by Tariq Ali
7 November 1870
The Prussians have rejected the French call for an Armistice. Bismarck’s Memorandum shows the iron will of the German leader. He has no equivalent in France. This Government, which has done so little to defend itself against a foreign enemy, is preparing seriously to take the offensive against its own citizens. A fresh egg, our cook now informs me, costs 25 sous.
“What are you reading, child?”
The Baron had arrived for breakfast and I put the journal away.
“Iskander Pasha’s diaries of 1870 in Paris. You’re mentioned.”
He laughed. “The food parcel on his birthday?”
I nodded. “How did you do that? Were you actually there on the other side?”
“Yes, of course. Surely you agree that Bismarck was more progressive than that coxcomb Napoleon the 103rd or whatever he called himself. Utter scoundrel. Disgraced the name of his great forebear. Memed was very tickled that I had managed to get that parcel in on Iskander’s birthday.”
“Yes, I was,” said Uncle Memed, yawning as he joined us at the table. He wanted to know why we were discussing the parcel. When I told him, he immediately took the journal from me.
“Hmm. I will read this later. Did you know that your Selim’s grandfather played a heroic role in that ill-fated encounter?”
“Yes, but I hadn’t reached that bit and...”
“When he first came back from Paris, Hasan was determined to organise a Commune in Istanbul. I think the Baron pointed out to him that it was foolish to mimic a defeat. Do you remember how angry he became, Baron?”
“Yes, yes. I remember. The problem was not so much copying a defeat, but the fact that the Istanbul crowd was still fiercely attached to the bloody mosques. The Parisians, thanks to 1789, had been cured of that disease. They were ferociously anti-clerical.”
“You’re right, Baron,” said my father as he inspected the state of the table and noticed the absence of eggs, without which his day was incomplete. “Petrossian! I’m here. My eggs, please. Why are we discussing France, Baron?”
I explained for the third time that morning.
“As a matter of fact, it was the shortage of eggs during that siege, Baron, which made me pledge that once it was over I would never be without eggs ever again. It’s all your fault.”
Memed tittered softly. The Baron was pleased to be the centre of attention.
“Father,” I asked him, “was Hasan Baba really affected by it all?”
“Yes, we all were. Petrossian became very excited as well, but the execution of the Communards by Thiers and his soldiers changed him around again. I think he saw the power of the state and it frightened him. Thiers was a bloodthirsty butcher. But Hasan was unshakeable. I agree with the Baron on Istanbul. We never had our 1789, let alone 1793. If that had happened here everything could have been different.”
My father’s scrambled eggs had arrived, complete with a sprinkling of fresh coriander and black pepper. As he busied himself with his breakfast, the Baron resumed the conversation.
“Yes, Iskander, but the whole point is that it could not happen here. In France there was an aristocracy that sucked the blood of its peasantry. Here, the Ottoman state was everything: Mosque, Sultan, Owner of the Land and Controller of the Army. That was its strength, as Machiavelli pointed out, but also its weakness. Your family was given fiefs by the Sultan in return for your services, but Yusuf Pasha of blessed memory had no power or land on which to raise his own army. In England and France the nobles were like miniature kings. Not here.”
“Baron,” pleaded Memed. “Please! Not while we’re eating breakfast. You know how fragile I feel at this time of the day.”
I could have kissed my uncle. I knew exactly how he felt.
“Does anyone in the house know where Halil has been for the last two days? Nilofer? You’re part of the conspiracy, aren’t you?”
I chose to ignore the provocation. Iskander Pasha was not convinced by the Committee and had been shaken by the affair of the eunuch-general. He had told Halil to be very careful and not to think that the eunuch was either the first or the last person to spy and report on them. It was a father’s concern for his son’s safety, but I felt there was something else as well. His Paris journals had revealed a side of him that had previously escaped my notice. The thought had not occurred to me before, but given the two sides of his emotional character, might there not be a similar dichotomy in the rest of his life?
