by Banine
Leyla had to be found before the threat could be carried out. One of Russia’s many inconveniences was its vast size. How could they find the fugitive there? Where should they look for her? Action was required, however: the police were alerted, telegrams sent to various stations on the railway from Baku. My father decided to head towards Moscow: he calculated it was the most likely route for their escape. Amina was, to quote the Russian proverb, ‘lower than grass, quieter than water’. Crushed by the avowed hostility of the family—and worse, the silent reproaches of my father (hadn’t she been the promoter of Progress for All?)—she asked to go too, claiming it was to stop him doing anything excessive. The family approved. ‘He is capable of anything,’ she declared, not without a touch of pride, it should be said. At the last minute Uncle Ibrahim went as well, ‘to keep them company’; really because he loved travelling and sought any pretext to do it.
They left and silence fell on the house, not a calm silence but one of anxious waiting. Were they going to kill Leyla or ‘Him’, or both of them? I wondered, terrified. How would they punish her if they didn’t kill her? She could not be forgiven: such things were not forgiven. My heart weighed heavily that night: it was full of questions, of pity for my father and fear for Leyla (mixed with an insidious, unacknowledged satisfaction: she who had been so dazzling, so envied…). A host of possible dramas might play out at any moment.
The next day a telegram arrived: ‘Leyla found, returning with her tomorrow evening.’ The drama was already subsiding. Leyla was clearly still alive, if she was to be brought home.
She was brought back the next day, but we could only glimpse her from afar walking towards her bedroom as though to the scaffold, between sobbing Fräulein Anna and my louring father.
Only later did I learn that Leyla had been found in some small hotel in some small town; that she had been torn from the arms of a Russian aviator, beardless and amorous, whom she had decided to love until death; that said beardless, amorous aviator swore he had not ‘dishonoured’ Leyla and fell to his knees, begging permission to marry her; that my father almost killed Leyla; that Uncle Ibrahim almost killed the aviator, but that without anyone killing anyone they led Leyla away in tears, abandoning the aviator with his broken heart in the small hotel in the small town.
As soon as they got back, my father issued an order: we were forbidden to see Leyla, who would remain in her room until a new decree resolved her fate once and for all. A few days later the crackdown intensified: we learnt in sorrowful amazement that the three of us, all innocent, were also to be punished—in anticipation of our future misdeeds, I thought. We were not going to continue our studies: the two governesses, the Englishwoman and the French, were sent back, while the dancing, painting and even music lessons were suspended. They (my sisters) had only to grow up quickly; then they would be married to decent Muslims whose fathers and mothers were known, and the great Islamic peace would descend upon them. As for me, I was to be sent to the only school for Muslim girls, where the language of instruction was Azeri and most of the pupils were veiled. My older sisters were probably considered too contaminated by civilization to benefit from the illumination of this venerable institution. Only I, still fresh and pure, could hope to be enriched by good moral precepts.
Oh, that school! I was so unhappy there I cried every day for two months. The schoolgirls came from poor families (the rich did not send their offspring to that establishment, preferring a more European education). Rough and hostile, they felt class resentment towards me, of which I didn’t understand the cause but felt the effects. In one way or another almost everyone made me feel out of place: they either laughed at me or avoided me. The teachers were Muslim women, mostly from Kazan, where women were not veiled and were often educated. They were ugly, with accentuated Mongol features, and shrill voices. They were mean with it, too.
I had lunch at school—what dreadful lunches! The awful smell of one dish in particular, a forbidding combination of gelatinous dough, pieces of fat and dishwater, has pursued me down the years. The finishing touch to my apprenticeship of martyrdom was sharing a desk with a girl who was always streaming in sweat. Saturday gave my olfactory senses a rest, as she would go to the hammam on Fridays. By Sunday (the school was open on Sundays and closed on Fridays, as befits a good Muslim establishment) the smell had returned and followed an ascending curve until its apogee on Thursdays, when it reached an overwhelming intensity. Dragged along in this smelly slipstream I was incapable of following what the teacher said; she took my depression for congenital stupidity and gave me one bad mark after another. I ended up looking a complete idiot, which greatly pleased the entire class—apart from me of course, who became only more miserable. I didn’t complain to anyone and this moral isolation only made me feel worse. Then, when I had decided that death would be preferable to this life, my father took me out of the disastrous school where I had spent the two most depressing months of my childhood.
