by Banine
Rumours reached us that gave us hope and my father decided to return to Enzeli, from where Baku seemed within easy reach.
We moved back into the same ugly house next to the Caspian, agog for news. While we waited to return, though, we were struck by malaria, which picked us off one by one. I still have a vivid memory of our intermittent fevers, which shook us with the force of a merciless hurricane.
Several months dragged in this way until we heard that the Turks, the real Turks from Turkey, the Osmanli, or Ottomans,* had occupied Baku and re-established order in the Caucasus. From that day on we could think only of our return, but we still had a long time to wait; the occupiers feared revolutionaries and were protecting the entry to Baku with boats. This wait became all the harder when we heard enticing reports that calm and plenty had returned to our city.
The day finally came, though, when the same captain who had brought us to Persia and was unrivalled in all the Caspian in terms of skill, daring and jollity, took us back on board his boat and set full steam ahead for Baku. After a short time pitching on the capricious waves, during which I again surrendered the contents of my stomach, we were reunited with our beloved city and our house, which had been wrecked from top to bottom. Only the large furniture was left standing, though much of it was damaged; the arrowheads of the cathedral-cupboards had been targeted and badly damaged by bullets; the carved wood had been scored by knives; a Louis XIV writing desk had been upended and its large decorative china medallion, depicting Cupid and Psyche reunited at last, was lying on the ground, smashed into tiny pieces. Poor Cupid and Psyche, separated again by the violence of men… But we were so happy to be back home that everything seemed wonderful, from the disembowelled furniture to the broken washbasins.
After eight months of silence we at last heard news of the other half of the family: having made a long, dangerous journey across revolutionary Russia, Leyla, her husband and son, and Surayya had finally reached Odessa, where they had already been for two months, waiting for a boat to Batumi. Their wait might be prolonged as the Black Sea had been mined and was still a battlefield between different nations and sides.
The Turks restored calm in Baku by hanging some poor wretch almost every day. The gallows had been erected in a public park and in broad daylight the hanged men swung back and forth in the wind for general edification. It has to be acknowledged that the method was effective: thefts, armed robberies and all the other accompaniments to troubled times soon stopped and calm was restored.
When they arrived in the Caucasus, the Turks naturally took revenge on the Armenians, massacring them on a large scale, and once again it was the ordinary people who had to pay for the unleashing of nationalist fury. Our friends and saviours had been spared and we found our old hostess’s white-silk hair and the kindness of all her family unharmed. We laughed at the memory of the innumerable kilos of lentils and the fears we had shared. After all, our troubles were limited to material damage, which was of little import to us: compared to the irreparable harm that could have been done, it didn’t count.
Some time later, the Turkish occupation was replaced by a British occupation. The Turks, who were allies of the Germans, were defeated in 1918 and forced to return home, while the victorious British, oil-lovers as ever, took their place in the oilfields.
Our house became the meeting point for the British army. Amina received them, now seconded by the ever more simpering Zuleykha, whom I loathed and envied, especially for her age, her freedom and her intimacy with Amina. She grew more self-assured by the day and was even brazen enough to smoke in public.