There was the urbane Iskander Pasha in Istanbul who, dressed in formal clothes, called on the Vizier once a week and floated through the evening effortlessly while banalities were exchanged on the state of the Empire and the health of the Sultan. His face remained expressionless when he was entertaining visiting dignitaries at our house in Istanbul. But the charming smiles and the display of surface calm was a pure deception. This was the same man whose fists were often clenched in pain and anger. The journals were the strongest indication of this, even though he had been a young man at the time.
He was obviously worried that Halil might end up in prison or worse, but he was also irritated at being excluded from the affairs of the Committee, especially as he knew that I was involved. My interest in politics had been limited till the arrival of Selim in our house. The storms of passion he aroused had shaken the very core of my life. I had to rethink many things, both in my inner life and the world outside. These were things I had always taken for granted, such as the conviction that I and no other person would ever be in control of my emotions, and the idea of the Empire as something eternal. Iskander Pasha was looking at me impatiently.
“I’m really not sure, Father. He told Petrossian he might be away for a week or ten days in Istanbul.”
“Politics or pleasure?”
“Neither,” I replied. “Family.”
He laughed. “Are the boys and their mother back from Damascus?”
They were and Halil, who had not seen his twins for several months, had been looking forward to seeing them again. I had always been much closer to Salman emotionally and this was still the case. On a human level and since I was a child, Salman and I had discovered we could discuss anything in the world without any sense of shyness or embarrassment. This feeling had remained, despite his long absence, and had delighted both of us this summer. Some relationships are so deep they can survive anything. I felt ours was one of these.
My relationship with Halil, while affectionate, had always been slightly formal. Ever since they were children, Zeynep and he had been close. This had nothing to do with their having a mother in common. They had always exchanged confidences and there was a temperamental affinity as well. Both of them were much more introvert than Salman and myself. Halil, in particular, could also be very secretive. Take his marriage, for example.
He met Catherine almost twenty years ago at a tea party in Istanbul. The Countess Galfalvy was an old family friend, then in her eighties. She was from an old Greek family and had run away in her youth with an impoverished Hungarian count. She spent her life on his family estate, where they had three rooms to themselves. The meals were shared with the family. Her late husband, Gyorgy, had been a painter. He must have painted over a hundred portraits of her during their life together and in every imaginable pose.
In her youth she had been renowned as one of Istanbul’s great beauties and there had been rumours that the Sultan, too, had expressed an interest. Perhaps that was one reason for her unexpected flight with the Count Galfalvy. They had no children and when the count died, she found the three rooms unbearable and returned to Istanbul with all his paintings. To her amazement, a dealer, who had heard of them from a common friend asked, one day, to see the paintings. He spent several hours inspecting each one separately. He must have been honest, for he offered her a great deal of money for all of them. She kept a few she really liked and accepted his offer.
I remember going to see her with my mother on a few occasions. She lived in a large house which was fifteen minutes aw
ay from where we lived. Even in the pleasing winter sun the drapes were always drawn in her house. Perhaps she wanted to recreate the closed atmosphere of the rooms where she had spent fifty years with her count. But she was lonely. She missed the smell of oil on canvas. She began to visit the conservatory and would often invite young art students to have tea with her. If they were from poor families, she helped them financially and if they were from other parts of the Empire, she invited them to stay with her. Catherine Alhadeff was an art student from Cairo. She had been staying with some rather unpleasant friends of her father when she met the old lady at the school. Within a week, Catherine was installed in a very large room on the top floor of the house. There were no drapes and the light was perfect. The sun streamed in most of the year. Catherine was thrilled.
Halil saw her one afternoon when he and his mother went to take tea with the Countess Galfalvy. He was greatly impressed by her and probably her name was entered in his notebook later that day as one of the possible brides for him. Salman had once caught sight of the notebook and swore to me that such a list did exist, but when we teased Halil, he blushed and insisted it was a joke. I’m not so sure. I think the list, whether written or not, was always present in his mind. Catherine glided to the top of the list without even trying.
