Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature) Page 2

  He considered tiptoeing to the middle floor, but the prospect of an encounter with his nagging aunt led him to conclude that napping in the selamlık for a while longer would be the safer course of action. He needed to rest in order to brace himself for the pitiful sight of Kemal, whom he’d reared from infancy. He couldn’t bear to watch as his nephew slowly slipped away. These days, each time he saw that ashen face, he nearly broke down and forgave the young man his innumerable faults.

  Ahmet Reşat sat down on the divan and surveyed the front garden. Snowflakes still clung to the glossy leaves of the magnolia huddled just beyond the window like a mournful bride. The apple tree a little further past had been deluded by the March sun into sending forth early blossoms—lifeless now, in the wake of the cold snap. A bitter smile. Stupid apple tree, Reşat thought. Just like us. Rejoicing at the first glimmer of light.

  Hadn’t they all been similarly rapturous at the prospect of the liberties awaiting them after the deposition of the Red Sultan, Abdülhamid II? They’d been beating their breasts in regret a short time later. Better the devil you know, indeed.

  The vacuum left by the exile of the CUP leaders was now being filled by the Freedom and Unity Party, with their propensity to exploit religious sentiments. Well, the people would soon tire of them, too. Reşat could see that the Freedom and Unity Party—upon which the Sultan relied, but which had declared him proEnglish—was becoming less attractive by the day in the eyes of the people.

  Many of the political prisoners exiled during the rule of the Committee of Union and Progress had returned following a recently enacted amnesty, and opposition forces bent on vengeance were flourishing. As if that didn’t complicate matters enough, the Istanbul-based Greek and Armenian Patriarchates were simultaneously doing all they could to ensure that the invaders gained control—not only of Istanbul, but of all Turkey. That would only happen in an atmosphere of general chaos, which was why all the means at their disposal were being employed to incite the Greek, Armenian, and Muslim communities. The Greeks in particular had grown unruly and willful. So much so that when Deputy Mayor Cemil Pasha had attempted to inspect a kebab shop in Karaköy, the Greek owner had chased him off with a stick.

  As Ahmet Reşat recalled that unpleasant incident, a sharp twinge of pain lanced from the back of his neck to his forehead. He slowly rotated his neck to the left and right, seeking relief. Events were becoming increasingly difficult to stomach, even for those with deep reservoirs of fortitude. The Turks had been the very model of patience since the beginning of the occupation, turning a blind eye to the excesses of their fellow countrymen and neighbors, striving to maintain relations as before. Ahmet Reşat had retained both Aret Efendi, his Armenian gardener, and Katina, the young Greek seamstress who came by every fifteen days to do the mending and the ironing. Jewish civil servants under his supervision at the Finance Ministry continued to discharge their duties as though nothing had changed. The same was true of Christian ministers in the Cabinet and Christian deputies in the Parliament. Some Greeks and Armenians were promoting rebellion, but most of them were above suspicion; happily, the loyalties of the Jewish community remained with the Ottomans. While the Greek press struck an openly anti-Turkish tone, the Jewish press and community continued to show respect for the rights of Turks. And this despite the best efforts of the Greek High Council to incorporate the Jewish community into the recently-established Greek-Armenian Federation.

  In all of this, Ahmet Reşat was both participant and spectator. His hands were tied. He was powerless to stop it, any of it. That hopeless, headlong rush toward an uncertain future. The sudden, violent fluttering of his left eyelid.

  – 2 –

  Behice, Mehpare and Saralihanim

  As Mehpare crept silently down the stairs carrying a basin heaped with cheesecloth, she happened upon Behice Hanım, who was on her way to the toilet. Behice was wearing a paçalık, the muslin gown customarily worn by Istanbul brides on the first morning of married life. It was a faded pink, the collar lined with badly frayed rose-colored ribbon, the buttons straining against breasts grown heavy since the births of her two children. Up until just a few months ago, the paçalık had been carefully laid away along with her bridal gown. Then Behice had taken it out of the chest to be aired, washed and ironed.