Baku was turning European before our eyes. As happens during troubled times in history, morals were relaxed, and tradition and religion, already badly shaken, fell further into decline. The family had lost interest in Amina’s behaviour: all the events surrounding the Caucasus, in vast Russia, our former mistress, convinced them that there were more important problems than Amina’s excessively low neckline or even her flings. As for my father, his only passion was politics, and he left Amina to do what seemed right to her. There was talk of an independent Azerbaijan, Armenia, Karelia, Kazakhstan and I don’t know what else: Independent, Autonomous, Proud, Free and Happy. Epithets accompanied by Republics and Republics combined with epithets rained down on the astonished peoples. Soon it was the turn of the British to leave the Caucasus, and our good city with its minarets and oil barons became the capital of an independent Republic of Azerbaijan. The new Republic had its own parliament, where there were as many parties as parliamentarians. It also had its army made up of poor devils who had never held a rifle in their lives (during the time of tsarist Russia the Azeri population had been exempt from military service). There were, nevertheless, military parades and reviews, followed by patriotic speeches, followed in turn by a national anthem composed in haste by a young patriot, which at least partially excused the song’s ugliness. There was also a president and ministers of all kinds, as befits a well-organized republic. My father became minister of commerce and—striking, visible proof of the fact—two askaris (soldiers) were posted permanently at the entrance to our house, now that it was a ministerial residence. Our concierge, a hideously ugly man whose sole attractive feature was his name, Aflatun (Plato), was dressed in green livery, and my father bought a magnificent tan leather briefcase, which never left him until the disappearance of the independent Republic of Azerbaijan and, with it, his ministry. But in the meantime our hearts swelled with joy.
Not long after the British had gone, my sisters were able to leave Odessa, where they had languished for a long time, and return to Baku. They too had had strange adventures, which they were amazed to have survived. But these adventures had left their mark: they were gaunt, weary and dressed in an extraordinary fashion. Surayya wore an outfit of some kind of sackcloth, which she had made herself; the outfit was completely shapeless and, consequently, so was Surayya. Considering herself very well dressed, she was extremely hurt when Zuleykha bluntly disabused her. As for Leyla, she wore a dress made from woollen curtain lining—multicoloured wool, which didn’t help matters. Leyla, though, did not let sartorial considerations get her down: she remained cheerful, exuberant and more resolved than ever to ‘lead her own life’. Since for the time being she liked living with us all in her father’s house, she decided that her husband was a hateful man, though the opposite was blindingly obvious to everyone, and that she could not live with him any longer. Neither the uncle-husband’s heart-rending prayers nor his threats—pretty feeble, it’s true—had any effect. Exasperated in the end by this persistence, which she considered unseemly, Leyla took it into her head to get divorced, especially since this solution gave her every right to live with her father. She returned, therefore, to the room she had had as a young girl, settled her son in a nearby room and henceforth treated her husband like an annoying old relative who has to be humoured in order to obtain a favour—divorce, which the poor man, still in love with Leyla, refused to give her. The unfortunate husband, forced to live with his mother, came every day to see his son, whom he adored, and to try and cajole cruel Leyla. In vain! When one ‘wants to live one’s life’ nothing gets in the way more than a husband—any woman will confirm this. So she was firmly resolved to get rid of him.
While some women dispense with husbands, others acquire them. Surayya and Zuleykha were clearly at the latter stage. A young Muslim man from a good family, ‘almost’ a doctor or engineer (as a general rule, he would claim to have interrupted his studies one or two years before the end), would ask for the hand of one of them in marriage, it didn’t matter which: the suitors would leave the choice up to my father’s enlightened judgement. And since the suitors weren’t stubborn, they would agree, if necessary, to wait a few years until I came of marriageable age.
* We were sometimes called Turks too. In reality we are more Turco-Persian. For centuries Baku was part of a Persian province, half of which is still part of Persia and bears the old name of Azerbaijan.
; 13
The independent Republic of Azerbaijan was getting into its stride. Though still a babe in arms, the country sent a delegation to Geneva, gaining recognition for the Republic de facto if not de jure. Baku was nationalist, extremely chauvinist even, as behoves the capital of a country newly emerged from its cocoon. Some parties were fiercely traditionalist, while others sought ‘Progress and Emancipation for All’. The latter demanded education for women and decried their exclusion from public life. This exclusion sometimes took surprising forms: for example, at the National Theatre of Baku, which often staged operas in Azeri, a muscular Desdemona would tread the boards, her face blue from a stubborn beard and her eyebrows bushy; she would reply in a vigorous male voice to Othello’s passionate declarations, while only the curls cascading over her shoulders and the artificially generous breasts made an exaggerated attempt to compensate for the lack of femininity.