Halil was the type of person who avoided taking risks, but he was not a good judge of character. He once told me that he never trusted his own instincts because they always let him down. When I questioned him further it emerged that three young officers who he thought were loyal to him had let him down badly.
Zeynep was the first to be told about Catherine. Halil felt she would be the perfect wife for him. He did not want to live with a woman who did nothing the whole day. It would drive him mad. He told his mother, who expressed irritation that he wanted to marry a Christian. This really angered Halil. He informed his mother that if he wished, he would marry a monkey.
Then, to our great disappointment, we discovered that Catherine belonged to an orthodox Shia family. Her name was simply the result of her father’s fondness for a sixteenth-century portrait of Catherine de Medici, which he had bought many years ago from a dealer in Istanbul. The painting was unsigned and Catherine’s father had bought it for a very reasonable price. It was when he showed it to a visiting Venetian merchant that the trouble began. The Venetian was convinced it was a Titian and he was so sure of this that he offered to buy it for a fairly large sum of money. Catherine’s father refused to part with the painting. The knowledge that it might be a Titian served only to strengthen his attachment. He grew more and more obsessed with it and when, after four sons, fortune blessed him with a daughter, he named her Catherine, despite the angry protestations of his wife.
The Countess Galfalvy favoured Halil’s suit and recommended it strongly to Catherine’s parents. Catherine herself appeared to be indifferent. She is supposed to have asked Halil whether he would stop her painting and after he had replied that it was one of the reasons why he wished to marry her, she accepted. She never asked him for other reasons. The owner of the Renaissance painting and his family duly arrived in Istanbul as guests of the Countess. The wedding itself was a modest affair. Only the two families and their close friends had been invited.
Catherine was a very striking woman, tall and slender with a dark complexion and shoulder-length dark brown hair. Her back arched delicately underneath her dress. She had thin lips and narrow eyes and the combination gave her a girlish quality. When I saw her for the first time I remember thinking, enviously, that this woman would never really look old.
A year and a half later, Catherine gave birth to a pair of healthy twin boys. There had never been any twins in either our family or hers, which raised a few questions, but as the boys grew all the doubts disappeared. They looked just like Halil and we grew to adore them. They were often at our house and every summer they would come here for a few weeks. Catherine loved this house and she painted it from every angle. Then she would take her canvas and paints to the cliffs and paint the sea. One such painting, in which the seagulls resemble hailstones suspended over the dark green ocean, still hangs in the library. I spoke to her often, but she was usually cold and reserved. It was the same with everyone else. Since Halil was away with the army for extended periods of time, everyone tried to be friendly with her, but, with the single exception of my mother, were politely rebuffed. For some reason Catherine liked my mother. She painted two very fine portraits of her, one of which I have in my old room in the Istanbul house.
It was a few years ago, after the twins had celebrated their fifteenth birthdays, that we realised something was seriously wrong. My source on the subject was, as usual, Zeynep.
“It’s really awful, Nilo, just awful for poor Halil. Awful for poor Halil. I swore I would never tell anyone, but what she is doing is too cruel. Too cruel!”
Whenever she had important news to impart, Zeynep had developed a habit of repeating a sentence or a phrase, imagining that this would somehow double its impact. Its effect on me was the exact opposite. I would get so irritated by her manner of speaking that I could not concentrate on the content. I told her this many times, but she couldn’t really help herself. The story she told me was upsetting.
Some months after the twins were born, Catherine had informed Halil that she did not want any more children. He was upset, but accepted her choice. He never pushed or pressured her in that direction. Soon afterwards she refused to share his bed and rejected his advances. She informed him that she had been very shaken by giving birth to twins and now the very thought of the reproductive process filled her with nausea. She advised him to find another wife or concubine or whatever he wished. She would accept anything provided they left each other alone. At this point I had interrupted Zeynep.
