Authors: Tariq Ali
The moment I was presented with an opportunity, I left Istanbul and after travelling for a year, I ended up in Alexandria. I had spent many months in Jerusalem, Damascus and Cairo, but none of them appealed as a residence. Jerusalem was too religious and the other cities, despite their charms, were far too noisy and too remote from the sea. I was bemoaning the loss of the sea one day, when an arrogant young Bey said to me: “If our delicate little flower from Istanbul wilts without a sea breeze why does he not go and live in Iskanderiya? Personally, I can’t bear it for more than two weeks each summer, but there’s no accounting for Ottoman tastes. Go and live in our house as long as you like, Salman Pasha, and if you like the city then find yourself a place to live.”
That was how I happened to settle down in a city that bore my father’s name. Is it possible to fall in love with a place, Stone Woman? It is. I did. I used to walk for hours each day, till I came to know every corner of Alexandria. To escape the noise of the morning, I would walk away from the city and find refuge near the sea. I had seen a tiny cove on one of my walks and this became my very own and special retreat. I would come here for the early part of the day, before the sun made it impossible to look up at the sky. My only friend in those days was a copy of Verlaine. I would gaze at the sea, dream of happiness, think about my life and sometimes find amusement in writing bad poetry. One of the easiest things in the world, Stone Woman, is to write bad poetry. Has anyone ever told you that before?
The important thing was that I found what I had craved for all these years. I was on my own. Solitude, I discovered, is essential for the mind to gauge its own strength. It is true that a solitary existence has its drawbacks. The satisfaction we feel at not being injured by contact with others is sometimes negated by the sadness that can overcome us because we have only ourselves. This is again very different from the solitude that was forced on me some years later. The sense of loss I suffered made my life a continuous agony of loneliness. Even in the company of my friends, to say nothing of strangers, I felt completely alone.
My money supply was beginning to contract. As always, my Uncle Kemal responded generously. Before I left he had made me promise that if I was in financial difficulty, I was always to approach him and not worry my father. This suited me perfectly. I sent Uncle Kemal a telegram, thanking our stars that the Empire had agreed to install the telegraph system. A few weeks later one of his ships touched port at Alexandria. The captain called on me with a small, sealed packet. I thanked him, offered him some coffee and asked if he knew my uncle’s plans. To my amazement he informed me that Uncle Kemal was preparing to visit Japan and set up an office in Tokyo.
The minute he left, I quickly undid the packet and found, to my delight, a medium-sized, uncut stone nestling in cotton wool. I did wonder then why Uncle Kemal was so fond of me. I had never attempted to cultivate his affection. He had three daughters, each uglier and more stupid than the other, so perhaps I was a surrogate son. There had been other hints, but I had made it very clear to his wife, my aunt, that I was not in the least interested in any of her daughters as a possible wife. My uncle had laughed on being told this.
There was also a letter of credit to my uncle’s bankers in Cairo and a note for me which recommended that I should use the diamond as surety and not, under any circumstances, sell it without first consulting him. He had sent me the name of “a small, but very reliable” diamond merchant in Alexandria, with whom he had often “done business. He is a Copt, very trustworthy and an old family friend. Go to him if ever you’re in trouble”. He had told me of this person before I left Istanbul, but since I had no plans at that time to visit Alexandria, I had not shown any interest. When I finally did reach here I remembered my uncle’s friend, but I had forgotten his name and felt that if I sent for his address from my old office, it might burden me with tiresome social responsibilities. I remained aloof. I could let nothing breach my solitude. Nothing except the shortage of funds.
The journey to the house could be delayed no longer. I went there one day straight from the beach and a fairy princess opened the door. She burst out laughing at the sight of me. I had sand on my clothes and hair, sandals on my feet and a tattered copy of Verlaine in my hand. “Have I come to the right house?” I stammered, unable to stop my eyes from travelling her entire body. “Does Hamid Bey live here?”
