Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature) (4 page)

But Ahmet Re
ş
at was in no position to enlighten his wife on his clandestine activities. Moreover, his own feelings concerning his work were ambiguous. Mahir was the only person to know that the Grand Vizier had entrusted him with a special task; and only because the doctor himself had been charged with similar secret duties. A number of prominent bureaucrats, all of whom spoke excellent French, had been encouraged to cultivate friendships with high-ranking French officials. To that end, they were expected to attend dinners and to engage their new friends in games of bridge and chess. Ahmet Re
ş
at had tried, and failed, to reassure himself that his duties were not, in fact, those of a spy. And it wasn’t as if he was expected to rummage through safes and chests of drawers for secret documents and the keys to the Allied Forces’ ciphers. It had merely been observed that relations between the British and French had grown increasingly strained, and there was curiosity as to the cause. When Re
ş
at Bey had been informed by the first aide-de-camp that his presence was requested by Grand Vizier Ali Rıza Pasha, he’d armed himself with a stack of documents and arrived at the appointed hour prepared to discuss the empire’s finances. But the Pasha made no mention of receipts and expenditures. The exchange of pleasantries over coffee completed, the Pasha came straight to the point. In two days, Re
ş
at and Mahir were to attend a dinner at the mansion of Count Ostrorog, on the shores of the Bosphorus. Among those dining with them would be the French High Commissioner, and Re
ş
at Bey was asked to keep his ears open throughout the evening.

Ahmet Re
ş
at had a deep aversion to subterfuge of any description, even in service of the motherland. He was a straightforward man, well-bred, guileless. However great his reluctance to attend the function, he was somewhat comforted by the sight of Mahir, and absolutely overjoyed to encounter, in Ostrorog’s salon, his old friend, Count Caprini.

“Caprini Efendi! How fortuitous! It’s been so long. You’re in good health, I hope?”

“My dear friend,” said the Count, “the sight of you has improved my health no end. Now why don’t you join me in a corner and we’ll catch up.”

Count Caprini reputedly held an administrative position at the Italian Commissariat, but had in fact been deployed to Istanbul to command the Italian Military Police and to prevent them from clashing with the Turks. He was known to be a friend to the Ottoman Muslims. As fate would have it, he had been serving at a gendarmerie in Crete during the massacre of the Muslims there and was subsequently rewarded for his humanitarianism by Sultan Abdülhamit II, who presented him with a medal and the title “Count Caprini Efendi.”

The friendship between Ahmet Re
ş
at and Count Caprini went back even further. Ahmet Re
ş
at had held a government position in Thessalonica at the same time Count Caprini was employed there to help organize the Ottoman Gendarmerie. The two young men met and became fast friends. Together they enjoyed the diversions of the bustling port city, attended chess parties, and went riding. Many years later their paths had crossed on several occasions in occupied Istanbul. But, aggrieved by the treatment of his city, Ahmet Re
ş
at had chosen to avoid his old companion. Now fate had united them once more, and they found time to exchange a few words before they were seated for dinner.

“If an emergency should ever arise, please come to me, Re
ş
at Beyefendi,” the Count said.

May Allah save me from having to depend on any of you, was what Ahmet Re
ş
at thought to himself, but merely smiled and said, “How kind of you, Caprini Efendi.”

After dinner, the men broke up into groups for bridge and chess. That first evening, no information of any kind was divulged. Still, the Grand Vizier thought it best for Re
ş
at to cultivate any acquaintances made that day. A useful social connection might still emerge. Who knew?

Over the next few days, they spent a great deal of time with the French, one day attending a dance performance in Pera, followed by a trip to a bar. And it wasn’t long before an apparently indifferent Ahmet Re
ş
at heard lips loosened by drink convey some interesting information. His eyes fixed on the stage, his ears focused on the chattering Frenchmen, he had learned that even though the French were members of the Allied Forces they objected to being under British command, for which reason they were bedeviling General Wilson.

Ahmet Re
ş
at’s stomach churned as he began writing up his report the following day. What if the document fell into the wrong hands? He, Ahmet Re
ş
at, was no spy! He was a finance officer. He tore the report to bits and went to the office of Ali Rıza Pasha, where he presented an oral account of what he’d overheard.

From that day on, he found himself frequently invited to play chess and bridge with the French, who were themselves cultivating closer ties with Ottoman bureaucrats, in order to spite the English. He couldn’t bring himself to sound out Count Caprini, though. After all, he was a friend.

