Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature) (6 page)

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 Sarıkamı
ş
?”

“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 çar
ş
af. 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, automobile 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 çar
ş
af, 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.”

They joined the throngs jostling for the door. Mehpare nearly lost her balance as she was shoved and elbowed. After what seemed an eternity, they at last inched ahead several meters, reaching the door, the open air. But when they stepped outside, things were even worse. Hundreds of policemen and firemen swarmed the street. Mahir was holding Mehpare’s wrist so tightly that her hand had become numb.

“What are you doing here, Mehpare Hanım?”

“I . . . I was just passing through.”

“I found you inside. What were you doing there?”

“Looking for my shopping bag . . .”

“What bag?”

“My bag. It’s still inside. Please, can we go get it? I’ve got to have it. Please.”

“Were you carrying so much money?”

“No. There were some periodicals.”

“It’s just as well you lost them. Keep walking . . . Over here . . .. Come on, quickly. Don’t let go of my hand.”

“You’re hurting my wrist, Mahir Bey.”

“You’ll be fine. If the police stop us, say nothing. You’re with me. My nurse. Understood?”

“But I’m not . . .”

“You’re caring for Kemal Bey, aren’t you? He’s my patient; you’re my nurse.”

“What’s going on, Mahir Bey? For the love of God, what’s happening here?

“A bomb was tossed into our building.”

“A bomb? Why? Who did it?”

“You came to a dangerous place. Kemal should never have sent you.”

“No one sent me. I was passing through.”

“Fine. It’s best you stick to that version of events.”

“I was passing through, looking for a tobacconist.”

“And that’s exactly what you’ll tell anyone who asks, Mehpare Hanım!”

At the sight of a pair of approaching policeman, Mahir released Mehpare’s wrist and they accelerated their pace.

“Hey . . . Hey you . . . Stop right there.”

They stopped and a military policeman came up to them. “Go stand with the others, right over there,” he ordered them. Not far from the bombed building a few municipal police were forcing a crowd of people into an orderly line.

“Where are we going?” Mehpare asked.

“To the police station.”

“Oh God!” For the first time that day, Mehpare lost her composure. As darkness descended she felt her legs giving way beneath her. Mahir slid his hands under her arms for support.

“You can take me in, but let this young lady go.”

“That’s out of the question. She was in the building.”

“She was not; she was outside.”

“And just how do you know that?” the policeman asked.

“I was inside. I saw her when I got outside.”

“You can explain all of that at headquarters. Stop wasting my time and start walking.”

Mahir propped his semi-conscious companion against the wall. She was weeping, she could barely stand.

“Look here, sir. I’m a doctor. I was summoned here because of a serious heart attack. As you can see, the only woman you’ve detained is this poor young lady . . . She’s nearly fainted. She’s terrified . . . She told me she was walking past the building when the explosion happened . . . I found her crawling on the ground.”

“Do you know her?”

“Yes, I do. She lives in Beyazit. She’s a relative of Undersecretary of the Treasury Ahmet Re
ş
at Bey, a member of his household. She can’t possibly have any connection to today’s incident. Let her go or you’ll be responsible for her when she faints.”

“What was she doing here all alone?”

Mehpare’s face was ashen and her entire body trembled. “I came here to visit relatives,” she sobbed.

“Her handbag was stolen in all the confusion,” Mahir interjected. “The poor thing was looking for it. A black patent leather handbag. Have you seen it?

“That’s enough out of you! People are dying and she’s asking after her bag! The lady can go, but you’re coming with me,” the policemen said.

“How will you get home?” Mahir asked Mehpare as she immediately began moving away. “Would you allow me to give you the fare?”

As the policeman pushed Mahir into a police van, Mehpare called out, “My aunt lives nearby. She’ll help me. Thank you, sir.”

Terrified that the police would change their minds, Mehpare found the strength to dash down the hill, turn left, and walk rapidly in the direction of her aunt’s house.