The very young capital was cheerful and lively. A flood of emigrants from revolutionary Russia contributed to the atmosphere. Everyone who had connections to the Caucasus, and plenty who didn’t, came to take refuge until the revolution was over, which they thought just a matter of months. ‘When the Bolsheviks have gone’ was the stock phrase of all these far-sighted people, a phrase that would be followed with a description of what they would then do. While waiting for this imminent event, they borrowed as much money as their credit would allow and enjoyed themselves as much as possible.
Our house was now open to many people and became a reception carousel. Among the many young people received there, we always found an object worthy of our collective devotion. When falling in love we rigorously followed the same well-established order: first Zuleykha, then Surayya and, as soon as I picked up on it, me. In one season our flock was in love with a Russian musician, a Baltic lad and a Swedish engineer. Our tastes were eclectic, our hearts fickle.
Towards spring we made the acquaintance of a young officer who eclipsed all our previous loves; he boasted a huge chest, already decorated, surprisingly thick eyebrows and a vicious temper that made everyone afraid of him. How could so much charm be resisted? No one did resist and we fell in love with him one after the other, like skittles.
Though he was Persian, he had studied at St Petersburg’s most aristocratic school, having gained admission by virtue of his noble descent. At this school the future stars of the military learnt their profession from books they held in gloved hands ‘to avoid touching them and getting dirty’ (books and studying representing effort, which is good for flunkeys but not for young lords). They wore their mistresses’ silk stockings wrapped around their necks, frequently got drunk and applied their, often sharp, intelligence to devising fiendishly complex, cruel and crazy initiation rites for young pupils seeking to rise up the ranks. Murad had volunteered for the army when he was sixteen and fought courageously, receiving honours several times. When the revolution disrupted military life, he came to Baku with his parents, who had many relatives there. That is how we met.
My, or rather our, passion was violent—and fruitless for two-thirds of our amorous collective, that is to say, for two of the three sisters. Of the three of us, I had the least hope, or no hope at all, and was well aware of it. I loved to no avail, as usual, but did not love any the less for that. I had no reasonable chance of being alone with Murad and had to be content with a poor trick to assuage my passion: when he was visiting our house, I would slip into the entrance hall, quickly pick out his officer’s cap among all the hats, clasp it to my thirteen-year-old bosom and cover it with fervent kisses, especially the lining, which had a light scent I found intoxicating in the full sense of the word.
‘Dear cap,’ I would say, treating it as a living thing, ‘tell Murad I love him. I would make him happy, if he wanted.’ I said other things to him too. Perhaps it sometimes conveyed my declarations to him, because to Murad I wasn’t the paving stone I had been to the Georgian prince. He looked at me sometimes, even spoke to me, but in the caustic way that frightened and attracted me at the same time. He must have known that all three of us were enamoured of him and enjoyed it, I think. But he didn’t often talk to me—Zuleykha was on watch and would always monopolize him. If she happened to let go of him for a moment, Surayya would be waiting. I would fade away in my corner, without hope. If we gave grand receptions, I was not allowed to attend, while at more intimate meals I was relegated to the far end of the table. I was like Cinderella—everything was denied me: liaisons, love, hope.
Today I look back on that time with distaste: my age did not match my physical or moral development at all, but since I was several years younger than my sisters, everyone treated me like a child. I was practically put on a level with my brother and nephew, and hated them both equally as a result. If they rushed up to me in their childish eagerness, I would look away in disgust, so painful was it to me, who had read the whole of Mirbeau and Maupassant and had studied at my cousins’ school of freedom, to be equated with them.
One thing in particular made me suffer: having to go to bed early, especially since I had persistent insomnia. Snatches of music, voices and laughter carried from distant reception rooms, as I tossed and turned in my bed, sometimes crying in rage, tiredness and vexation. I thought it ridiculous to be shut away alone in this sad room instead of partaking of adult pleasures.