When the cabinet of Ali Rıza Pasha ratified the National Pact presented by a delegation of nationalists based in Ankara, Ahmet Re
ş
at was suddenly hopeful that everything would turn out for the best, and that he would be relieved of these unpleasant duties. In fact, the forces of destiny were simply preparing fresh surprises.

– 3 –
Sabotage

Doctor Mahir placed his palm on the patient’s bare back and began tapping the surrounding area with the other hand. Kemal struggled to remain upright in bed and flinched at the touch of the doctor’s cool, freshly-scrubbed hands. Not yet content with his diagnosis, Doctor Mahir placed his ear where his hand had been, and listened for a long while as his patient drew in and expelled the air. “Put something on immediately, don’t catch a chill,” he said, straightening.

Mehpare scurried into the room with the underclothes she’d just warmed by the stove in the hallway. Kemal slipped into his undershirt and allowed her to help him into his pajama top, but when she began doing up its buttons he gently pushed her away with, “I’ll do it myself.” Shifting his gaze, he looked directly into the doctor’s eyes and asked, in an exaggeratedly mournful tone, “So doctor, are my lungs singing the song of consumption?”

“Consumption’s no laughing matter. And it doesn’t sing.”

“It kills.”

“That’s right. But it isn’t the white plague that will kill you, Kemal—it’s your hot blood.”

“So I don’t have consumption?”

“When I come by tomorrow I’ll bring my stethoscope. I don’t think it’s consumption. You’ve caught a bad chill. Not that it’s possible to know for certain, without conducting x-rays.

“I could come to the hospital myself in secret . . . Maybe at night.”

“You’d only attract more attention. The hospitals are never empty! There’s always a doctor on duty, orderlies, nurses. It’s best you remain indoors for a few more weeks. It’s still bitterly cold outside.”

“I’m fed up, Mahir.”

“Of course you are. But if your lungs catch a chill again you’re certain to get consumption, no question of that!”

“Am I going to have to live with that fear for the rest of my life?”

“Exactly. You’ve so abused your body that you’ve lost all immunity. Your lungs and liver are seeking any pretext for disease. Don’t give it to them.”

“Am I going to be confined my bed forever?”

“Of course not. And you can use your brain without fear of affecting your other organs. But you’ve got to keep warm, stay calm, avoid too much rakı and abstain completely from tobacco. Marry a good woman, one who’ll take care of you, and you’ll live a long, happy, uneventful life.”

“And where’s the woman who’ll accept this wreck of a man?”

“I know of any number of nubile girls eager to give their hands to a handsome veteran, disabled or not.”

“Let’s say we’ve given consumption the slip . . .”

“We’re not assuming anything until you’ve had a chest radiograph.”

“Well let’s imagine for a moment that I’m in sound health. What woman would willingly sleep beside a man who can’t sleep himself, who has nightmares whenever he does?”

“The nightmares will pass. Haven’t they become less frequent?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you taking the syrups I prescribed?”

Kemal nodded in Mehpare’s direction. “She’s constantly forcing various concoctions down my throat. But I haven’t asked her what they are.”

Mehpare leapt at the opportunity to speak. “We’ve ordered everything you prescribed. And the Master always manages to get them refilled within a day or two. As for me, I administer them with my own two hands, I swear it. Punctually and without fail.”

“Good, my girl. Is he sleeping better?”

“Yes, praise God. He still has nightmares, but not as often. Oh, and he no longer insists I set up a brazier right next to his bed. See, we’ve even been able to move it to the hallway. This tiny room used to be like an oven.”

“It’ll pass, all of it. Now that the fever’s broken the most important thing is that he eats well, gets plenty of rest and stays warm.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Mehpare. But what she hadn’t said was that the medicines weren’t always available, that they had difficulty obtaining meat, that they were dependent upon the parcels of cereal and grain that Behice’s father sent from Beypazarı.

“Go on now, Mehpare. Go downstairs and prepare us two cups of strong coffee,” Kemal said.

“What’s happening out there, tell me quick!” he asked Mahir the moment the girl closed the door behind her.

Drawing his chair up to the bed, Mahir spoke in a whisper. “The Underground hasn’t been idle, Kemal. They assembled last night, at Tikve
ş
li Farm. There have been critical developments. We need information from inside the Palace.”

