The Stone Woman (12 page)

Hasan Baba was flattered and his tone changed. With me it had been friendly and relaxed. In the presence of the two men it became formal and affected.

“The Karmatian brotherhood in Angora, which we now call Ankara, was so strong that it ran the town on its own. It did not feel the need for a ruler. The brotherhood consisted of different
ahis
, or craft guilds. Each had its own meeting place, but we also had central meeting houses where there was much feasting and prayers, as well as discussions of the problems of the city and how we could heal the sick and feed those without food and punish the bandits who lived on the fringes of the city and stole money and clothes from travellers. Visitors were put up in the meeting houses, which also served as inns. We swore an oath to serve the seven virtues, abhor the seven vices, open seven doors and close seven doors.”

The Baron was now fully engrossed. “What were the vices and the virtues?”

“That I do not know Baron Pasha, but I know that we Karmatians, while tolerating women, tended to remain unmarried ourselves. I know that butchers, surgeons, atheists, tax-gatherers and money-lenders were never permitted to enter a meeting house. They were some of the vices.”

“What about astrologers?” asked Memed.

“Another vice. They were hated even more than the atheists and the money-lenders,” said the old man with anger, as if he had been present when an astrologer had attempted to gain entry to a meeting house. “Astrologers were the executioners of rational thought and for that reason it was agreed by all the meeting houses on one occasion that some of these rascals, who misled the ignorant, should be publicly executed in the square in Ankara. It is said that the Karmatians jeered as they were led to meet their fate. ‘How is it’, they taunted the condemned men, ‘that you failed to foresee your own future? Were you gazing at the wrong stars?’”

“I do not approve of that, Hasan,” declared the Baron. “The enemies of rational thought can only be defeated by rational thought. Executing those men changed nothing. They multiplied like locusts throughout the Empire.”

Hasan Baba was slightly embarrassed at having been carried away by his story. I tried to help him with a friendly question. “And the virtues you spoke of. What were they?”

“The drinking of wine, the inhaling of herbs, the state of ecstasy, daily prayers and the cleansing of infidels. The Karmatians were the fathers and the mothers of all the different Sufi orders that exist today. They were the first
ghazis
in this part of the world. They were prepared to fight and die for Allah and the glory of his Prophet. The Ottomans could not have succeeded without them. Later, much later, when the capital was in Bursa, the meeting houses were disbanded and attached to mosques. That was the beginning of our end.

“My family changed its craft. We dispensed with swords and instead began to produce razors and, later, scissors. We decided it was best that we perfected their use and so we became barbers. My forebears entered Constantinople with the Conqueror. They were part of the Sultan’s retinue.”

Memed and the Baron exchanged smiles and, having expressed their warm appreciation of Hasan, took their leave as they embarked on their daily and much-discussed ritual, which consisted of a brisk walk along the cliffs every day, an hour before lunch was served.

Hasan Baba remained seated and my mind moved away from him. He must have felt this because he, too, rose and walked away. I began to think of Selim. How odd that I had not recognised his voice as the singer. He must have seen me sitting here with his grandfather. The song was his unique way of making his presence felt.

“Did you like my song, princess?”

He was standing there in front of me in a pose of fake humility so that if we were observed from a distance it would appear that he was there as a servant. He even pretended to clear the table.

“I did like your song, nightingale, but your voice was so different. Where do you hide it during the night? Don’t stand here any longer making a fool of yourself. I will meet you tonight in the orchard, when the shadow of the moon has covered the Stone Woman.”

“Which orchard?”

“The orange grove, you fool.”

“It’s too wet at night. I prefer the fields of lavender.”

“There is no protection there.”

There was mischief in his eyes. “Why should we not experience bliss in the sight of Allah?”

I laughed despite myself. “The orange grove. A stream flows through it and the music of the water soothes me. Do as I say and now go away.”

He left, taking with him the tray with the used cups of tea and bowing slightly in my direction with the fake humility that most servants in our house had by now perfected. This time I managed to control a smile.

As I walked towards the house I noticed that Hasan Baba was still there, standing close to the front entrance. He had seen everything, but he could not have heard us. He gave me a strange look. Had he detected the familiarity in Selim’s body language or could he lip-read? I smiled serenely as I walked past him, and went straight to the bathroom where the maids had been waiting patiently to wash, dry and plait my hair in time for lunch.

