Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature) (14 page)

Azra deftly changed the subject. “I was planning to attend a visiting day event tomorrow at which
Ş
ükufe Nihal Hanım will give a reading of her poetry. With your consent, I’d like to invite Behice Hanım to accompany me.”

“That’s out of the question!” cried Saraylıhanım. “Behice Hanım has no desire to get mixed up in your organizations and associations. Why, what was that just the other day, women by the hundreds taking to the streets, speeches in Sultanahmet Square . . . for shame!”

“Saraylıhanımefendi,” Azra said, “we’re simply being received at the home of Makbule Hanım for a friendly social gathering and to listen to a little poetry. And furthermore, her mansion is very close to yours.”

Displeased by his aunt’s humiliation of his wife in front of company, not to mention the offence she may have caused their guest, Re
ş
at Bey spoke in a tone of firm certitude.

“If Behice Hanım likes, she can accompany you tomorrow, Azra Hanım,” he said. “As you know, the streets aren’t entirely safe these days, and I only ask that you let Hüsnü Efendi accompany you.”

“Sir, can I go as well?”

All heads swiveled in surprise to the speaker, who was none other than Mehpare, who was gathering the empty coffee cups with eyes lowered. “I’ll escort the ladies. I’ll accompany Behice Hanım . . . Please sir . . . I want so much to go and hear poetry.”

Saraylıhanım’s open mouth snapped shut at a stern look from Re
ş
at Bey.

“Very well then. Please don’t keep them out late, Azra Hanım. The women of this household are customarily at home by mid-afternoon prayers. I would hope tomorrow is no different.”

“It won’t be, efendim,” Azra assured him.

Suddenly quite dizzy, Behice found herself torn between joy and distress. Even as she wondered what she would do at a meeting where ladies were discussing politics, she was pleased that her husband had so authoritatively informed Saraylıhanım of her right to do so.

When they reached the garden gate of Makbule Hanım’s house, Behice asked Azra how long the meeting would last.

“If the recital takes an hour, and conversation and refreshments another hour…” Azra began.

“Hüsnü Efendi,” Behice said, “you can go home now; come and get us in two hours.”

The three women marched to the front door, Azra and Behice in front, Mehpare two steps behind. Makbule Hanım’s salon—a series of adjoining rooms containing chairs arranged in rows, as though for an Islamic memorial
mevlit
service—was crammed with about forty ladies conversing in loud whispers and exchanging sheets of paper. Azra must have spotted many familiar faces, for she greeted, kissed, and asked after the health of everyone she encountered. Behice, Azra and Mehpare found three seats in a row and sat down. Servants circulated with trays of lemonade and sherbet.

Behice observed that most of the women had removed their
ma
ş
lah
and that locks of hair curled out of their headscarves and onto their foreheads and temples. She’d already seen this modern hairstyle in magazines and vowed right then and there that it was a look she’d attempt to reproduce in front of the mirror the moment she got home.

The young woman with auburn curls who’d greeted them at the door and who she’d assumed was the lady of the house advanced toward a clearing in the forest of chairs and declared in a loud voice, “Welcome to you all. We have some new guests today. Among those present are the new finance minister Re
ş
at Beyefendi’s wife, Behice Hanımefendi, and their relative, Mehpare Hanım. Let’s offer them a warm welcome before we begin.”

A wave of whispering rippled through the room. Behice flushed pink up to her ears, uncertain of where to cast her eyes or what to do. Azra must have told Makbule Hanım who they were. Tactless! Behice contented herself with a brief nod of acknowledgement as she glanced at Mehpare out of the corner of her eye. Mehpare was staring at the wall opposite, her mind elsewhere, her face expressionless, her back bolt upright. She seemed nonplussed by the exaggerated and unwanted attention.

Some of the women got up and came over to introduce themselves to Behice and Mehpare. Avoiding the eyes of the women who were literally at her feet, showering her with compliments, Behice did her bashful best to offer some kind of response. She was aware that the wife of a finance minister, even one who had recently resigned, had a role to fulfill. But she had no idea what that role entailed. With the exception of her immediate family, relatives and close friends, she knew nothing of the world and had cultivated no views, opinions or sentiments that she could truly call her own. The consequences of having surrendered administration of the household to Saraylıhanım were suddenly painfully clear. The little she had managed to learn from newspaper articles and magazines seemed to evaporate from her mind. She was perspiring heavily. Although she did her best to conceal her panic, she felt frightened and besieged.