  It wasn’t that as the wife of a civil servant she lacked the means to have new gowns made. No, she’d begun wearing her paçalık because it reminded her of a time when her husband had worshiped her, kissed and caressed her nearly every hour of the day. As the worn fabric slipped over her head she felt as though her youthful figure was restored, as though she’d been transported back to happier times, when unpinned hair had cascaded past her waist and her husband’s eyes had been for her alone. She longed for the days when Reşat Bey returned from work early, and dragged his feet with regret as he left in the morning; when entire weekends were spent in his wife’s arms, and his devotion to her aroused the envy of the other women of the household, especially Saraylıhanım. Everything had changed with such dizzying speed over the past five or six years, both at home and in the homeland. Her husband no longer listened, rapt, as she played the ud in the evening and sang, no longer found time for their daughters. Now when he came home his face was perpetually drawn; the responses he furnished his aunt, the only one who ever dared to question him, were terse; the meals hastily assembled for his enjoyment went untouched; instead, he forced down a bowl of soup and went straight to bed, where he tossed and moaned until dawn.

  As far as Behice could remember, her husband’s depression had begun when Kemal went off to join the Sarıkamış campaign. Reşat Bey had always been an imperturbable man, the sort who wasn’t discouraged in the least by military mobilizations, the hardships of war. He’d been completely unruffled when, in September of 1914, Enver Pasha’s Government had declared war on England, France, and Russia. The sons of the Ottomans had always been at war; they were accustomed to the privations and bloodshed that went with it. What did another one matter? That had been her husband’s attitude, both to this most recent war and to the stream of bad news from the front. But when Kemal had joined what was clearly a lost cause, and subsequently been captured, Reşat Bey was shattered. And it was then that a grim-faced husband and a continuously weeping aunt had begun to make Behice’s home life unbearable.

  Finally there came the long-awaited news of a victory: the decisive defeat at Gallipoli of the combined armies of the British Empire and France. A festive mood swept the land, celebratory desserts and börek were sent to the neighbors. Houses filled with morning visitors extending their best wishes and congratulations, as though it were a bayram holiday. But the rejoicing was short-lived. Behice’s buoyant spirits were deflated as Reşat Bey told her that, in order to exact revenge for their defeat in Gallipoli, Britain and France had secretly reached an agreement to give the Twelve Islands to Italy: “How could they do that without so much as consulting us?”

  Behice turned and spat: “Bosnia and Herzegovina are gone, the Balkans are gone, and you’re sighing over the loss of a few Aegean islands.”

  Just as people grow accustomed to life’s pleasures, they become inured to its miseries. Fate had decreed that war was to be a part of their daily lives, and they had adapted and adjusted, even under occupation. And through it all, they prayed only that Allah permit them to keep what little they had left; that their troubles be reparable, their maladies curable.

  Behice was primarily concerned with the safety and well-being of her immediate family. As providence would have it, she’d been born into a prosperous one. In fact, the mansion in which they lived had been provided by her father the same year she’d given birth to Leman, her eldest daughter.

  Behice’s mother had died in childbirth, and her father, İbrahim Bey, had always doted on his only child. He could have given the hand of beautiful blonde Behice to any ağa, any landowner or tribal chief, in Beypazarı, but instead he chose to marry her off to an Istanbul beyefendi, the son of a gente
el Circassian family that had served the Palace for generations. His son-in-law had followed in the footsteps of his ancestors: education at palace schools, service to the state. He’d never been stricken by that insatiable thirst for bribes that afflicted so many Ottoman bureaucrats; his moderate lifestyle attested to that, to his integrity. The question of character was crucial in İbrahim Bey’s selection of a son-in-law. Like himself, Ahmet Reşat was big-hearted and a true Muslim. A man who couldn’t be bought off was a man who would resist other temptations. He would treasure Behice, and he would never take on a second wife. İbrahim Bey’s appreciation for his son-in-law’s virtues led him to provide material aid far in excess of his daughter’s needs. Careful not to injure his son-in-law’s pride, he’d had to resort to clandestine means to send his grandchildren secret gifts and fill his daughter’s pantry with supplies from Beypazarı.