It was all change again: our instructresses and governesses returned to us and dancing and music were re-established; Leyla was free to leave her room and had the run of the apartment, while Amina was ordering new dresses.
For the good of us all, my father had decided that the punishment had lasted long enough and it was time to marry off Leyla, thereby passing responsibility for her behaviour on to someone else, and everything would return to normal. However, the suitors who had been rebuffed might now prove less enthusiastic, despite the lure of the millions (especially since three more prospective brides were coming up behind Leyla with as many millions and without the Shame—it was just a question of having a little patience). My father, therefore, summoned a relative who wasn’t very rich and told him he was soon to marry Leyla. He didn’t ask the relative’s opinion, so sure was he that the chosen one would be deliriously happy. This relative was both my father’s cousin and brother-inlaw: a cousin through his mother and brother-in-law through his brother, who was my Aunt Rena’s husband.
He was, therefore, going to be: 1. my father’s son-in-law; 2. my father’s cousin; 3. his brother-in-law too. It was a fine example of accumulation.
The cousin lived in Moscow, where he managed his father’s firm. This had the advantage that if Leyla should dare to behave badly, distance would soften the effect of her exploits. Moreover, the future husband, twenty years her elder, had only ‘to lower his ears’ (an oriental expression meaning ‘to listen carefully’) and to ‘sew his eyes onto her’ (‘to keep a close eye on her’) and all would be well; in other words, he was being relied upon to do the job of a warder.
Leyla accepted her fate gracefully: she was indifferent towards the marriage itself, but was glad to be going to live in Moscow, especially since she knew Amina envied her. (My stepmother hated Baku more than ever and longed to leave the city.) She was also pleased at the thought of her future independence: the husband and double uncle would not bother her, she was sure, as the husband–double uncle’s role in this world was to be at her feet, ever grateful, admiring and humble. Which he was, as it happens.
11
Amina and Leyla brought sons into the world at almost the same time. My father could not contain his joy, as he had thought himself condemned to female succession. He gave presents to anyone and everyone, and as soon as Amina was up and about after her confinement he held receptions to honour the arrival of a male heir. The house was constantly awash with flowers and truly tasteless gifts sent in congratulation by the whole of Baku.
But all that didn’t really interest me much. I wasn’t too bothered about the birth of a brother or a nephew, though I was pleased about the arrival of the latter as it made me an aunt, a status that conferred authority and brought me closer to adulthood. No, what interested me at that time was a new romance that was lighting up my life.
Little by little I had grown tired of loving Amina; she continued to ignore my love and it wasn’t in my nature to love indefinitely without hope. I did need to love, though, and this time I fell in love
with a man—an officer, a Georgian, a prince: a real prince at that. He was one of those men who frequented our house after our liberation, whom my aunts so fervently maligned and condemned to the torments of hell. He was handsome, slim and, apparently, spiritual (I knew nothing of that and relied on the views of those more competent than me). Of course, he courted Amina and took no more notice of me than he would of a paving stone as he walked down the street.
I wasn’t the only one who was in love with him: Surayya and Zuleykha were in thrall to him too. Our romances were a collective enterprise from then on, until my sisters went abroad. My two sisters… I’ve just realized that I haven’t said much about them; I haven’t described them and should do so for the good of the story. I can hear the reproaches: ‘My dear, you should be composing an oeuvre, not just writing any old how,’ and so on. Too bad, too bad; let those who can, compose—I will not.
So, my two sisters: the elder was called Surayya and the next Zuleykha. Surayya was reserved, quiet and polite; Zuleykha, on the other hand, was volatile, talkative, aggressive and as rude as possible. She always knew everything and considered herself the most intelligent and talented person in the known universe. Although she was the elder, Surayya lived in her shadow and submitted to her ascendancy without demur. Disinclined towards obedience, I chafed at her peremptory orders, while her rigid opinions annoyed me in the extreme. She had little influence over me except in matters of the heart, for she always gave the signal for us collectively to fall in love. If Zuleykha had doe eyes and simpered when she talked about a man, I was hooked and would prepare for this important event; we would love in concert.