“Tell me,” I asked her, “did he not open his notebook and consult the list?”
Zeynep remained serious. “No. Please. Don’t try to be funny. Don’t try to be funny. It’s very bad.”
What had made it bad was Catherine’s decision to move to Cairo and take the children with her. Halil had wanted the boys to stay with him. He felt that their education at the lycée was being disrupted, but Catherine would not listen to reason. She disapproved of formal education and felt the twins would learn much more through travel. She had taken them back to Cairo and they had been there for a year, but the boys wanted to return to their father and their friends. She had promised they would be returned to Istanbul in the summer and could stay with their father, but their arrival was delayed, which angered Halil. He had rushed to Istanbul the minute he heard they were back. He had got his children back.
There was something else as well. Zeynep had prepared a list for him and she wanted him to view the first three names on it so that he could have a woman again.
TWENTY-TWO
What Catherine told the Stone Woman ten years ago
‘IT WAS THOUGHTFUL OF Nilofer to send me to you. I’ve brought my easel and my oil paints. I’ll paint you as I talk. I hope you don’t mind. It’s not going to be easy to get the colours right. You must have noticed me trying to mix them for the last hour. You look so different when the sun hits you directly. When I first heard about you from Halil, he described you as a goddess, but you’re just a large rock. I’m not even sure whether you were ever carved. Perhaps you were. There are a few traces here and there. Could this have been the remnant of a woman’s breast? Perhaps. That makes you more interesting. I think I’m going to paint you just as I see you. The colour is not exact, but I’m going to start.
What do you think of this family, Stone Woman? Do they ever mean what they say? I’m beginning to wonder why I ever got married. Halil is a nice man and he understands me. I have no complaints, but I can no longer bear his touch. I never enjoyed intimacy with him and I feel I’ve done my duty by producing two healthy boys.
It was so painful when they were born, Stone Woman. I thought my agony would never end. I lost so much blood that the midwives began to wh
isper to each other in worried tones. I thought I was going to die. None of my maternal emotions would come to the surface. I felt nothing. I was just a frightened girl and it didn’t help when I found a child being placed on each breast. It was a strange sensation. I felt like an animal. If two women had not been found to breast-feed my boys I would have sunk slowly into oblivion, but much of the worry was, mercifully, removed from me. I don’t think I was intended to me a mother, Stone Woman. I feel affection for these little boys, but I am not overwhelmed by love for them any more than I was for their father.
Did you say something, Stone Woman? I could have sworn I heard you ask why I married him. The dilemma confronting me was simple. Either I found someone of my own choice in Istanbul or returned to Cairo and faced the humiliation of having a man imposed on me by my mother, just as all my childhood friends had. I would rather have died.
My mother was completely opposed to the idea of my being an artist. It was my father who encouraged me. I learnt German so that I could go and study art history in Vienna, but my mother threatened to commit suicide and my father, foolishly, chose to believe her. She never really cared much for me. She had four sons who were all “settled in life”, as she used to say. They were married. Their wives had produced children. Why couldn’t she leave me alone? The agreed compromise was that I could study in Istanbul, because the Caliph of Islam resided here. One of my sisters-in-law who, like the others, is very fat, but unlike them is not so stupid, wrote and warned me that my mother was busy assembling suitors for the great day. Stone Woman, I panicked.
I discussed the problem frankly with my friend Maria, the Countess Galfalvy. She advised me to accept Halil’s offer. She knew this family of old and said they were quite unconventional in their own way and would never obstruct my career. I was young and Maria had become a mother to me. So I accepted her advice. He seemed a very nice man. When I looked at him closely to see which part of him I could paint, it was his expressive and meaningful eyes that appealed to me. Unlike most men of my acquaintance, he did not like hearing the sound of his own voice. I felt he would never be unkind to me. He was not the man I had been looking for all my life, but that was because I did not think of men, only of being a painter. When I was still in Cairo, my friends would point to good-looking boys and giggle. I was unmoved by these encounters.