It was now three o’clock in the afternoon. Iskander Pasha, accompanied by Giulio Bragadini, the photographer, who had joined us for lunch, and followed by Petrossian, strolled out of the house and cast a slow, thoughtful glance over all the details of the arrangement for the photograph. The large wooden box with a black cloth hanging over it was what they called a camera.

Bragadini was, as usual, over-dressed for the occasion. He was attired in a black Stambouline and a matching, expensive silk hat, and his plump face wore a self-important expression. He was very pleased with himself. His family were Venetians who had settled in Istanbul hundreds of years ago and painted the portraits of princesses and noblemen. Successive Grand Viziers had not deemed the work of the Bragadini family to be of a quality high enough for them to be given permission to paint the Sultan.

It had been declared on many occasions, and in public, that they were not masters in the tradition of Leonardo or Michelangelo or even Bellini, but were, in reality, gifted merchants who had learnt the art of painting as a trade. Giulio’s grandfather, Giovanni, the last of the painters and the first of the photographers, had replied to these slurs on his family honour, though never in public, with the response that the only reason why the Bragadinis had never been permitted to paint a Sultan was that they had consistently refused to bribe the relevant courtiers. This was a case, Uncle Memed had once remarked, of both sides being right at the same time.

Despite all the arguments, the Bragadinis prospered. With the invention of the camera, their long battle for imperial recognition came to an end. They obtained the exclusive privilege of photographing the Sultan and being appointed the official photographers to the Court.

Four chairs were laid out. The first of the photographs consisted of the family alone and was simply organised. My mother sat on Iskander Pasha’s left as he faced the camera and Uncle Memed on his right, with the Baron seated next to him. Zeynep, Halil, Salman and I stood behind them and little Orhan, looking every inch a Pasha, sat between the feet of his grandfather and great-uncle. Giulio was now in complete control of the operation. From a distance, behind the camera, all the servants, marshalled in their feast-day clothes for the occasion by Petrossian, stood and stared at us, the gardeners solemn and the maids trying to control their giggles as they muttered obscenities. The Baron, for some reason, had always been a special target for their venom. The ritual words, always uttered on occasions of this sort where the family and the servants were together, were spoken by Uncle Memed, who walked to where the retainers were gathered, smiled and said: “Allah be praised. It seems that festive looks are all the fashion.” The Baron nearly choked with disgust at this totally meaningless display of formality.

The first photograph taken, we were all seated in chairs with Orhan in the centre and behind us came Petrossian, flanked by Rustem the Bosnian, who was the principal chef and controller of the kitchen and, next to him, Luka the Albanian, the head gardener, and Hasan Baba. This photograph, too, passed off without incident. Then a couple of benches were placed behind Petrossian’s row and everyone clambered aboard them. The noise increased till my mother stood up and raised her hand, demanding silence. The ordeal could not last much longer.

As the participants in the photograph disbanded and returned to their posts, Iskander Pasha sent for Giulio Bragadini. He showed him a note. The photographer appeared to be puzzled. Petrossian and I both hurried forward to help Father. Giulio showed me the piece of paper. On it was written: “Now please take a photograph of me alone with Zakiye.” I signalled in the direction of Hasan Baba. He understood immediately. He removed all the chairs except two. He told Giulio not to ask unnecessary questions, but to take the photograph. Petrossian shepherded the servants out of the garden. The family stayed behind. Father looked pleased, but he rushed indoors, indicating he would be back very soon. He could not have gone to relieve himself since he often did so in the garden.

Fifteen minutes later everyone gasped in astonishment. Iskander Pasha had returned dressed in the clothes of a
dervish.
None of us spoke. Giulio appeared to be delighted. He seated Iskander Pasha and tried to remove the empty chair lying next to him, but received such a ferocious scowl that he fluttered away to his camera. Iskander Pasha refused to look at the camera. He insisted on smiling at the non-existent occupant of the empty chair, adjacent to his own and that is how he was photographed by Giulio Bragadini.

