It was late in the afternoon and still warm. The sun was on its way to the west. Its rays had turned a crimson gold, bathing every aspect of the garden in magic. Nothing had changed in the summer routines of this old house. The old magnolia trees with their large leaves were glistening in the dying rays of the sun. My father had just woken up after a refreshing nap. His face was relaxed. As he grew older, sleep worked on him like an elixir. The lines that marked his forehead seemed to evaporate. Looking at him, I realised how much I had missed him these last nine years. I kissed his hand and repeated my question. He smiled, but did not reply immediately.
He waited.
I, too, waited, recalling the afternoon routines of the summer months. Without speaking a word, my father took Orhan’s hand and drew the boy close to him. He began to stroke the boy’s head. Orhan knew his grandfather from a fading photograph that I had taken with me and kept near my bed. As he grew I had told him stories of my childhood and the old house that looked down on the sea.
And then old Petrossian, the major-domo of our house, who had been with our family since he was born, appeared. A young boy, not much older than Orhan, followed him carrying a tray. Old Petrossian served my father a coffee in exactly the same way as he had done for the last thirty years or more and, probably, just as his father had served my grandfather all those years ago. His habits were unchanged. He ignored me completely in my father’s presence, as was his custom. When I was a young girl this used to annoy me greatly. I would stick out a tongue at him or make a rude gesture, but nothing I did could alter the pattern of his behaviour. As I grew older I had learnt to disregard his presence. He became invisible to me. Was it my imagination or had he smiled today? He had, but in acknowledgement of Orhan’s presence. A new male had entered the household and Petrossian was pleased. After inquiring with a respectful tilt of his head whether my father needed anything else and receiving a reply in the negative, Petrossian and the grandson he was training to take his place in our household left us alone. For a while none of us spoke. I had forgotten how calm this space could be and how rapidly it soothed my senses.
“You ask why Yusuf Pasha was sent here two hundred years ago?”
I nodded eagerly, unable to conceal my excitement. Now that I was a mother of two, I was considered mature enough to be told the official version.
My father began to speak in a tone that was both intimate and authoritative, as if the events which he was describing had taken place last week in his presence here, instead of two hundred years ago, in a palace, on the banks of the Bosporus, in Istanbul. But as he spoke he avoided my gaze altogether. His eyes were firmly fixed on the face of little Orhan, observing the child’s reaction. Perhaps my father recalled his own childhood and how he had first heard the story. As for Orhan, he was bewitched by his grandfather. His eyes sparkled with amusement and anticipation as my father assumed the broad and exaggerated tones of a village story-teller.
‘As was his wont, the Sultan sent for Yusuf Pasha in the evening. Our great forebear arrived and made his bows. He had grown up with the Sultan. They knew each other well. A serving woman placed a goblet of wine in front of him. The Sultan asked his friend to recite a new poem. Yusuf Pasha was in a strange mood that day. Nobody knows why. He was such an accomplished courtier that, usually, any request from his sovereign was treated as a command from heaven. He was so quick-witted that he could invent and recite a quatrain on the spot. But not that evening. Nobody knows why. Perhaps he had been aroused from a lover’s bed and was angry. Perhaps he was simply fed up with being a courtier. Perhaps he was suffering from severe indigestion. Nobody knows why.
When the Sultan observed that his friend remained silent, he became genuinely concerned. He inquired after his health. He offered to summon his own physician. Yusuf Pasha thanked him, but declined the offer. He looked around him and saw nothing but slave-girls and eunuchs. This was not new, but on that particular day it annoyed our ancestor. Nobody knows why. After a long silence, he asked the Sultan for permission to speak and it was granted.
“O great ruler and fount of all wisdom, Sultan of the civilised world and Caliph of our faith, this servant craves your forgiveness. The fickle muse has deserted me and no verse enters this empty head today. With your permission I will become a story-teller tonight, but I urge your sublime majesty to listen carefully, for that of which I am about to speak is true.”
The Sultan was by now genuinely curious and the entire Court swayed as it leant forward to hear Yusuf Pasha’s words.
“Five hundred and thirty-eight years before the birth of the Christian saint, Jesus, there was a powerful Empire in Persia. On its throne there sat a great king by the name of Cyrus. In that auspicious year Cyrus was proclaimed King of Kings in Babylon, a region now ruled by our own great and wise Sultan. That year the Great Persian Empire appeared invincible. It dominated the world. It was admired for its toleration. The Persians accepted all worshippers, respected all customs and, in their new territories, they adapted themselves to the different schemes of governing. All appeared to be well. The Empire flourished, dealing with its enemies like an individual swatting a flea.
“Two hundred years later the heirs of Cyrus had become the pawns of eunuchs and women. The satraps of the Empire had become disloyal. Its officials, corrupt, callous and inefficient. The enormous riches of Mesopotamia saved the Empire from collapse, but the longer it was delayed, the more overwhelming it was when it finally happened. And thus it was that the Greeks gained influence. Their language spread. And thus it was that long before the birth of Alexander the route of his conquest had already been built.
“Then one year, without any warning, ten thousand Greek soldiers slew their Persian patron, made their officers prisoners and marched from the city we now call Baghdad to Anatolia. Nothing stood in their way. And soon people began to realise that if only ten thousand soldiers could do this, then rulers and leaders were unnecessary…”
Yusuf Pasha had not yet finished his story, but the sight of the Sultan’s face interrupted his flow. He fell silent and dared not look his ruler in the eye. The Sultan developed a rage, rose to his feet and stormed out of the room. Yusuf Pasha feared the worst. All he had intended was to warn the friend of his youth against sloth and sensuality and the suffocating influence of eunuchs. He had wished to apprise his ruler of the eternal law, which teaches that nothing is eternal. Instead the Sultan had taken the story as an ill-omened reference to the Ottoman dynasty. To himself. Anyone else would have been executed, but it was probably shared childhood memories that favoured the quality of mercy. Yusuf Pasha was punished very lightly. He was exiled from Istanbul. For ever. The Sultan did not wish to be in the same city as him. And that is how he came here with his family to this isolated wilderness surrounded by ancient rocks and decided that it was here that he would build his palace in exile. He yearned for the old city, but he never saw the Bosporus again.
They say that the Sultan, too, missed his company and often yearned for his presence, but the courtiers, who had always been jealous of Yusuf Pasha’s influence, made sure that the two friends never saw each other again. That’s all. Does that satisfy you, my little pigeon? And you, Orhan, will you remember what I have said and repeat it to your children one day, when I am dead and gone?’
Orhan smiled and nodded. I maintained an expressionless face. I knew my father had spoken half-truths. I had heard other stories about Yusuf Pasha from aunts and uncles belonging to another branch of our family, children of a great-uncle whom my father loathed and whose children were never encouraged to visit us here or in Istanbul.