Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature) Read online

  Letter in hand, Saraylıhanım flounced out of the room and promptly ran across Behice on the second floor.

  “Is there anything you’d like from the shops, my girl?” Saraylıhanım asked. “I’m sending Mehpare to Beşiktaş . . . You mentioned yesterday that you’d run out of white silk thread . . . Shall I order you some more?”

  “Why’s she going all the way to Beşiktaş? Aren’t there plenty of shops here in Beyazit?”

  “Her aunt has taken to her bed,” said Saraylıhanım, nodding significantly at the sheet of paper in her hand.

  “Let me have a look at that . . .”

  “What for! I’ve seen it. I had Kemal read it to me, since my eyes can’t take the strain. I’m sending the girl. She’ll return soon enough. Give her a shopping list and she’ll pick it up for you.”

  “Does Reşat Bey know about this? Better not make him mad.”

  “Reşat Bey has more important things to do than concern himself with the servants.”

  That little minx turns up under every stone, the elderly woman muttered to herself. She’s taken on airs just because her father sends supplies every month. Well, we’ll see whose word is law in this house.

  Determined to see her orders carried out before Behice could intervene, Saraylıhanım descended to the kitchen on the floor below, where she found Mehpare absentmindedly attending to a bubbling pot.

  “Hurry up, girl. If you’re going, better get an early start. Tell Hüsnü Efendi to get ready. Get into your çarşaf and onto the streets. I expect you back home before mid-afternoon prayers. No dawdling. Ask after your aunt’s health, find out what she needs and come straight home. Oh, and pick up some tobacco for Kemal. Don’t forget.”

  Mehpare didn’t have to be told twice. Flinging a ladle onto the countertop, she raced to her room to get dressed.

  Hüsnü Efendi and Mehpare were able to reach Beşiktaş only after changing trams three times. The streets were full of soldiers wearing the uniforms of various nations. While the dejection of the Muslim Ottomans could be read on their faces, the Greeks and Armenians were all smiles. There were few women, Christian or Muslim. Among the scenes streaming past the window of the tram, the ones that most frequently caught Mehpare’s eye were a few turbaned hodjas, street porters bent double under their towering loads, beggars sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, carriage drivers whipping bony horses, Gypsy women with babies slung onto their backs. But it was the swarms of migrants that cut her to the heart: dirty-faced, bawling babies pressed to their mothers’ breasts, women dressed head to toe in black, white-bearded men with creased faces leaning heavily on ragged children. Ethnic Turks and Muslims forced to abandoned all they had, fleeing for their lives, forcibly expelled from the lands they’d once called home. Proud and uncomplaining, they sheltered in makeshift shacks as they set about repairing their shattered lives. Mehpare’s own family had been torn from their land and resettled in Istanbul. Face pressed against the glass, she looked out at the downcast, despondent citizens of a city besieged.

  Hüsnü and Mehpare got off the tram in Beşiktaş and walked together as far as the neighborhood where Dilruba Hanım, Mehpare’s aunt, had her home. The shops had opened their shutters, but there was very little to buy. As they were about to turn into one of the side streets in Beşiktaş Market, Mehpare was amazed to see apples displayed at a green grocer’s on the high street. Just a week earlier, their poor gardener had returned empty-handed when Saraylıhanım sent him out for some fruit. Mehpare immediately bought a brown paper bag full of apples, then led the way along a narrow lane lined with wooden houses sporting oriel windows and latticed panes. They stopped in front of a two-storey house completely devoid of paint. Mehpare struck the door with the knocker and waited. The head of a grey-haired woman appeared in a second floor window. As Mehpare pulled back her çarşaf to expose her face, the woman smiled and waved.

  “Hüsnü Efendi, they’re home,” Mehpare said. “You can go and look after your business now. Come and get me before the afternoon call to prayer.”

  Hüsnü Efendi was anxious to do just that, but propriety demanded he delay his departure. “The shopping errands . . .”

  “I’ll handle them. I know where the shops are.”

  “You can’t walk the streets alone. I’ll wait for you right here at the door and we’ll go together.”