Afterwards nothing was said. We all acted as if it had been the most normal behaviour imaginable. Our reaction was wise. Some time later, that strange photograph, the outcome of a nostalgic mysticism that had seized Iskander Pasha that day, would travel the world and appear in most of the books on early photography. It would also, and this fact subsequently caused a great deal of merriment within our family, immortalise the name of Giulio Bragadini. The fame that his forebears had been denied by the old Sultans had finally been achieved as a result of a sudden whim on the part of a sad old man who had lost his power of speech. I was told that Giulio gave a public lecture in Paris on that photograph, explaining to his admiring listeners the many hours of planning and forethought that had been required to achieve the perfect texture and composition. News of his latest portraits often appeared in the artistic columns of the European press, but we must not be diverted. The fantasies of the Bragadinis have no real place in this story and I must not run ahead of my time. The past is difficult enough.

Everything had now been cleared. The events of the afternoon had become distant, but the change in Iskander Pasha could not be ignored. He decided that he did not wish us to visit his room after the evening meal.

“I do not crave your attention,” he wrote in his note, which was circulated to each of us in turn. “I yearn for solitude. You are all free to stay or return to your families.”

Uncle Memed had convened a family conclave to discuss the matter. All the participants of the photograph excepting Orhan and Iskander Pasha were present. We had invited Hasan Baba to join us for coffee. Who would be the first to speak? We looked at each other, offering silent encouragement to whoever wanted to begin. Unsurprisingly it was the Baron who spoke first.

“The worst reaction on our part would be an over-reaction. Knowing the history of this family, I thought his behaviour eccentric, but not a real cause for concern on our part. He was overcome by longing for Zakiye
hanim
and decided to honour her memory in our presence. I found it quite touching.”

Hasan Baba had been nodding vigorously while the Baron spoke. “I do not wish to offend anyone present, but to me Iskander Pasha’s behaviour is reassuring. He loved Zakiye
hanim
more than everything else in this world put together. He never stopped thinking of her. Salman Pasha suffered as a result since he was held to be the cause of her death. My advice is to be patient. I think, far from being mad, he has decided to become sane again.”

My mother usually remained silent on these occasions, but not today. “In the past he often spoke of Salman’s mother. He told me he could never love again. Charred wood, he used to say, can never be relit. I understood him perfectly. However, as we all know, he has always been a very private person. It is not his emotions that worry me, but his desire to display them in this fashion. Where will it all end?”

Salman cleared his throat. “I agree with my Aunt Hatije. His initial hostility to me is of little concern now. Naturally, I, too, wished I had seen my mother, though from what I have heard it is perfectly possible that she might have packed me in a bundle and run away from Istanbul. Hasan Baba knows this well. My mother shared the nomadic instinct of the early Ottomans. She was never happy in one place. It is pointless speculating about such matters. What worries me is the streak of insanity that runs through our family. Uncle Memed, when we were children you often spoke of one of our great-great-great-uncles whose insanity was legendary. The same blood courses through our veins.”

Memed began to laugh. “Great-great-great-uncle Ahmet. Well, he was very special. Even the Sultan smiled at his escapades. How many of you here know the story? Only Salman? This is odd. Perhaps the rest of you were shielded from it for your own sakes.

“Ahmet Pasha was a warrior. He had participated in numerous wars and was renowned for his foolhardiness which, alas, is usually referred to as courage. When he grew tired of fighting he began to write poetry. Some of it must still exist somewhere. His poems were far removed from war. He wrote exclusively of the natural beauty of animals. Birds, deer, fish, geese, dogs, cats, turtles, horses, elephants and ants all formed part of his anthology. He celebrated their innocence and wrote of how dependent man was on each of them. It is said that the Sultan began to laugh while Ahmet Pasha was reading an ode to the snail. He laughed so much that the courtiers cleared the chamber. Our great forebear was enraged by this behaviour. As we know, our family has a tendency to take itself very seriously. We can produce paintings that embarrass, poetry that pains the ear, love letters that destroy passion, but death to him who dares criticise our work. I suppose this attitude mirrors that of the palace where the Sultan is always above criticism. It is this dullness and inertia that has killed the Empire and retarded our development. It has done the same to our wretched family. We, too, have seen our faculties decline for a few hundred years. Pardon me, children, I am beginning to sound like the Baron.”