Authors: Tariq Ali
I
T WAS A LANGUID
morning. There was no breeze and the sun was hot. We were sitting under the shade of a walnut tree on the front terrace. Hasan Baba had finished cutting Orhan’s hair and a maidservant was removing the pieces from the ground. Hasan Baba had chosen a style that was fifty years out of date, a style he had used when my father and uncles were young boys, and he had ignored my instructions and cut Orhan’s hair far too short, but the approval he sought was not mine. He knew that Iskander Pasha would appreciate his work.
A photographer was due to arrive from Istanbul later that day to photograph the entire family. It had been an annual ritual, discontinued when Salman and Halil left home. Usually the photograph was taken on a feast day in the old courtyard of our house in Istanbul. This was the first time a photographer had been permitted to violate the privacy of our summer sanctuary. The chairs had already been laid out in exactly the same pattern as in Istanbul, except that we were fewer in number. Uncle Kemal’s family had not been invited here, whereas it was usually difficult to exclude them in Istanbul.
Petrossian, following Iskander Pasha’s instructions, was organising the place names so that when the time came each of us would know where to sit. I shuddered at the thought of a family gathering, but Orhan was delighted. He was greatly looking forward to the occasion and had, for once, meekly accepted my mother’s insistence that he must bathe, wash his hair and wear the suit specially made for him, together with the
fez
. He was to be dressed like a little pasha. Nor would he be alone. Everyone had been instructed to dress formally. At breakfast that morning, Salman had made us all laugh by asking Uncle Memed whether he and the Baron, too, would be wearing the
fez.
Both men had looked at him coldly and refused to reply.
I was about to ask Hasan Baba to tell me of the time he had spent with Iskander Pasha in Paris, when the deep, beautiful voice of a singer chanting a Sufi verse came towards us as if from the sky.
Let us drink our fill from the wine of thy lips
Let us drink to the satisfaction of lovers
Let the hearts that have suffered too much separation become
intoxicated and bewildered;
Let their love overflow like the seven seas
Let us drink till their hearts are covered in moonlight
Let us drink till in their bliss, in their bliss, in their bliss, the lovers
experience
Allah, wa Allah, wa Allah!
Hasan Baba’s frail and battered body began to change before my eyes. His eyes developed a shine and he began to sway in perfect harmony with the song of ecstasy. Suddenly the voice stopped. It had come from the direction of the garden below my father’s terrace, which was invisible from the front terrace where we were seated enjoying the morning breezes and inhaling the scent of the pines.
“Who was the singer? I had no idea that we had a
dervish
in the servants’ quarters.”
“That was Selim, my grandson,
hanim effendi
.”
I was amazed. “Are you sure?”
Hasan Baba nodded eagerly. “Selim must be tired today. He has been cutting their hair since breakfast. First it was your brothers, then Memed Pasha and the Baron. Now your father’s hair is being trimmed. All this in readiness for one stupid photograph.”
“But could he be singing while cutting my father’s hair?” I was surprised, given the decorum normally associated with any ritual involving Iskander Pasha.
“Why not? There are many things you do not know about your father. He was a Sufi in his youth. He frequented some of the more dubious meeting houses where ecstasy had little relation to Allah. He must have instructed Selim to sing this particular verse. Perhaps it reminds him of the time he first saw Zakiye, the mother of Salman Pasha.
“I have known your father since the day he was born, but never in such a state as he was that winter when he first saw her at a meeting house. They inhaled some very potent herbs and began to whirl together. Afterwards, in a state of ecstatic exhaustion, they fell on the floor and rested. It was then that she sang the verse that we just heard again, but this time in the voice of my grandson. Iskander Pasha’s heart experienced a turbulence he had never known before. His love grew by the day and there were times I thought he would lose his sanity altogether. I was with him a great deal at the time. I tried to calm him. I offered to take him to Konya for a festival. I suggested we come to this house so that he could, at least, reflect on his state of mind and, at a distance, from the object of his love. He refused to leave Istanbul. Zakiye was moved by her young admirer’s passion, but I don’t think she could ever reciprocate his love. He refused to rest till he had obtained permission from his parents to marry her.”