So, I suffered all alone while Surayya and Zuleykha acted like adults. To make matters worse, I did not follow any regular studies, maybe because of the turbulent times or just negligence, and I felt disjointed as a result. I was fortunate to have a consolation that I turned to with greater frequency—my piano. I divided my days between studying the piano, daydreaming, which was exclusively sentimental, and reading.
I might have felt less isolated if I had confided in Fräulein Anna, whose affection for us never wavered but which we disregarded. Not only did I not take my troubles to her, I began at this time to hate her. She had long since lost all authority over us. Leyla, wife and mother, thought it an insult if she were given advice; Surayya and Zuleykha were still fascinated by Amina and found Fräulein Anna old-fashioned, her moral precepts thoroughly annoying. They couldn’t give a damn about the domestic virtues that the poor woman had tried in vain to inculcate in us. Fräulein Anna disapproved of their behaviour and appearance, but could do nothing about it since the example came from on high and was part of the famous ‘emancipation for all’.
She could not get used to all these innovations, which exacerbated the distance between us. The past few years with us had been difficult for her; she had been relegated practically to the rank of a servant; no one was interested in her opinions and when they were, it was only to be sarcastic about them. I may have been the worst; shut up with the babies, their nyanyas (the Russian for children’s nannies) and Fräulein Anna, who kept a close eye on us all, I saw her—cruelly and illogically—as the symbol of what I most detested at that time: childhood. I was rude to her and was glad when I managed to make her cry—sadly all too easily done, as the poor woman was extremely sensitive. Sometimes, though, I felt bitter remorse and my heart would be overcome with tenderness. I was aware of how much I owed her. These moments of kindness usually came during my sleepless nights when I couldn’t settle in my bed; I relived the scenes with Fräulein Anna and it was my turn to cry, from shame, and I wanted to run and tell her of my affection, which always lay dormant beneath a crust of superficial feelings… but I did nothing of the kind and the next day would once again exercise the full gamut of my spitefulness.
Poor Fräulein Anna was so unfairly treated by fate and man. In return for twenty years of devotion, she received disappointment and humiliation; only Allah could explain to us the mystery of injustice.
Let’s return to Murad. While I was moping in the company of young children, his intentions were becoming clearer. Signals, initially weak but growing stronger, made it clear that Surayya was his chosen one—his chosen one for life, as Murad was Muslim and nothing stood in the way of this marriage. The engag
ement was celebrated and Zuleykha and I, both equally piqued, had no option but to fall for another man; which we promptly did, setting about loving a Russian colonel.
While my father saw no difficulty in letting Murad marry Surayya, the Family disapproved of this marriage with their customary vehemence. On the one hand, Baku people did not like marriages to ‘foreigners’ and, on the other, my father’s youngest sister, the one whose property was separated from ours by the wall and barometer gate, had long cherished the hope of seeing her son Mirza wed Surayya. My relatives had a marked preference for unions between cousins, since these kept money within the family.
I haven’t mentioned my cousin Mirza, as the big age gap between us meant we were not close. From my early childhood he always associated with the Zuleykha–Surayya clan, not my Asad–Ali one.
He belonged to the least honourable section of the family. Like the whole of our generation, he could have, or rather should have, enjoyed the benefits of civilization. Despite the consistent, determined and costly efforts to civilize him even just a little, nothing came of it. Worse, he lacked a sense of humour and the kind of spirit that made spending time with Asad and Ali so attractive. He had a crude manner, and his wild appearance and almost permanent air of gloom were equally off-putting. Even as a small child he frightened his governesses, who were unable to calm his attacks of rage or control his indiscipline, which proved incurable; after a short time trying they would give up and leave. Later, he was expelled from several schools and ended up abandoning his studies and leading a life of idleness, pleasant but unedifying. His parents adored him—he was their only son—and spoke of his faults so tenderly that they transformed them into good qualities. The mysterious power of love…