  “It’s freezing! You can’t possibly wait here in this weather. I’ll do the shopping with my cousin. She’s the best judge of what to purchase and where. Why don’t you go to a coffee-house, or just do as you wish.”

  Mehpare removed a large iron key from the wicker basket lowered from an upper window and slid it into the lock.

  “Fine then. I’ll get some seeds for the back garden. It’ll be March soon and time to sow,” Hüsnü Efendi relented.

  “Knock when you get back and I’ll come down directly,” said Mehpare.

  Key in hand, Mehpare stepped into a dimly lit hall. Happy to be free of Hüsnü Efendi, she fairly skipped up the narrow flight of stairs to her aunt, who was waiting at the top, head covered with a traditional white Yemeni headscarf.

  She kissed her aunt’s hand and ritually pressed it to her forehead. Then the two women embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks.

  “Has something happened, dear?” asked Dilruba Hanım. “When I saw you pop up out of the blue like this I didn’t know whether to be fearful or overjoyed. I hope nothing’s wrong.”

  “I dreamt of you several nights in a row, aunt, and felt the need to see you,” said Mehpare, handing her aunt the paper bag. “I know how much you like apples. I found them at the grocer’s by the public fountain.”

  “May this abundance be a blessing to us all, my child,” her aunt smiled. “Come in and sit by the stove, your cheeks are frozen. Would you like some tea?”

  “I’d love some.”

  “I’ve just put it on to brew, ready in a moment.”

  Mehpare beamed at the sight of chestnuts lined up on top of the stove.

  “You’re roasting chestnuts for me! Did something tell you I was coming?”

  “You were always terribly fond of them, weren’t you? They’re just about done,” said her aunt, as she turned each one over with a pair of tongs. “Tell me, my girl, those dreams you had, did they unsettle you?”

  “I’ve been feeling troubled lately, and it’s crept into my dreams, aunt.”

  “Has that mad palace woman been upsetting you, Mehpare? Or have you been unable to get along with the lady of the house?”

  “No one has troubled or upset me. It’s Kemal Bey who has me worried sick. He’s not getting any better.”

  “For goodness sake, thousands of young men froze to death in Sarıkamış. Your patient has such a strong constitution that he survived. Be grateful that he came back safe and sound.”

  “He may be safe, but he’s not yet sound. He’s weak, he frequently falls ill. He still has nightmares from time to time. He recovered only at the end of last summer.”

  “So what more do you want? Is it so easy to escape death?”

  “He left home when he recovered. They must not have looked after him, because this time his lungs caught a chill. Saraylıhanım had him brought back to the house. He was so feverish last week. Behice Hanım was terrified he’d come down with consumption, and wanted him sent to hospital.”

  “Behice Hanım reckoned that with Kemal Bey out of the house you’d have more time to mind her children.”

  “The girls have grown up, aunt. They don’t need minding.”

  “The eldest is only fourteen.”

  “Leman turns sixteen this year. Her younger sister is nine.”

  “Still plenty of time to marry them off. You’ll be the first bride to emerge from that house—that’s what you’re really telling me. With Kemal Bey on his feet, God willing, we’ll begin preparing for a wedding . . .”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What is there to understand? You’ve been of marriageable age for some tim
e. Saraylıhanım promised me she’d attend to your prospects. Not yet of course. She’s got Kemal Bey to think of. But the moment he’s fully recovered . . .”

  “Shame on you, aunt! I don’t even want a husband.”

  “What kind of talk is that? What will you do if you don’t marry? Become an old maid?”

  “Exactly.”

  “God forbid! Once you’ve married it will be Mualla’s turn, and Meziyet’s. I have my own girls’ future to consider as well.”

  “Why aren’t they here today?” asked Mehpare.

  “Meziyet is at school. Mualla stayed with her aunt last night. They’ll be home soon. Listen Mehpare, it’s no use trying to change the subject. The order in which marriages take place can’t be changed. And you’re next.”

  “The tea must be ready now, aunt. I’ll have a glass and go,” Mehpare said as she escaped to the kitchen. “I have to pick up some things for the house.”

  “You’ve come to do your shopping, not for me,” her aunt grumbled.