She nodded and invited me into the house. She had deep black hair, an olive complexion and small eyes, which made me wonder whether her mother was Japanese. She was wearing a European-style dress, which revealed the lower parts of her legs, but what had delighted me the most was her laugh and the fact that her feet were bare.
“You caught us by surprise,” she said. “My father is taking a bath at the moment. Are you Salman Pasha? We were expecting you one of these days. Can I offer you a drink? I hope you will join us for lunch. If you will excuse me, however, I must go and change my dress. Please feel at home.”
It was my turn to laugh. She disappeared without asking me to explain the cause of my amusement. Do you know why I laughed, Stone Woman? Their house could not have been more unlike home. In Istanbul we lived in the eighteenth century, and here, in Yusuf Pasha’s summer palace by the sea, time lost all meaning. The house in Alexandria was very much ahead of its time. I had never seen such elegant furniture in Istanbul, not even in the house of the Bragadinis. They, too, preferred to live in the past, but here was the latest furniture from Italy. In the hall there was a large Chinese chest. Everything was new. As I was admiring the decorations on the walls, Hamid Bey came down the stairs in a white silk suit and greeted me warmly. He must have been approaching sixty, but was extremely well preserved and surprisingly slender, unlike my father and uncles who were all on the portly side.
I thought it might be best to get our business over with before lunch. I showed him the gift from my uncle. He took it to his desk and inspected it under a microscope. “It is a very good stone. I assume you wish to use it to raise some money for whatever project you are preparing at the moment?” My only project was to enjoy life to the full and it was for that I needed the money, so I nodded and smiled. “I trust Kemal Pasha more than my own brother. You did not need to show me the stone. How much do you need to borrow?” Without thinking I named a figure. He told me to return the next day and collect the money.
When his daughter came down for lunch a transformation had taken place. She looked demure, was far less relaxed and more traditionally attired in a yellow tunic that touched the floor and leather sandals, which, to my great annoyance, hid her naked feet. Her face, if anything, appeared stern. I hoped it was only her father’s presence that was responsible for the change.
“This is my daughter, Mariam. She has managed the affairs of this house ever since her mother’s absence.”
Nothing more was said of the mother and it was not till many months later that Mariam told me the whole story. Our conversation during lunch was polite. My Arabic not being as fluent as that of Hamid Bey and Mariam and their Turkish being non-existent, I lapsed into French. The pleasure on her face was visible. She never had the opportunity to practise and perfect her knowledge of the language and was excited by the fact that I spoke it so well.
Stone Woman, I know that nothing surprises or shocks you. That is why so many have sat in your presence over centuries and spoken to their heart’s content.
On that very first day, while I was having lunch at her father’s table and as his honoured guest, I fell for this creature. Love can never be planned like a book of accounts. You cannot say to yourself: this person meets all the conditions I have laid down for falling in love. She has features that are attractive. She is well-spoken, but will not speak out of turn. She has a reasonable dowry. She will bear me healthy children. I will, therefore, proceed to fall in love with her.
I have known merchants who measure love as they do their trade; physicians who feel their own pulse to make sure they are in love; philosophers who constantly doubt their own love; gardeners who think love grows like a fruit and egotists who can never love anyone else. Don’t misunderstand me, Stone Woman. I am not saying that love does not grow, deepen and become stronger with each passing year. That is all true, but for that to happen it is important how it begins. In my book there is only one true beginning. All others are false. Love must strike one like lightning. That is what happened to me eight years ago on that pleasant summer afternoon as the sea breezes wafted through the house of the Copt merchant, Hamid Bey. Mariam had barely turned eighteen. I was approaching my thirty-second year.
I returned the next day to collect my money. An old woman with a cross hanging ominously from her wrinkled neck opened the door and informed me in a very formal voice that Hamid Bey had left for Cairo on business. He would be away for several days. He had left an envelope, which she would now hand to me, and would I please return in ten days’ time, when her master would be back in the city. The old crone must have seen the disappointment on my face, for it registered a degree of pleasure on her own. I stood there, paralysed and despondent.
