“How did he learn to sing so beautifully, Hasan Baba?”
The old man was pleased by my compliment. What would he think if he knew what we had done? I was sure that whatever his reaction, it would not be one of either surprise or shock.
“Selim’s father, my oldest child, is a bektashi. It was he who taught him to sing when he was a little boy. My son, may Allah curse him, did not wish to be a barber.” The old man began to laugh, revealing a frighteningly empty mouth. He had lost every single tooth and I had to avert my gaze.
“Perhaps,” he continued, “that was his real reason for joining a Sufi order, which encourages its devotees to grow their hair long. He wanted Selim to follow in his path, but this I would not allow. He did not treat the boy well and I decided to raise him myself. Selim grew up in my house and I trained him to be a barber, but the boy, as you see, is talented. He would be good at any craft.”
It was my turn to smile. Selim’s grandfather might be a barber, but his father was a Sufi.
“Were you surprised when your son deserted your profession?”
The old man stroked the forest of white stubble that covered his chin and became thoughtful. “I was disappointed, but not surprised. We have a tradition in our family of being both barbers and dervishes. In the old times, long before the Ottomans reached Istanbul, my family lived in Ankara. It was a period when there was no prince ruling over us. We made our own decisions. In those days we were craftsmen engaged in the making of swords and knives. We belonged to the order of Karmatians. Have you ever heard of that name?
I acknowledged my ignorance, pleading my lack of a formal education. The tutors who had taught me everything I knew had never mentioned the Karmatians.
“You would be even more ignorant if you had been to a medresseh,” he responded. “That honourable and kind lady who is your mother probably taught you more than all the beards put together. Do you think they teach their pupils about the Karmatians? They would rather choke in their beards than speak of a past that was pure.”
Unknown to us, Uncle Memed and the Baron had overheard the last exchange.
“I never knew you were descended from Karmatians, Hasan,” said Memed.
“Have you heard of them, Uncle?” I inquired with the most innocent expression I could muster.
“Yes, but very little. The subject interests me. May we join you? Please carry on, Hasan.”
“I’m an old man now, Memed Pasha, so forgive my ravings. The matters of which I speak were handed down in our family from generation to generation. They are not of great interest to enlightened men like yourself and Baron Pasha.”
“Nonsense,” thundered the Baron. “It is we who are ignorant. We await enlightenment.”
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.”