  “How can you say that! Only this morning I wept tears of joy at the thought of coming home. But, seeing as I’d be in Beşiktaş, I was given a list of chores to do. I’ll come and sit with you when I’m done.”

  Mehpare gulped down her tea, anxious to attend to Kemal’s instructions, her mind elsewhere as her aunt continued to chatter. She carried the empty glass to the kitchen and had arrived at the top of the stairs when her aunt dashed after her.

  “Are you leaving so soon?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Let me put on my çarşaf and I’ll join you.”

  Mehpare fidgeted uncomfortably. “Aunt, I wonder if I could ask you for something . . . I miss your gözleme terribly . . . Could you prepare some before I return? I hope it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Don’t they make you gözleme at the house? There’s a head cook, isn’t there?”

  “He’s been discharged. And anyway, no one makes it like you.”

  “Flattery, flattery! The ones with cheese?”

  “Yes, with cheese.”

  As her aunt bustled off to the kitchen, Mehpare rushed down the stairs and into the street. The snow had stopped. She walked towards the marketplace. She knew of a tobacconist there, but couldn’t recall the exact location. It had been so long since she’d wandered through Beşiktaş Market. Some shops were gone, new ones had opened. And unless she also found a sundries and notions shop to buy some thread, she’d have to stop by the shops in Beyazit Market on the way home. She was hurrying along the street when she slipped and bumped into a sesame-roll vendor’s circular tray. The ring-shaped rolls spilled onto the snow. She bought a few from the muttering vendor after he scooped them up off the ground and wiped them on his trouser leg. A sack of rolls under her arm, she cautiously proceeded to the high street and turned towards Akaretler and the address she’d committed to memory. You won’t have to walk far, it’s on the right, not quite half way up the hill, Kemal had told her. The house with the dark green iron door and the green shutters. You’ll know it the moment you see it.

  She climbed up the street, scanning every door and shutter, unable to understand why Behice Hanım continued to insist that the family relocate to this neighborhood, and why Saraylıhanım was so adamantly opposed to the idea. Saraylıhanım claimed that the district wasn’t Muslim, but Mehpare knew that employees of the court lived in this double row of identical yellow houses. Saraylıhanım was really something! There was nothing she wouldn’t say to contradict her daughter-in-law. In this case it was just as well, Mehpare thought to herself. There were no signs of life in this wide avenue. The narrow streets of Beyazit were filled with donkeys dragging carts of onions and potatoes, street vendors selling sherbet, fabric, women’s clothing . . . The only sights here in Akaretler, were a few passing phaetons and men in fezzes strolling along the sidewalk. A couple of automobiles belonging to the occupation forces drove by. This was clearly a neighborhood for the wealthy, for those with palace connections. That must be why Behice Hanım wanted to move here. The wife of an acting minister, she no doubt claimed the right to reside in a fashionable district and put on airs.

  Mehpare spotted a pair of green shutters a few houses along, and increased her pace. The door was just as Kemal had described it. She’d been given a street number, but no number was visible on the door of this house, just a small signboard. Mehpare sounded out the words “Spor Kulübü.” So, it was a sports club of some kind. She continued walking up the hill, but couldn’t find any more houses with green doors and shutters. She returned, rang the bell to the lone green door, and waited.

  A moment later the door opened. “What do you want?” asked a young man.

  “Is Cemil Bey here? Cemil Fuat Bey?”

  “There’s no one here by that name.”

  “But this is the address they gave me . . . I’m to deliver a letter to Cemil Bey.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Kemal Bey. Kemal Halim Bey.”

  “The one who fought in Sarıkamış?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he sent you to Cemil Bey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “But a moment ago you said Cemil Bey wasn’t here.”

  “I’m sorry, I misunderstood,” said the young man. “I thought you said Cemal Bey. In any case, Cemil Bey is occupied at the moment.”

  “I’m to deliver the letter personally.”