“Our previous assembly was graced by Fehime Sultan, who even deigned to play a piano sonata she’d composed in honor of the new constitution. Your presence here today is such a great privilege and source of strength for us all,” gushed the lady of the house. “It is our fervent wish that you honor us with your company at all future gatherings. Is there anything you would like to say to the ladies?”

Behice thought she would die.

“Thank you so much, efendim. I’m afraid I’m not prepared to speak. Forgive me,” she croaked.

“Please get me something to drink,” she implored Mehpare the moment Makbule Hanım left her side. “My throat’s gone dry. They were passing round lemonade . . . I’d even settle for water.”

Mehpare stood up and craned her neck to find a waiter.

“Behice Hanım, may I draw your attention to that lady over there—the one walking toward us: it’s the poet,
Ş
ükufe Nihal Hanımefendi. She’s going to start reciting in a moment or two. Shall I introduce you?” asked Azra.

“Later, Azra Hanım. I’m feeling quite dizzy.”

Azra didn’t insist, for at that very moment one of the ladies strode into the center of the room and, with the silver spoon she gripped in her right hand, began striking the small tray she held in the other.

“Shhh. Ladies, quiet please. May I request a warm round of applause for today’s speaker, a guest we all hold in the highest esteem:
Ş
ahende Hanımefendi. Welcome efendim.”

As a short, plump woman made her way to the middle of the room, Mehpare handed a glass of lemonade to Behice and sat down again. Behice took two large gulps and immediately felt sick. She handed the glass back to Mehpare.

“Take it. Get it away from me. It smells awful,” she slowly mumbled.

“It smells wonderfully of mint.”

“It’s upset my stomach. Drink it if you like, Mehpare.”

Ş
ahende Hanım began speaking. Behice did her best to listen, but there was a buzzing in her ears, as though hundreds of agitated flies were swarming inside her head. Words like
motherland
,
country
,
freedom
, and
independence
pierced the buzzing, but the shapes of the sentences, their meanings, escaped her. She struck an attentive pose and kept her eyes fixed on the speaker, who occasionally glanced directly at her, the wife of a minister, for approval and endorsement. The fiery tone of the woman summoned up unpleasant images for Behice: marching hordes, fists clenched, hands clutching stones and sticks; ugly shouts in a language that, though foreign, sounded like curses; beatings and degradation, fear for her life! She broke into a cold sweat and gave up all pretense of concentration, waiting only for
Ş
ahende Hanım to conclude her endless speech. It was all she could do to keep down the two swallows of lemonade. Mehpare noticed the beads of sweat on Behice’s forehead and put it down to the airlessness of the room.

At last, thunderous applause broke out, at which Behice weakly clapped her hands. The assembled women rose as one to congratulate the speaker. Behice wanted to join the line of well-wishers but her head was spinning so badly she feared to stand. Azra leaned over Mehpare and asked Behice, “How did you find
Ş
ahende Hanım’s speech?”

Behice forced out a one-word reply: “Remarkable.”

“She would be so very pleased to hear you say that. If you’d like, we can go over to her before
Ş
ükufe Hanım begins the discussion. Let’s go.”

“Take my arm, please,” Behice whispered into Mehpare’s ear. “I don’t feel at all well.” A bit taken aback, Mehpare stood up, took Behice’s arm and began propelling her toward
Ş
ahende Hanım. The salon was crowded and stuffy. Everyone was speaking at once, their voices ringing in Behice’s ears. After a few steps, she was horrified to discover that she couldn’t feel her hands or feet. Her knees were giving way. Mehpare encircled her waist to prevent her from sinking to the floor.

“Behice Abla . . . Behice Abla, what’s wrong? Oh, Behice Abla . . . My God, you’re collapsing . . . She’s collapsing . . .”

“She’s fainted. Good gracious, she’s fainted!”

“What’s going on here?”

“Get back . . . Out of the way . . . Let her through . . .”

“Who’s fainted? Ah, it’s Behice. Quick! Get help!”
Ş
ahende Hanım took command: after firmly ordering the other ladies to get back she was soon kneeling at Behice’s side. Mehpare cradled Behice’s head on her knees and with trembling fingers began unbuttoning her blouse.