I had never heard this story, not even from Zeynep, who usually knew everything of this nature. Perhaps Zakiye’s death had rendered all gossip redundant.
“Why did he need such permission, Hasan Baba? And why not from Zakiye’s parents?”
The old man sighed. “Oh my child, you may be a mother of two children, but you are still foreign to the ways of our world. Zakiye was attached to that particular meeting house. It had a disreputable name. She had no parents.”
Despite myself I could not help being slightly shocked by this information. “Hasan Baba, are you telling me that Salman’s mother was a prostitute?”
“Which debased creature mentioned money or the sale of human flesh?” he asked in a raised voice. “Zakiye believed in the joys of ecstatic union. It was her way of communicating with Allah. You look surprised? There were and there remain many others like her, including Selim’s own mother, and she is still alive! Please refrain from disrupting the flow of my story with foolish questions. You may have already forgotten your previous question, but permit me a reply.
“Now, at least, you understand why Iskander Pasha had to ask his parents before he could marry Zakiye. They became very angry with him. They refused to take the matter seriously. They imagined that it was a case of lust, not love. They suggested that your father take Petrossian and travel to Paris and Florence. It was his turn to refuse.
“One night, Iskander Pasha left home and became a
dervish.
His mother was shaken by the news. She found it difficult to bear the loss. He had always been her favourite son. She weakened first and later it was she who convinced his father. Iskander Pasha was thrilled. I saw happiness dancing in his eyes, but none of us had foreseen the next problem.
“Zakiye refused his offer of marriage. It had made her angry. She told me she had no desire to become a rich man’s keep. She saw no reason why, after an existence free of restrictions, she should now suffer imprisonment for the rest of her life in your Istanbul house. What happened, I suppose, was inevitable: money. The elders of the meeting house were bribed by Iskander Pasha. These were men who had looked after her as a foundling. They had educated her, taught her to sing and dance and how to achieve union with her Maker. Now they instructed her that in the larger interests of their order, she must marry Iskander Pasha and do his bidding. ‘He is the son of an important notable, close to the Palace. Just think how you will be able to help us once you are his wife. You were left outside our meeting house the day you were born. We raised you as our own. Now it is your duty to obey us. You must do as we ask of you.’ She was unconvinced, but followed the instructions of the elders as she had done all her life.
“And that is how the wedding took place. It was not a quiet celebration. The feasting lasted for three whole days with a great deal of singing and dancing. It must have been the last time Zakiye danced with other men and women. She seemed happy enough and it’s difficult to know how it would have ended had fate not decided a cruel punishment. Within months she was pregnant and then, as you know, tragedy struck. She died giving birth to Salman Pasha.
“After her death, I observed Iskander Pasha’s entire character undergo a complete change. He was devastated. He reminded me of a tree struck by lightning. A tree has no option but to die. Iskander Pasha found he could only live by reinventing himself. He remade himself in the image of his father. He became distant and aloof, very conscious of his status in society, strict with all his children and especially hard on poor, motherless Salman Pasha. Your father changed into the person you have known all your life. It was the only way he could accept that she had gone for ever. The way he had once been with her, he could not be with anyone else.
“Once, when we were in Paris and I was shaving him amidst all the finery of his residence, he was thinking of her. Knowing him as I did, I always knew when he wished to be shaved in total silence. I had not spoken a single word that day when he suddenly grabbed the towel off my shoulder, wiped the remaining soap off his face and broke the silence: ‘You know, Hasan, do you not, that the man who loved Zakiye died with her? I have no knowledge of this man any more.’
