“The boy is attached to him, Nilofer. He has been a good father to both his children. Poor man. I feel sorry for him. What a misfortune to have you as a wife. He needed someone submissive and a good cook. Like me, you are neither. Meanwhile you are satisfying your needs with the help of a young barber. If Iskander Pasha finds out he’ll have another stroke. First a teacher, now a barber. What next?”
“Selim may be a barber by descent, Mother, but his intelligence transcends that of most of this family.”
“Stop this at once. You used exactly the same words with exactly the same stubborn look on your face ten years ago, when you decided to elope with that school teacher. At least learn from your own mistakes, my child. Selim does not pose a serious problem. A handsome purse from one of your brothers might seal his mouth. I don’t want him boasting or mentioning your name in the coffee houses. He should be sent back immediately to Istanbul. And don’t you dare tell me that you will return with him. You have two children to think now.
“I will not permit Selim to be insulted by you or anyone else in this family, Mother! The very idea of offering him money fills me with nausea.”
“Really? Surely the nausea you feel is induced by a fear that he might accept our offer. Whichever it is, I would rather you were sick than sorry, Nilofer.”
My anger was about to explode but I managed to contain myself. “I am not a child any longer. Ten years seems a lifetime away. I accept my head is in a whirl, but I am not about to do anything foolish or impulsive. Let us remain calm and think of the future.”
“How strange that you should use that particular phrase. You sounded just like your grandmother Beatrice. She was always a great believer in remaining calm and imagining a prosperous future.”
I looked over my mother’s shoulder and saw the familiar portrait of Grand-mother Beatrice on the mantelpiece. It had been painted the year after she married Grandfather and if her features had not been exaggerated by the painter, as was often the case in those days since painters always wanted to please in order to be employed again, she must have been a very striking woman, much more so than her own daughter, my mother Sara. The same Sara was looking at me intently as I thought of her past.
Before this day, I had never found a chance to speak with my mother as an equal. Before I ran away with Dmitri we were hardly ever alone and, in any case, I had been too young to be taken seriously. I had heard vague rumours that my mother was unhappy when she first married Iskander Pasha, but Zeynep denied that this was so and told me not to believe anything I heard in the kitchen.
Everything had changed since then, and as the mother of two children, my status had suddenly risen, at least as far as my mother was concerned. I asked her a question I had been saving for over ten years.
“Were you forced to marry him?”
To my surprise she hugged me and began to weep. Tears, which must have been stored there for many years, poured out in a torrent. It was my turn to hold her close and comfort her.
“I told the Stone Woman everything all those years ago. Nobody told you?”
I shook my head.
“Perhaps I was really alone. There were no eavesdroppers that day.”
“You don’t have to tell me now, Mother. There will be other occasions.”
But she wanted to talk about herself. It was as if listening to me talking to the Stone Woman had unblocked something deep in her heart.
‘If only my father had not been a court physician, my whole life would have taken a different course. Because like his father and grandfather before him he attended the Sultan and the royal family, it was considered a mark of prestige for lesser nobles to employ him as well. I suppose he was also good at his work, though he often used to quote his grandfather returning from the palace and remarking that the task of a good physician was not just to heal the body, which was often difficult, but to comfort the mind, which was always possible. My father thought that this commonplace was very profound and he repeated it often when we had guests, so that Mother and I would look at each other when we saw it coming and silently mouth the words.
Iskander Pasha, a great believer in maintaining traditions, had employed your grandfather as the family physician. Even so, had it not been for an accident of fate, my future might not have been determined so hastily. One day Iskander Pasha’s coachman collided with another coach. Your father was slightly hurt. I think a piece of wood grazed his forehead and he began to bleed. The frightened coachman drove straight to our house and asked for my father. He was out on a visit and my mother insisted that Iskander Pasha be brought into the house so that one of my father’s assistants could disinfect and dress the wound. This was not an uncommon occurrence in those days. I was with my mother when your father entered our house. After he had been bandaged my mother, aware of the fact that he had been recently appointed as the Sultan’s ambassador to Paris, offered him some refreshments. He was about to refuse when he caught sight of me. A woman can always tell when a man looks at her in that particular fashion. He stayed and broke bread with us. He was still there when my father returned an hour later and he was invited to stay to dinner. To our amazement he accepted the invitation. He was in a charming mood, breaking into French and German and impressing us with his knowledge of Paris and Berlin. My father, to be honest, was flattered that such an important dignitary from such a distinguished family had spent four hours in our house.
As the coffee was served, Father was about to enlighten Iskander Pasha on the task of a good physician, when to our delight and surprise, Iskander Pasha stole the moment from him. He had heard the story before. My father was crestfallen till Iskander Pasha confided that it was the Sultan who had first relayed to him this immortal saying. A smile took over my father’s face. It was so ingratiating and so servile and eager to please that I really felt my stomach turn. I had no choice but to leave the table. I rushed to the bathroom and vomited everything. Strong premonitions can have that effect on one’s body.
When I returned, my face pale and drained, Iskander Pasha had made his farewells and left. I was relieved, for during the meal he had kept looking at me in a fashion that made me nervous and fearful. I was not in the least interested in him and I remember that night when I was in bed I kept repeating to myself: “Treat him like a closed door which must never be opened. If you push it even a tiny bit in order to peep through the crack you will sink into oblivion.” This was not difficult to achieve, since he had not succeeded in arousing my curiosity to the slightest degree. Remember that I was not yet twenty and your father, twice my age and more, already appeared to me like an old man…’
At this stage I interrupted her. I was irritated that she was exhibiting such complete apathy towards my father. After all, he was neither stupid nor ugly and I did love him, despite his many imperfections. I was in a hurry to reach the root of the problem.
“Before you continue to explain your indifference to my father, let me ask you something. Were you in love with another man at the time?”
“Yes,” she replied with a fierceness that took me aback, “I was in love with Suleman. He was my own age. We shared each other’s emotions, desires and dreams. There was a harmony between us, which went so deep, so deep, that it felt like the wellspring that is the source of life. Do you want to hear about him, Nilofer, or will you feel disloyal to your poor, crippled father, lying speechless next door? Be honest.”
I was touched by the depth of her emotions and even more so by the fact that she could still feel all this after thirty years in this household. My feelings seemed so transient when compared to what she must have suffered. I was overcome by love for her and I leaned over and kissed her face, wiping away the single, salty tear that was crawling down her left cheek.