  Behice sighed deeply. Sometimes she couldn’t help wondering if, instead of having been sent to Istanbul to become the wife of a man continuously distressed by bewildering affairs of state, she wouldn’t have been better off as the queen of Beypazarı. The man she’d loved in their first years of married life was gone—in his place was a new Reşat, one who’d grown heartsick over his nephew’s misfortunes, who’d become increasingly irritable since the occupation, who seemed to grow more distant by the day.

  Saraylıhanım’s hiding Kemal in the attic had only made matters worse. Reşat Bey had never forgiven Behice for turning a blind eye to Kemal’s secret arrival. But what could she have done? Throw a sick relative into the street? Now, as Kemal’s condition worsened, she bitterly regretted her earlier complicity. But it was too late. Not only had she caused a rift with her husband, she’d allowed a disease she feared more than anything in the world to enter her home. How was she to protect her children? She issued instructions for all surfaces to be wiped with rubbing alcohol, constantly monitored the cleanliness of Mehpare’s hands, and struggled to ensure that Kemal used a separate set of dishes and cutlery. Saraylıhanım, who was notorious for her fastidious ways, had opposed this last measure on the grounds that her grandson would be heartbroken if they treated him like a leper. And now she, Behice, the mistress of the house, had no choice but to station herself in her own kitchen to ensure that her children weren’t served on contaminated dishes.

  Behice was tired—a few months had passed since her husband had begun staying out until dawn. Even worse, his rare evenings at home were spent in lively political debate with Kemal. What a peculiar thing it was, this solidarity among men. When it came to discussing matters of state, he preferred the company of his infuriating nephew to that of his devoted wife. And this after she’d worked so hard to ingratiate herself by brushing up on her French, by poring over every periodical and newspaper that came her way. When she’d finally felt ready to venture an informed opinion on the opening of a second front, having concluded that it would be ill-advised to do so before the wounds of the Balkan wars had fully healed, she’d been rebuked by Saraylıhanım with the words: “What business do you have poking your nose into men’s affairs?”

  And so Reşat Bey had found a companion not in his wife, but in Kemal.

  With all the enthusiasm of youth, Kemal had invariably rejected every last one of his uncle’s opinions and positions. When the accursed Enver Pasha had declared war on Russia, Kemal had taken up arms and rushed off to the front, ignoring his uncle’s objections and Saraylıhanım’s histrionics. A typical Mad Circassian. The price Kemal paid for his failure to listen to his elders was two amputated toes, ruined lungs, infected kidneys, and a shattered mind. Saraylıhanım was deeply aggrieved by Behice’s view of Kemal as a deranged soul. But surely the description was apt for a man who thrashed convulsively and howled until dawn, who shivered helplessly even in well-heated rooms, and who was always huddled over the brazier, staring at the glowing embers.

  Even so, Saraylıhanım would allow no one to speak ill of her grandson. Like many former members of the court, she herself was of somewhat unsound mind. Behice couldn’t decide whether to attribute Saraylıhanım’s dottiness to her court background or her Circassian ancestry. For example, she was so fastidious that her hands were always raw with incessant washing. No one was permitted to enter her room or touch any of her possessions. She’d raised Reşat Bey, and he revered her. After losing a son to war and a daughter in childbirth, she and her grandson had moved in with him, promptly making life difficult for the rest of the household. In deference to Reşat Bey, they showed his aunt respect, but Behice could never bring herself to call this elderly woman—who was considered her mother-in-law—mother or aunt. In moments of tenderness, she occasionally managed valide, but “Saraylıhanım” was how she typically addressed this difficult woman, whose caprices she endured only for the sake of her husband. Happily, the women had recently found common cause: the transfer of Kemal to a hospital.

  Mehpare was waylaid on the stairs by Behice, her eyes bleary from a sleepless night, her voice tinged with resentment at not knowing whether or not her husband had come home.

  “Kemal coughed until morning again,” she fretted. “That syrup you gave him was useless. Has he still got a fever?”

  “He was on fire all night long,” Mehpare answered. “I kept dipping strips of muslin into cold water, putting them on his forehead and his arms, and the fever dropped a bit. He’s sound asleep now.”