Zuleykha sighed deeply when she talked about Tengiz (that was the Georgian prince’s name) and I immediately sensed her interest in him. Within a week, my feelings had deepened into passion.
Tengiz lived on the same street as us, in a house that we could see from the Moorish salon if we strained our necks a little, which is precisely what I did as I watched the door through which Tengiz would pass. If for a few fleeting seconds I glimpsed my beloved’s long greatcoat, my heart would race in time to the turmoil within.
One day I had been watching out for him for more than an hour in the freezing salon when I saw him come out of his house and head in our direction. If he were going to town he would have to turn his back to us, so I deduced that Tengiz was coming to our house, especially since it was the time of day for visiting. I wasn’t mistaken: Tengiz walked up to our house and came in. I ran straight to the hall and as I heard steps on the staircase opened the door. Tengiz stood before me—handsome, slim, so neatly fitted into his greatcoat that it seemed part of his physical person. His helmet, worn slightly at an angle, looked at me with the same mocking air as his clear eyes.
‘Oh, hello,’ I said hypocritically, ‘I was just going up to see my aunt. Would you like to see my stepmother?’
‘Yes, if that’s possible,’ Tengiz replied. He took off his greatcoat and I showed him into Amina’s boudoir. I explained to Tengiz that I would go and fetch my stepmother, who must be in her bedroom.
‘You are very kind, Mademoiselle,’ Tengiz said, this time in French.
As he talked, he took my hand and kissed the tips of my fingers, frozen with emotion. For the first time he took notice of me and for a moment I stopped being a paving stone. Then he became ironical. Had he sensed my emotion, noticed my look of adoration? The fact remains that he inclined towards me and said, still in French: ‘Allow me to kiss your cheek.’
Half dead with confusion, delight and shame, I turned my cheek towards him and Tengiz kissed it: then he turned his towards me and I touched it with the tips of my lips, quivering with joy and fear; if anyone caught me in this act of refined depravity, I would be lost for ever!
‘And now,’ Tengiz said, ‘be good and go and find Amina Khanim.’
He smiled at me again and I found myself tiptoeing out of the room, as though caught up in a mysterious, secret pact.
When I next saw Zuleykha and Surayya, I looked at them pityingly. If they only knew! I thought. If they only suspected that Tengiz had kissed my hand and cheek, and that I had kissed his in return! There was no doubt that Tengiz liked me, or why would he have kissed me and had me kiss him? The perceptive Zuleykha realized from my air of superiority that something had happened. ‘What’s up with you?’ she asked, but I remained as dumb as the sand in our vineyard.
After that, whenever I saw Tengiz I thought of our exchange of kisses: we were united by a delicious secret. I could already imagine myself abandoning everything for him—my religion, my family, my fortune; becoming Princess X and leaving with him for the other end of Russia, Siberia if necessary, despite my horror of the cold. I was already counting the children he would give me…
As always, when I loved passionately (and I only loved passionately), I couldn’t sleep, and these sleepless nights were the heaviest price I paid for my sentimental adventures. I was defenceless against this insomnia and it wore me out. Fortunately, Tengiz left Baku in early spring and I recovered my inner peace, for some time anyway, until my next love, impossible as ever.
At about the same time the subject of marriage was raised with me for the first time. To be more exact, it was a marriage demand.
I’ve stopped talking about my cousins, because after Amina’s arrival they played less of a role in my life. My admiration for them was largely replaced by my admiration for Amina, and then by my infatuations, which left little room for cousins in my fickle heart. I had always seen much more of them in the country anyway; I saw them less often in town. About once a week I went to their very unusual house to see them, and we would play all our old games and make up others. Asad had definitely become the leader: he gave orders with such authority that it was impossible to disobey him. We marched in unison to his commands, and under his direction our games acquired a martial air, recalling the parade ground.