  The man sighed. “Come in then. Don’t loiter in the doorway. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Mehpare stepped inside and sat down to wait on a wooden bench in a narrow tiled hallway. She was the only person there. A few heads poked out and stared down the stairway at the woman in the black çarşaf. When Mehpare found herself looking into a pair of eyes, she lowered her gaze to the floor and kept it there. A few moments later a worn-looking man of Kemal’s age, light-complexioned and curly-headed, came down the stairs.

  “I’m Cemil,” he said. “You’ve brought word from Kemal?”

  “He sent you a letter.”

  Mehpare pulled an envelope speckled with sesame seeds out of her shopping bag, brushed it off in embarrassment, and handed it over. Cemil ignored the remaining seeds as he tore open the envelope and scanned its contents.

  “He’s expecting an envelope from you,” Mehpare told him. “Yes, I know. How is Kemal Bey? Well, I hope?”

  “Not entirely. He caught a chill . . . He came down with fever . . . He’s quite ill.”

  “I wish him a speedy recovery. I’ll prepare the envelope and bring it to you. Wait here, please.”

  “Will it take long?”

  “I’m enclosing some periodicals . . . I’ll only be a moment.” The young man went upstairs. Mehpare waited patiently.

  When he returned with a large manila envelope, he pointed his chin at her shopping bag and asked, “Will it fit?”

  “If I take these out . . .” replied Mehpare. “Yes.” She looked around helplessly for a place to put down the rolls. “Would you mind taking these? Otherwise there won’t be enough room for the envelope.”

  Cemil gestured in the direction of the waste paper basket. “But wouldn’t it be sinful, especially in these hard times?” Mehpare asked.

  Cemil smiled. “Give the rolls to me,” he said. “I’ll share them with my colleagues over tea.” Mehpare handed him the rolls. “Tell Kemal Bey that we haven’t visited only because we don’t wish to disturb him. God willing, we’ll come to see him when he’s well.”

  “And when the weather improves,” added Mehpare. They held each other’s eyes for a moment without speaking. “I’ll be going now . . .”

  “Give him our greetings . . . My friends upstairs also send their best wishes.”

  Cemil accompanied Mehpare to the door. Hands full of rolls, he was struggling to turn the knob when an explosion hurled them both backwards into the hall and stones, earth and dust showered down onto them from the ceiling—from outside, screams, barking dogs, auto
mobile horns, wailing sirens, growing louder and louder. Mehpare tried to stand up but was pinned beneath Cemil’s body. Her right shoulder ached, and her eyes and ears were filled with dust. Through the thick smoke she was dimly aware of people rushing about and shouting. What had happened? An earthquake? Doomsday? She fought to remain conscious and managed to disentangle herself from Cemil. She tried, once again, to climb to her feet. A roaring in her ears, as though thousands of people were speaking at once. Sheets of paper drifted down from above, along with stones and dust. She gathered up her çarşaf, which was tangled around her feet, and tried to cover her bare head. At last, she was able to stand. She felt dizzy. Her shopping bag had disappeared. Cemil was curled up near the wall, moaning.

  Mehpare knelt down next to him. “Are you alright? Is it your head?”

  “I think my nose is broken,” he groaned from behind his hands, which were clasped to his face.

  Mehpare tucked her arm under Cemil’s back and tried to help him get to his feet. He clung to her with one hand, to the wall with the other, and slowly stood up. His nose was bleeding. The hall, which had been deserted only moments earlier, had filled with dozens of people, all of them pushing their way down the building’s staircases, fighting to reach the street door. An acrid stench hung in the air.

  “There must be a fire upstairs,” said Cemil. “We’ve got to get out. Can you walk?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Go outside, get away as fast as you can,” Cemil said. There was a second explosion, less intense this time. Mehpare raised her eyes and saw flames on the second floor. Her nostrils burned. Mehpare had just begun looking around for her shopping bag when she was gripped by the wrist. She wheeled round, terrified:

  “What on earth are you doing here?”

  She strained her eyes to recognize the face of a man whose lashes and hair were white with dust. But the voice was familiar: “Mahir Bey!” she cried.

  “Come with me, to the door, quickly . . . Is anything broken?”

  “No.”

  “Cover your mouth and nose . . . We’ll go through that door over there . . . Then you can explain what you’re doing here.”