Before I could think of saying anything, Mariam came running into the house from the terrace, slightly out of breath, but, Heaven be praised, bare-footed. My heart melted at the sight of her feet.
She shouted at the old woman, “I told you to send for me when Salman Pasha arrived.” The retainer shrugged her shoulders in disgust and left the room.
Mariam turned to me. “Ignore her, Salman Pasha. She is over-protective and impolite. She’s been in my father’s family for centuries and really enjoys being discourteous. She hated my mother. Should we go and sit on the terrace? Would you like a fresh lime drink? Have you brought any French books with you? Why are you laughing?”
I do not have the strength to live through the entire experience again, not even for you, Stone Woman. Some of the memories are so pure and sweet that they would make me weep. I would become weak and love her again and all would be lost. It would be like falling into the abyss, but never hitting the ground—the worst possible nightmare. I am determined, whatever the cost, to avoid such a calamity. For that reason and that alone I will quicken the pace of this narrative.
Hamid Bey’s stay in Cairo was extended beyond a week. Mariam and I would meet every day, but never after sunset. The crone with the cross had expressly forbidden that, and Mariam felt it foolish and unnecessary to defy the restriction. Wherever we were in that large house, I began to feel we were being watched, and Mariam began to feel the same. We were being suffocated. I told her of my secret cove. Her eyes grew large at the thought of an adventure. She would send for Maria, for that is what the crone had been christened, instruct her to make us some coffee and while she was in the kitchen, we would run away from the house like thieves with our French books firmly tucked under our arms. Mariam, too, fell in love with the little cove, where we were completely alone.
We declared our love for each other on that day. She, too, admitted that the sight of me with sand on my hair had touched her greatly though she was sure it must have been the sight of Verlaine that had created the lightning effect. We kissed and caressed each other. We discarded our clothes and swam in the sea. We dried ourselves and read aloud to each other. I delighted in each part of her body described in this verse from Verlaine’s love poem, “Spring”:
Beauteous thighs, upright breasts,
The back, the loins and belly, feast
For the eyes and prying hands
And for the lips and all the senses?
The poem excited us even more, but I did not possess her, even though she was prepared to sacrifice her virginity and I was by now in the grip of a white-hot passion. I ached for her. My testicles were hurting, desperate for the fluid to be released, but I resisted her. Why? Because making love to her would have been a violation of her father’s hospitality. Strange, isn’t it, Stone Woman, how old traditions and habits become so deeply embedded in our minds and how difficult it is to uproot them? She was enraged when I confessed this to her and began to curse all Pashas and Pashadoms and declared herself to be a free citizen in the Republic of Love. She became cruel in her mockery. She also made me laugh a great deal. I had never met anyone like her.
When Hamid Bey returned to Alexandria, and before Maria could pour poison in his ears, I asked for Mariam’s hand in marriage. I told Hamid Bey I wanted nothing else. I was not interested in a dowry. We would be married and live on our own. I had thought he might ask me to wait a year or, at least, six months and in some other city to determine whether my affection was real or transient, but he had no such doubts. “I felt from the first day you lunched with us that Mariam and you were ideally matched. You have my blessing. As you know I am a Copt. I would like the wedding to be in church. When you take her to Istanbul you can have another ceremony.”
My heart was so filled with joy that I laughed. “Hamid Bey, I would marry her anywhere. As you know, I am not a believer. The actual ceremony is of no consequence to me.”
Hamid Bey did not wish to delay the matter any further. I had no desire to inform any member of my family, with the exception of Uncle Kemal. The telegram I despatched to his office was firm on one point. I told him that the news was for him
alone.
I did not wish to receive messages from anyone in Istanbul. He sent me a telegram of congratulations and wrote that he accepted my request for secrecy, but in return he insisted that the house I was buying must be a joint wedding gift from Hamid Bey and himself. Stone Woman, I accepted their kindness. After all, it was a house they were offering me, not a camel herd. I did, however, firmly turn down the offer of Maria as our housekeeper. Some sacrifices are simply unacceptable.