Asad’s father was extremely fond of him and dreamt of a good marriage for him, which in the language of Baku meant a very wealthy marriage. He did not delay in advancing his advantageous marriage project and thought that I, endowed with Grandfather Musa’s millions, would make an excellent wife for his son. At first I was oblivious to the tender looks that Uncle Suleyman would give me when I came to see my cousins. Just as other adults pinch children’s cheeks in a gesture of goodwill, when he saw me he would pinch the place where my breasts would grow one day and shake his head in a knowing way, saying ‘Memesi, memesi’ (‘Titties, titties’); or he would pretend to catch and kill a nit on my head, the whole performance accompanied by the delighted laughter of his children.
These hints of interest did not strike me at first; I was still naive and didn’t know how to put two and two together and draw the right conclusions. One day, Uncle Suleyman took me into his study and sat me on his knee. I should say in passing that this study was half-Renaissance, half-Moorish and full of books that no one had any intention of reading.
This is the dialogue that followed his opening gambit:
UNCLE SULEYMAN: Would you like to get married?
ME (struck dumb in astonishment. This question was of the greatest interest to me; I thought about it passionately and constantly, but knew that at my age I should feign a lack of interest.)
UNCLE SULEYMAN: Answer me. Would you like to get married?
ME (lowering my eyes): I’m too young to think about it.
UNCLE SULEYMAN (touching my future breasts): They’ll come soon enough. Young—what does that mean anyway? Huh… Cock and bull stories f rom those anaemic Christians. Both your grandmothers were married at thirteen, my mother at fourteen and your aunts at fourteen and fifteen. You haven’t got long to wait. So, would you like to get married?
ME (making evasive, non-committal sounds, avoiding an actual reply)
UNCLE SULEYMAN: Because I’ve got a fiancé for you, you know. You won’t find his like again.
ME (with interest): Who?
UNCLE SULEYMAN (giving me a goo
d smack on the bottom): Asad!
ME (disappointed): Oh…
UNCLE SULEYMAN: What does that mean, ‘Oh’? Asad is handsome. He’ll be tall and strong. He’s healthy and got rosy cheeks. He’s intelligent. And he’ll shower you with gold. (Warming to his theme) He’ll shower you with diamonds. He’ll build you a palace unlike any in Baku, even that pretentious Taghi Ruslanov’s place. With marble everywhere… goldfish swimming in pools. (Getting even warmer) You’ll eat from golden dishes, you’ll drink from crystal. (With sudden inspiration) Your aunts will be your lady’s maids; your uncles will be your valets. You will be their mistress and give them any orders you wish. I’ll make them cringe before you like dogs. Answer me.
ME (without much enthusiasm, but not wanting to cause any upset): We’ll see.
UNCLE SULEYMAN (giving me a loud, sloppy kiss): We’ll see. Stay for dinner this evening. I’ll order the chocolate ice cream that you like. When you’re Asad’s wife, you’ll have chocolate ice cream every evening. And in summer you can watch me eat ice cream with flies in it, you know… (and he winked at me)
I’ve forgotten to mention that during Uncle Suleyman’s rare visits to us in the country in summer, he always had his own way of eating ice cream: with one masterly hand he would catch the flies that buzzed around us in clouds, poke them into the ice cream with his finger and tuck into this dessert with a show of pleasure, smacking his lips and making groans of satisfaction. The governesses would feel queasy; the aunts too would seem disgusted, but we children would watch this feat open-mouthed. Nothing seemed more heroic than to eat flies in ice cream.
And Uncle Suleyman’s belches!
They were excellent belches, the best that I knew. They had the resonance and power, the distinctive rumbling and echoing of thunder. These belches delighted us (I’m talking about the children), but terrified the governesses. When Uncle Suleyman had met someone more than twice and liked them, he would belch as was his wont, that’s to say, frequently and with the obvious desire to amuse; even the people most resistant to this kind of amusement would put up with it in the end, if not actually acquire a taste for it. But for educational reasons, the governesses persisted in finding these manners horrible and thought they constituted a dangerous example to the children. And it’s true that we were often tempted to imitate Uncle Suleyman, to no avail of course—didn’t I say that his belches were inimitable?