“But isn’t that just what the Sultan’s consort has been providing?”

“She isn’t privy to Cabinet meetings. Only to the harem. Is your uncle so very uncommunicative?”

“What do you want to know?”

“We’d save precious time if we had the inventories and locations of munitions and other war materials.”

“Only to the Minister of War has that information.”

“The Finance Ministry must know as well. They’ve been selling scrap weapons.”

“I’ll feel my uncle out as best I can. He thinks I’ve been too sick to get involved in any of this. He may tell me something.”

“Ah Kemal, if only he’d join us. He’d be such an invaluable addition to the cause!”

“Mahir, my uncle is absolutely loyal to the Sultan. He’d never betray him.”

“Your uncle has every reason to believe he’s on the side of right. No one expects us to succeed.”

“But what else can we do? However long the odds, we have to try, don’t we?”

“Plenty of people believe that the Anatolian resistance is being led by former CUP partisans. And everyone’s fed up with them. When you consider the fiasco that was Sarıkamı
ş
, who would follow them now? In reality, of course, the resistance leader, Mustafa Kemal Pasha, is as despised by them as he is by the Sultan. Unfortunately, this is known only to a few.”

“They haven’t disappeared, Mahir. I’ve heard that some former CUP supporters even hold positions of responsibility at Karakol. Is that true?”

“It is. We have no choice but to employ experienced hands. Not that they should necessarily be judged by their past support for CUP. Don’t forget, you were one of them once.”

“For goodness sake, don’t remind me.”

“You see? Ideas change along with leaders. Of course there are a few of the old guard among the Turkish Nationalists. But now they’re . . .”

“Nationalists.”

“It rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?
Nationalist
.”

“It rolls off the heart, as well. I vowed to sacrifice all for this cause. I’m prepared to do whatever you ask the very moment I’m healthy enough to do it.”

“You’d better get well first. And let me know everything your uncle says.”

“Are they still staying at the farm?”

“No, the farm is too far away. They’ve rented a place in the city. It was convenient to move to, and it will be easy to flee if the need arises. Not to mention its proximity to . . .” Mahir fell silent as Mehpare entered the room carrying a tray. He removed a few French periodicals from his bag and placed them on the desk, saying, “I brought these for your amusement, but I’d appreciate your translating the lead articles.”

“Your French is better than mine.”

“But my time is limited.”

Kemal smiled bitterly. “And time is all I have.”

Mehpare placed the cups of coffee on the desk, picked up the blanket that had slipped to the floor, spread it over Kemal’s legs and silently left the room. As she descended the stairs she whispered to herself: “Praise be—it isn’t consumption. Even it were, I’d nurse him back to health. Allah, I beg you, add my lifespan to his. Don’t begrudge him a long life, Allah!”

Mehpare was astonished to find Kemal fully dressed, freshly shaved and sitting at the writing table in the selamlık. As recently as a week ago, he’d been unable to leave his room. She tapped lightly on the wooden surface of the table.

“You summoned me, sir? Would you like some coffee?”

“Mehpare, close the door please.”

Mehpare closed the door and returned to her place beside the table. “Last time you sat here you caught a terrible cold. Why have you come downstairs? I’ll go and get the brazier . . .”

“Sit down across from me,” said Kemal, pointing to the leather chair across from his.

“But the brazier . . .”

“Forget the brazier. Listen to me . . .”

“But you’ll get cold . . .”

“Mehpare! I’m not cold! Now hush and listen.” Mehpare sat down. “Yes, sir.”

“You see this letter? It’s addressed to you.”

“To me! Oh God! Who sent it?”

“It’s from your family.”

“Has something happened back home? Is someone ill? It’s not my aunt, is it?”

“Someone in your house is both ill and not ill.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“This letter informs the reader of an illness. But no one is ill.” Mehpare sat there, speechless, eyes wide. “Don’t worry. I wrote the letter, Mehpare.”

“You wrote it?”

“That’s right, I wrote it. It says that your aunt has fallen ill and wants to see you.”

“But why would you write that?”

“Because that way you’ll be able to show the letter to Saraylıhanım and receive permission to go home to Be
ş
ikta
ş
.”

“Oh God!”

“What are you afraid of? You’re familiar with Be
ş
ikta
ş
. You grew up there, didn’t you?”

“I know Be
ş
ikta
ş
well, yes.”