“Tears poured down my face. I told him: ‘I know that, Iskander Pasha. I have always known, but I do not believe that the young man I knew is dead. I think he is buried deep inside you and will, one day, return to himself.’ What he said was only part of the truth. She still lived in him and to that extent his old self, too, was alive. There was another occasion in Paris which I had forgotten till now. Our memory is a strange gift is it not, Nilofer
hanim
? He had returned home late one night from some burdensome official reception. He always hated these gatherings. Petrossian had already retired and Iskander Pasha was undressing himself. I was in the next room reading when I heard him sobbing. I rushed to comfort him and found him clutching a book close to his heart. He said nothing, but handed me the book and pointed to a verse which I have never forgotten. It was from a sonnet by Michelangelo, the Italian who should have built us a bridge across the Bosporus. Should I recite the verse? Let me see if it will return to me.”
He paused and went deep into his head. Then his face relaxed. “I think it was like this, but I may have forgotten some lines. After he had made me read this he asked with a sad smile: ‘Hasan, do you think Michelangelo was a Sufi?’
Now give me back that time when love was held
On a loose rein, making my passion free.
Return that calm, angelic face to me,
That countenance which every virtue filled.
My soul has almost reached the other side
And makes a shield against your kindly dart.
Charred wood will never make a new fire burn.
“Today he asked Selim to sing her favourite song. She must be very strong in him at this moment.”
I thought that even though Iskander Pasha was no longer my real father, the knowledge had not changed my feelings for him. I still loved him as a father. Hasan Baba’s story drew me even closer to the man my mother had married in such a hurry all those years ago. I wondered whether my mother knew this story and what she felt. Both of them had loved deeply and both had lost, in different circumstances, the most precious thing in their lives. Zakiye was dead and so, in a different way, was Suleman. Why had this shared experience not brought them closer together? My thoughts shifted to Selim.
“How did he learn to sing so beautifully, Hasan Baba?”
The old man was pleased by my compliment. What would he think if he knew what we had done? I was sure that whatever his reaction, it would not be one of either surprise or shock.
“Selim’s father, my oldest child, is a
bektashi.
It was he who taught him to sing when he was a little boy. My son, may Allah curse him, did not wish to be a barber.” The old man began to laugh, revealing a frighteningly empty mouth. He had lost every single tooth and I had to avert my gaze.
“Perhaps,” he continued, “that was his real reason for joining a Sufi order, which encourages its devotees to grow their hair long. He wanted Selim to follow in his path, but this I would not allow. He did not treat the boy well and I decided to raise him myself. Selim grew up in my house and I trained him to be a barber, but the boy, as you see, is talented. He would be good at any craft.”
It was my turn to smile. Selim’s grandfather might be a barber, but his father was a Sufi.
“Were you surprised when your son deserted your profession?”
The old man stroked the forest of white stubble that covered his chin and became thoughtful. “I was disappointed, but not surprised. We have a tradition in our family of being both barbers and
dervishes.
In the old times, long before the Ottomans reached Istanbul, my family lived in Ankara. It was a period when there was no prince ruling over us. We made our own decisions. In those days we were craftsmen engaged in the making of swords and knives. We belonged to the order of Karmatians. Have you ever heard of that name?
I acknowledged my ignorance, pleading my lack of a formal education. The tutors who had taught me everything I knew had never mentioned the Karmatians.
“You would be even more ignorant if you had been to a
medresseh
,” he responded. “That honourable and kind lady who is your mother probably taught you more than all the beards put together. Do you think they teach their pupils about the Karmatians? They would rather choke in their beards than speak of a past that was pure.”
Unknown to us, Uncle Memed and the Baron had overheard the last exchange.
“I never knew you were descended from Karmatians, Hasan,” said Memed.
“Have you heard of them, Uncle?” I inquired with the most innocent expression I could muster.
“Yes, but very little. The subject interests me. May we join you? Please carry on, Hasan.”
“I’m an old man now, Memed Pasha, so forgive my ravings. The matters of which I speak were handed down in our family from generation to generation. They are not of great interest to enlightened men like yourself and Baron Pasha.”
“Nonsense,” thundered the Baron. “It is we who are ignorant. We await enlightenment.”