“But why didn’t you tell Suleman?”
“I only discovered my condition the week after he left. I would have told him the next day, but he had gone.”
“How can you be sure?”
She went to a cupboard and brought out a box I had never seen before. It contained a photograph of both of them. They looked so happy. My mother covered Suleman’s nose and lips. The eyes were exactly the same as mine.
“You never told your parents?”
She shook her head.
“Why?”
“They would have been very upset. They were fond of Suleman. I was their only child and I did not wish them to feel that, with the best of motives, they had wrecked my life.”
“And you never told him?”
“No. When he wrote to me, you were already eight years old. His letter was brief, its tone distant and cold. It had been designed as a cruel farewell. It informed me of three important developments in his life. He was a successful painter. He was happily married. He had three children. How could I ever hope to compete with such bliss? The effect of his message was to kill off all my dreams. I wished then that the boat that had taken him to New York had encountered a storm and I wished that all the passengers in it had survived except him. He should have fallen off the edge and never been recovered. I would rather he had died. It would have stopped him writing these stupid letters.
“I had thought that one day, before death claimed either of us, I would visit him in New York. I wanted so much to see him again, Nilofer. Just once. After his letter I felt futile and betrayed. But there was one consolation he could never take away from me. I had you, the child of our love. In order to survive, he had to rebuild his shattered life, construct an inner wall that could not be breached and obliterate all memories of the love we had once given each other. All I had to do was to look into your eyes and be reminded once again of happiness. I pitied him.”
Silence. Neither of us could speak. I kissed her hands. She stroked my face and kissed my eyes. I had never felt so close to her in my whole life. I wanted to be alone to think of all she had told me. I had to decide the course of my life. It could not be determined by this household.
I took my leave of Sara and went to my own room. It was strange to think that none of them were related to me any longer. Salman and Halil were not my brothers. Zeynep was not my sister. Iskander Pasha was not my father. How absurd my world had become. I felt tears beginning to make their way to my eyes.
“Why are you crying?” Orhan’s voice brought me back to reality. “Are you missing Emineh?”
I nodded, grateful to him for providing me with an excuse, and dried my face. Orhan was cheerful.
“Tomorrow, Hasan Baba will cut my hair himself. He says he cannot return without making sure that my hair is properly cut. Then he will have cut the hair of four generations in our family.”
I smiled inwardly. Our family? The words held a new meaning for me.
Orhan had been filled with such excitement when he met his uncles and his grandfather that the truth suddenly made me fearful. Orhan and Iskander Pasha communicated with each other on paper every day. Both of them felt useful. Orhan felt he was helping his grandfather and Iskander Pasha had begun to teach the child the French alphabet. How could I ever tell my son that we had no right to be here, that his real grandfather was a painter in New York, that we belonged to a different world? I looked out at the sea. It was silent today as it shimmered in the dazzling light of a July afternoon. Its calmness helped to settle me.
I lay down on my bed and shut my eyes. I was pleased that Mother had told me the truth. Orhan’s presence had made me feel that life would go on as before. I might not be related by blood, but this was my family. These were people I loved and would always love — despite the past, despite the future. I heard Orhan laughing outside my window. I got up to see the cause of the merriment.
It was Selim. The sight of him aroused me. I knew then that I would want him for a long time.
EIGHT
The day of the family photograph; Iskander Pasha insists on being photographed alone next to an empty chair; the story of Ahmet Pasha and how he pretended to be the Sultan
IT 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.”