother in the captain or his first mate. I am pleased to be here with all of you, but of one thing I am sure. I could never live in Istanbul again. Now if you will excuse me, I will go and shave, evacuate my bowels and take a bath. These routines are universal. Only the timing changes. Did I ever tell you that in Japan they regard you as odd unless you excrete at least three times a day? I never managed more than twice.”