“Open the door, my hands are full,” cried Saraylıhanım at the top of the stairs, breathless, and bearing a tray of warm
po
ğ
aça
buns and a cup of linden tea. Kemal rose from his desk and opened the door.

“Grandmother, you shouldn’t have. You’ve climbed all these stairs.”

“Mehpare’s not here. I have no choice.”

“There’s the housekeeper. And the girl who comes to clean. Isn’t Leman at home?”

“We have things to talk about.”

“Is something wrong? What have I done now?”

“You can’t get up to much mischief here in the attic, can you? I’ve come to discuss your health. Praise be your fever is gone and you’re coughing less. You’ll be out on the streets again soon.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“And that’s why I’m worried. You’ve never been content to wander on your own. You’re certain to find yourself in bad company.”

“There you go again!”

“It’s true. I know you well. Didn’t I bring you up myself? Ever since you were able to think for yourself you’ve found something to kick against. You simply won’t sit still. Now tell me, what have you been doing at your desk all these hours?”

“I’m translating a French book.”

“A book on how to topple kings and sultans?”

“A book of poetry.”

“Just who do you think you’re fooling!”

Kemal burst out laughing.

“Your tea’s getting cold,” Saraylıhanım said, handing Kemal the cup. “Drink it up. I added some honey.”

Kemal took a few sips of the linden tea. “Grandmother, if you don’t want me to regain my health and get into trouble, why are you fattening me up?”

“Because the moment you’re better you’ll be sent to your uncle in Beypazarı.”

“So you’re decided, are you?”

“I am. You can’t stay here. Your uncle says there’s a warrant for your arrest. When you were confined to your bed you weren’t in any danger. It would never occur to the police to search the home of Re
ş
at Bey. But the moment you’re out on the streets the Sultan’s detectives will follow you back to this house. I’m not often of a mind with Behice, but here her concerns are justified.”

“I’ll leave. But I’ll decide where I’m going.”

“To Beypazarı . . .”

“No. I’m staying in Istanbul.”

“Where in Istanbul?”

“With friends.”

“Impossible. You need nursing. You’ll need it for years to come. You’ll be well cared for on the farm in Beypazarı. You may even meet a girl from a good family. A virtuous girl.”

“How convenient for you—you’ll have me married as well.”

“You’re a young man, of course you’ll marry. And once you’re well, once you’re gone, I’ll marry off Mehpare as well, God willing.”

“Are there any interested parties?” Kemal asked, looking directly into his aunt’s eyes.

“Of course there are. She’s a rose of a girl. But she promised she’d stay with us until you were fully recovered. And I promised her aunt I’d attend to her marriage prospects the moment you left the house.”

“You, a matchmaker? Have you got a basket full of potential husbands?”

Saraylıhanım laughed dryly. “I’m not a matchmaker, nor do I have a basket of husbands. All I have is my reputation, and a nose for information.”

“Saraylıhanım” Kemal referred to his grandmother as Saraylıhanım only in moments of resentment or gravity: “when do you want me gone? Tomorrow? Next week?”

“I’ve upset you.”

“I just want to know how long you’ll allow me stay.”

“This is your home too. Stay forever, if you like. But it would be best if you left as soon as you’re well. That may be weeks, or months—it depends entirely on how you feel. But when you do leave, you’re going to Beypazarı. I hope that’s clear.”

“In that case, I’m never getting well.”

“In which case you’re barred from the streets.”

“Fine then. I’ll stay in my room and write. And Mehpare can take care of me.”

“Mehpare will not be nursing you indefinitely. She’s twenty now. It doesn’t take long for an unmarried girl in her twenties to acquire a reputation as an old maid. I’ve assumed responsibility for the girl, and I have to consider her future.” Saraylıhanım softened her tone as she changed the subject. “Have a bite of your po
ğ
aça. It’s spinach, the way you like it. Behice’s father sent some more eggs and vegetables from the village, and I’ve used the last of them for these. Eat up, it may be a while before you have anything so fresh again.”