“Fine then. You’re off to visit your aunt.”

“But sir . . . Why?”

“Because I wish you to, Mehpare. This letter will allow you to visit a certain address in Be
ş
ikta
ş
. I’ll give it to you. You’re to deliver the letter, and in return they’ll give you an envelope to bring to me. That is all.”

“Saraylıhanım won’t let me leave.”

“There’s no harm trying. When she reads the letter I wrote, she’s liable to give her consent.”

“But she’ll ask when it came. What should I tell her?”

“Doesn’t the postman come at about the same time every day? At about ten in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s about ten o’clock right now and I’m sending you to the shops for tobacco. You’ll meet the postman at the door. He’ll give you the letter. You’ll tear open the envelope and throw it away. And when you read its contents, you’ll run, in tears, straight to Saraylıhanım. Don’t even think about going to Behice instead. She’d recognize my handwriting.”

“What if she doesn’t believe me? What if she wants to see the envelope?”

“Like I said, you’ll tear it up and throw it away. Into the waste bin in the garden.”

“I can’t do it, sir. Please forgive me, but I can’t”

“You’ll do it, Mehpare. And you’ll be tipped for your trouble.”

“I don’t want a tip, sir. I’m begging you, please don’t send me away.”

“If you don’t go, I’ll have to.”

“But you can’t sir! Not onto the streets. You’ve only just got over your fever.”

“The danger isn’t my fever but my getting caught. If I’m arrested I’ll go directly to prison.”

“But you’d die in prison. Do you want to die?”

“Of course not. I’ve got too much to do. But if you won’t help me, go I must, and either catch a chill or get caught. Either of those would be the end of me.”

“Please don’t sir, I’m begging you.”

“Then do as I say.”

Mehpare started weeping. Hands pressed to her face, she rocked back and forth. Kemal stood up, then kneeled before her. He reached out and stroked a lock of hair that had spilled from beneath her cotton kerchief and onto her forehead. Then he caressed her cheek.

“Don’t worry, Mehpare, everything will be alright. Once you obtain permission from Saraylıhanım, you’ll go to your aunt’s house and then to a house in Akaretler, where you’ll exchange one envelope for another, easy as that,” he cajoled.

“And if they find out?”

“Blame me. Tell them I forced you. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“If they find out they’ll send me packing.”

“They won’t find out.”

“But if they did . . . Re
ş
at Beyefendi . . .Saraylıhanım . . . My God, I don’t want to think about it. My uncles would shoot me.”

“No one will harm you. I won’t let them. If they dismiss you, I’ll take you under my protection.”

“How?”

Kemal couldn’t help smiling. He was, after all, still dependent upon the patronage of his uncle, and even Mehpare would attach no credibility to his words.

“I’ll marry you.”

“Ah! That would be out of the question!”

“Why? Would you refuse me?”

“They’d never allow it.”

“Some undertakings don’t require permission, Mehpare. You’ve nursed me devotedly. If it weren’t for you, I would never have recovered. And what’s more, you’re a pretty girl. You’re intelligent, well-mannered. What else could a man want in a wife? Of course, if you say that I’m sick and old, that you won’t have me, that’s something else entirely!”

“What kind of talk is that, sir? Don’t say such things!”

“Then think it over. You have until evening. If you accept, splendid. And if you don’t, I’ll fend for myself.”

“Couldn’t you give the letter to someone else?”

“No. I told you, I’ll go myself.” Kemal stood up, went to his chair and sat down again. “Now I’m ready for that coffee.”

Mehpare emerged from the room like a sleepwalker. She leaned her head against the wall of the stairwell. She felt dizzy. It was only by leaning against the walls from time to time that she was able to make it as far as the kitchen.

Saraylıhanım burst into her grandson’s room without knocking. Kemal was writing at the little table he’d placed directly in front of the window. “Everything alright?” he said. “Thank God I managed to dress myself a few moments ago. Is the situation so very urgent?”

The elderly woman ignored his annoyance. “That girl is prattling on about something or other.”

“Which girl?”

“Mehpare. She claims to have received a letter . . . apparently her aunt is ill . . . My eyes aren’t up to the task. Read this to me.”

Well aware that his aunt was illiterate, Kemal smiled softly to himself as he carefully examined the letter thrust into his hand. “Grandmother, Mehpare’s aunt has fallen ill and asks that Mehpare be permitted to visit her today.”