  “For goodness sake, go boil those cloths. Give all his utensils and clothes a good scrubbing as well. And be sure to wash your hands three times . . . We’ve got children in the house, heaven forbid anything should happen to them. I can’t make Reşat Bey see that this just won’t do. Patients belong in the hospital.”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Mehpare said. “I’m scouring everything.”

  Once Behice Hanım had closed the toilet door behind her, Mehpare heaved a sigh of relief and raced downstairs. As she immersed the laundry in a tub of steaming water and flaked soap, she muttered, “Patients belong in the hospital! We’ve got a whole house full of people, haven’t we? It’s not like we can’t tend to a patient ourselves.”

  She put the washbasin back on the fire and prepared a cup of milk and honey for Kemal. Then she carefully placed it on a silver tray. She was just preparing to carry it upstairs when Saraylıhanım flew in.

  “The poor boy coughed through morning prayers. He coughed; I wept. Did you apply the cupping jars?”

  “I did, madame. No good. He had a bad fever.”

  “Was he coughing up blood?”

  “No.”

  “The truth, now.”

  “He wasn’t, I swear. Just coughing dry.”

  “The district doctor isn’t enough—he should be taken to the hospital. I told Reşat, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “They won’t take care of him in the hospital. He’ll get cold. The Master knows what he’s doing.”

  “He knows nothing. He’s angry with Kemal for being so independent; that’s why he’s doing this. We need to get him to professionals.”

  “They’ll only do what we’re doing. They’ll give him the same medicine . . .”

  “That’s enough out of you, Mehpare! Why do you think I chose you out of all your sisters, your cousins? Because you were polite, obedient—you’d set a good example for my grandchildren. If all I’d wanted was a servant, I’d have found a Greek or Armenian girl, and she’d have been literate . . .”

  “I can read and write too.”

  “Only because I let you attend Leman’s lessons. Which I paid for.”

  “God bless you,” Mehpare said. Not out of the goodness of your heart. Just so I could read you those women’s magazines aloud and, most importantly, any letters from Kemal.

  “Fortunately, my efforts didn’t go unrewarded,” Saraylıhanım allowed. “You learned to read before Leman did. You’re a clever girl, Mehpare. But you’ve got a sharp tongue. You’ll go off to a husband one day, and if you talk back to him you’ll be sent packing directly.”

 
“I don’t want a husband, ma’am.”

  “Hush. Don’t speak in front of your elders. Keep your thoughts to yourself. Just listen. Now tell me, did you perform your prayers this morning?”

  “I haven’t found time yet. I’ll get Kemal to drink his milk, and then I’ll pray.”

  “Very good.”

  Mehpare’s slight form slithered away, so eager was she to escape Saraylıhanım. Had she believed that Allah would restore Kemal’s health in exchange for morning prayers, she would never rise from her rug. But the case was hopeless. It wasn’t just his lungs—his mind had been wounded. After returning from Sarıkamış, nearly a year had passed before he was able to sleep at night. And when he did manage to nod off, he’d wake screaming, shivering, winter and summer. Over time the nightmares abated, the trembling stopped, and he began leaving the house, going to the newspaper offices. He’d even found lodgings, when Reşat Bey suggested it would be more appropriate for a bachelor to live elsewhere. Just when it seemed that Kemal was fully restored to health, he’d been stricken by this accursed disease, forced to return to the family mansion. “What a pain!” Mehpare muttered to herself, then bit her cheek, ashamed. The doctors had said Kemal’s illness was the result of lungs grown frail, that he needed a long period of convalescence. But it was impossible not to fear the worst. Uncomplaining, untiring, Mehpare had been nursing him ever since.

  She rushed up the stairs to avoid encountering any of the other family members. The patient should drink his milk while it was still piping hot. As she entered the room, the stench left by a long night of fever, sweat, and anguish struck her in the face again. She set the tray down on a table and approached the sickbed. Kemal was sound asleep, his thin yellow neck like a reed on the pillow, his hair plastered over his forehead. His mournful eyes usually made him look at least a decade older than he was—but they were closed now. Asleep like this, sighing and mumbling, he made you think of a child. Mehpare didn’t wake him. She set the milk on the windowsill and was just leaving the room when Reşat Bey entered. Mehpare lowered her head and stepped aside to let him pass.