“Get me some lemon cologne, is there any in the house? Please bring me some immediately if there is,” ordered
Ş
ahende Hanım. “And kindly open a window. Let in some fresh air.”

Turning to Mehpare, she asked, “You came here with Behice Hanım, didn’t you? You’re relatives I believe?

“That’s right, efendim.”

“Is she prone to fainting spells?”

“No. I’ve never seen her faint before today.”

“Is she pregnant?”

“No . . . Well, I don’t know that she is.”

“Why do you think she fainted? Has she caught a chill? Is she ill? Is she having digestive problems?”

“No, she’s not ill,” Mehpare assured her.

“She may have been overexcited by your speech,” Azra speculated.

“Don’t be absurd!” snapped
Ş
ahende Hanım as she poured some of the cologne hurriedly brought by Mehpare Hanım into her cupped palm, splashing a bit onto Behice’s temples and waving a cologne-doused palm under the patient’s nose. Using Behice’s silk headscarf, she wiped away the cold sweat on the patient’s temples and upper lip. Then she lightly slapped each of her cheeks. Behice was coming round, and a moment later she surveyed her surroundings through astonished eyes. At the sight of
Ş
ahende Hanım’s anxious face hovering above her own, she closed her eyes, certain she must be dreaming.

“Don’t worry my dear, you’re fine. You’ve had a turn, that’s all.”

When Behice realized where she was and what had happened, she could have died of mortification. Here she was in a strange house, surrounded by strange ladies, and she’d dropped like a stone. Such a disgrace! She nearly burst into tears. Mehpare helped her to a chair.

“Let’s take her to one of the bedrooms; I’ll examine her there,”
Ş
ahende Hanım said. As the poet strode off, Behice asked Azra, “Is she a doctor?” She immediately realized how silly her question was: how could a woman be a doctor? But
Ş
ahende Hanım seemed so sure of herself . . . she certainly carried herself as though she were a doctor.

“
Ş
ahende Hanım is a practiced midwife,” Azra told her.

Behice was stricken with panic. The color, which had only recently been restored to her cheeks, drained away once again. “Behice Hanım, you don’t have to submit to an examination if you’d rather not. I’ll explain to
Ş
ahende Hanım,” Azra said.

“Wouldn’t it be bad manners?”

“No, not at all.”

Behice slowly struggled to her feet. Her head was still spinning. Propped up on either side by Mehpare and Azra, she stumbled towards one of Makbule Hanım’s bedrooms.
Ş
ahende Hanım was already inside the room, drying her freshly scrubbed hands with a scrap of linen towel. She smiled and came up to Behice. “Don’t be frightened, my girl,” she said, “I’ll just listen to your pulse. Have you eaten anything today?”

“Yes.”

Clasping Behice’s slender wrist, the midwife carefully counted the thumps of the arteries beneath her finger.

“Stick out your tongue.”

Feeling like a helpless little girl, Behice opened her mouth and did as she was told.

“Normal,” pronounced
Ş
ahende Hanım, “which can only mean one thing: there’s only one reason young women your age faint . . .”

“And what is that?”

“The obvious one.” Behice reddened. “If I’m right, I’d like to be the one who delivers your baby.”

“I strongly doubt that I’m with child, but I do thank you, nevertheless, for your kind attention,” Behice said as she turned her own attention to Makbule Hanım. “I’m afraid I’ve been a great deal of trouble and have spoiled your gathering. It’s time Mehpare and I went home. Azra Hanım can return later, when the discussion is over.”

After profusely thanking the ladies gathered at the front door to enquire after her health, and rejecting her hostess’s offer of a carriage on the grounds that some fresh air would do her good, Behice slowly walked home, leaning heavily on Mehpare’s arm.

What had possessed her to go along with Azra? What did she care for liberty, justice and equality? She hadn’t yet managed to seize the reins of her own household. Was it up to her to save the motherland? Free as she was to remain peacefully at home with her ud and knitting needles, why had she gotten mixed up with a band of overbearing women? And to make matters worse, she’d disgraced herself by fainting. She would have burst into tears right then and there if she’d been on her own. “For goodness sake, don’t tell anyone what happened to me today. Especially Saraylıhanım,” Behice begged Mehpare.