I embraced him very hard at this point. “Listen. I have no desire to travel for two months to see the face of this man. You are my father. All I meant was that if he happened to be in Istanbul one day, I would be curious to see him. Not even to speak with him, but just see him. A woman’s curiosity, nothing more.”
He smiled and then began to laugh. I wanted to know why, but he shook his head and his hand gestures implied that it was a trivial matter. I insisted and was relieved we had moved away from the subject of real fathers and real sons.
“When you said ‘a woman’s curiosity’ I recalled an incident from my youth. I was sixteen or seventeen at the time and had become infatuated with a married woman, who often visited our house with her husband. They were family friends. She was very beautiful, or so I thought at the time. It was a truly Byzantine face. I think she was from one of the older families of the city. I began to stare at her quite rudely and was reprimanded by my mother in private. I would follow her when she visited the shops. A few school friends would watch her house, which was not far from our own. She complained to my mother and my father warned me that unless I stopped he would be compelled to punish me severely. The threats had no impact.
“One day my best friend came to see me with important information. He had discovered that she visited the women’s baths each Thursday. This information excited me greatly, and my imagination became inflamed. I was possessed by a desire to see her without any clothes, to which end I bribed the bath attendants. You look shocked, but this was quite normal at the time. Not boys of my age, of course, but young men wanting to see whether or not the body of their future wife was blemished often paid the attendants so that they could spy on the woman who interested them. They say that some women did the same thing in the men’s baths, but it was less common. All these baths have their little secrets. Anyway I had my way, and it was a beautiful sight. I will spare us both the embarrassments by not describing her details. But from then onwards, Thursday became my holy day, a day of pure bliss, and the afternoons were sacrosanct. Life was proceeding well till someone told my mother — to this day I am not sure who. It was probably one of the servants. One afternoon after having watched two women massage each corner of her soft and delicate body with loving care, I walked home in a complete trance. I would have run away with her to Albania if she had so desired. As I reached our house and went in through the front door, I found my father in the hall where he had been waiting for me to return. His face was filled with anger and disgust. That was the first shock.
“‘Where have you been? I want the truth!’ The second shock was self-inflicted. I startled myself by the sheer scale of the lie I had invented to escape punishment. ‘I was outside the palace, Ata. The Sultan is dead.’ My father believed this and his mood changed. He rushed upstairs to bathe and dress so that he could go and offer prayers at the Blue Mosque. You’re laughing, my child, but think of me at that age. I was petrified. I hid in my room and wondered what would happen when my father returned. I heard him coming home and began to tremble. I expected the worst, but he came and reassured me. He said it was a false rumour. Although the Sultan had become very ill last night, he was not dead. I could hardly believe my luck. Perhaps it was that incident that pushed me towards Sufi mysticism a few years later. My misdemeanour was forgotten. So you see, Nilofer, it is not only women who are curious!”
EIGHTEEN
The death of Hasan Baba, who is given a Sufi burial; the return of Kemal Pasha; Sara’s anger
THERE WAS A GENTLE knock. Selim was fast asleep. Nothing woke him. Nothing. I was convinced he could sleep through an earthquake. I thought it might be one of the children and got of bed quickly, covered myself with a dressing gown and went to the door. It was my mother.
“You should wake him up,” she whispered. “The maids have just come and told me that when they took his breakfast to his room they found poor Hasan Baba dead. I’m going to tell your father now. He will be very upset.”
I had to shake Selim really hard to wake him. He was shocked by the news and began to weep.
“He lived a good life, Nilofer. It was a good life, he used to say, that is why I have lived so long. He was ninety-one a few months ago. And I know he was very old. I know he was old, but I didn’t want him to die. He was never orthodox. He used to ask me which animal I liked the most and I would reply ‘an eagle’ and he would say to me: ‘Selim, when I die I will become an eagle.’ He belonged to a Sufi tekke that believed that if you had achieved perfection in this world you could choose the physical shape in which to return to life after death. I will miss him, Nilofer. I will miss him.”
We walked out of the house and crossed the garden to the little room where his body lay. Iskander Pasha rose as he saw us and embraced Selim. Both men began to weep.
“You have lost a father and a grandfather, Selim. He is irreplaceable. I know that better than most people, but always remember, I am here if ever you need me.”
Hasan Baba had asked to be buried on a mound a few hundred yards from where the Stone Woman stood. He had instructed the head gardener only a few weeks ago as to how deep they must dig and where, and since his death this morning they had been digging his grave according to his detailed instructions. Petrossian watched them, weeping. He had so many shared memories with the dead man. They had both grown up together in this household and, in the old days, travelled everywhere with Iskander Pasha. They knew more about this family than any of us did. Hasan Baba had taken many secrets with him to the grave. Petrossian was now the sole survivor. And he never talked about us to any living person.
Hasan Baba had asked to be buried just before the sun set. Everyone from our household, men and women, master and servant, was present when his body was lowered into the freshly dug grave. The earth was moist and the scent of the wild flowers and trees would have pleased him. A few people had come from the closest village, a few kilometres from the house. We all cupped our hands and spoke the funeral verses from the Koran. Selim alone remained apart from us. He did not cup his hands. He did not offer any prayers. Instead, after we had finished, Selim’s voice soared like an eagle as he sang a Sufi verse to send the old man who had been his father and teacher on his way.
“I sing this one for you, Hasan Baba.” Selim’s broken voice made me weep. “I sing it for you, my eagle.”
O Sufi, to you the mosque and the tavern were one,
The voice of the devout and the cry of the drunk were one,
The remembrance of God and the goblet of wine were one.
You gave up hypocrisy,
Because for you the throne and the beggar’s stool were one.
You burned with love,
Because for you the candle and the moth were one.
Become light and see, become light and fly,
Because you and the eagle are one.
By the time Selim had finished there were no dry eyes amongst those present. Petrossian and Iskander Pasha embraced and kissed Selim. They flanked him and, taking an arm each, escorted him inside the house. I followed them into the hall, where Selim slumped on the stairs and lost control of himself. He wept silently. He hit his head against the banisters. He wept loudly, talking to Hasan Baba all the while, referring to him as ‘Perfect Man’. I sat next to him and gently forced his head on to my lap, stroked his hair and forehead. How long we sat there I can no longer remember, but it was Petrossian who came and told us that the funeral feast was being served in the garden. Selim rose to his feet immediately, wiped the tears off his face and lifted me up. He was smiling.