“When I heard just now that she had swum away from the cove, some old and tender memories flooded my mind, but not for long. They were replaced by other memories of what took place on that very spot. She was not an evil woman, Nilofer. I think she never recovered from her mother’s decision to abandon her or her father’s hostility when she abandoned me. I wonder whether the mother even wrote to condole with Hamid Bey or whether he even informed her of Mariam’s death. Who knows — and who cares? It is all in the past. It is peculiar, however, to think she is no longer in this world. For many months the only way I could recover my sanity was to think of her as dead. Now that she has really gone it feels very odd.
“Come with me, little sister Nilofer. Let sleep wait a while, tonight. Let your lover-husband read Auguste Comte while he awaits your return. I don’t want to be alone as I look at the stars.”
We walked out of the elegantly lit library with its six lamps, straight into the blackness of the garden. There was no moon, and it took our eyes a little while to adjust to the darkness. The sky was clear, the stars bright. In the distance the sea, like a thick, dark blanket, was calm.
Outside in the world a great deal was going on. Rebellions were being plotted. Resistance was being prepared. Sultans and Emperors were becoming uneasy. History was being made. Here in the beautiful, fragrant gardens of Yusuf Pasha’s folly, all that seemed very remote. My brother Salman and I sat on a bench and began to count the stars, just as we had done when I was a child.
TWENTY
The confessions of Petrossian; the murder of Great-great-uncle Murat Pasha; the agony of Petrossian’s family
‘IS AN OLD MALE servant permitted to address you, O Woman of Stone? I know that in years gone by it was the custom for many women in the employ of this household, after their honour had been violated by the masters, to come and weep here and tell you of their woes. Nor was this confined to the maids. In the time of Iskander Pasha’s grandfather there were many young men — gardeners, watchmen, footmen and from different backgrounds, Kurds, Albanians, Armenians, Serbs, Arabs, Bosnians, Turks — who were all taken against their will. Did they come and shed tears at your feet as well, Stone Woman, or had pride forced them to erase the memory altogether?
Did the man who, sixty years ago, murdered Iskander Pasha’s lecherous great-uncle, Murat Pasha, ever come to you and confess his crime? They never discovered his identity, did they?
Some of the servants must have known, but nobody betrayed the assassin. My grandfather used to say that, in secret, everyone prayed for the courageous killer never to be found. Whoever it was he must have carried on working here because, in those days, nobody left unless they were dismissed. My grandfather used to tell my father that if ever he had seen evil it was the face of Murat Pasha and not simply when he had consumed too much wine or was overpowered by lust. He was an unpleasant person in every way. His own children grew up to loathe and fear him.
It is said, Stone Woman, that he deflowered his own seventeen-year-old daughter. They say that on that occasion he was in his cups, as if that excused the crime. Did that poor child ever come and tell you her story? Did she come here and show you her blood-stained tunic, before they quickly married her off to a Bedouin from Syria? Nothing was ever heard of her again. She never returned to Istanbul. I hope she found some solace in her new life and that her children helped her to forget this world.
Stone Woman, I have something to tell you. I know who killed Murat Pasha. He told me so himself and he was always proud of what he had done. It was my friend, Hasan Baba. That is why the throat was so perfectly slit and the penis and testicles removed with expert care. Who else could accomplish this except the trained hand of a young barber? Mercifully, the finger of suspicion never pointed in his direction because he always used to help his old father shave Murat and trim his beard. The two of them were often observed in the courtyard, laughing at Murat Pasha’s jokes and on the surface there was no enmity.
Hasan Baba told me that on a personal level, Murat was very nice to him, even when, in his father’s absence, he had to shave him and was so nervous that he cut his cheek. Hasan feared the worst, but Murat Pasha simply laughed and muttered, “You will learn in time, young cub. Just watch your father closely.”
Why, then, did he kill him? He told me that he could no longer bear the tears of the men and women whose bodies had been so brutally misused by Murat Pasha. I was never convinced that this was the whole truth. I mean, Stone Woman, Hasan Baba was a Perfect Man, but you do not take a risk such as killing Murat Pasha unless you have been personally affected by something he has done. Hasan did confess to me, after I pressed him strongly, that Murat had forced a young Kurdish washerwoman to pleasure him against her will.
Hasan had loved this girl from a distance. He would sit and watch her as she carried bundles of dirty clothes to the stream. He would notice how her body moved as she dealt with the clothes, washing them, beating them, wringing them and then standing on her toes to hang them out for drying. He had not yet summoned the courage needed to inform her of his feelings, but he was sure she knew. When unaccompanied by her mother, she would smile at him. I was not born then, but Hasan Baba at the age of eighteen must have been a very fine specimen. Before he could do anything, Murat Pasha had carried away the girl on his horse and assaulted her. When she was returned home, her mother hugged her and wept, but pleaded with the girl to remain silent or else they might both be dismissed. The daughter heard her mother’s plea and wept in silence. They consoled each other. The girl promised she would not speak of the crime to anyone.
Overnight she had decided on the best way to remain silent. Early one morning, just before dawn, she made her mother’s breakfast, kissed her warmly and said she was going for a walk to watch the sunrise. She jumped off the cliffs, Stone Woman. They found her broken body a few hours later. How people summon up enough courage to take their own lives is something I will never understand. Loud were the mourning wails that rent the servants’ quarters that day. The young woman had been greatly loved for her defiant spirit and her beauty.
That was the day that Hasan Baba calmly decided to kill Murat Pasha. He knew he could not trust any other person. He planned everything on his own. Three weeks later Murat was found dead. His penis had been severed from the body and stuffed down his mouth.
I did not ask Hasan Baba for the details, Stone Woman. It was enough that he had done what he did. I think the whole family was relieved. Certainly no tears were shed for the monster. He was buried in the family cemetery, but very few turned up to pay their last respects. His own sons and wives stayed away.
A few months before he died, Hasan Baba was thinking of telling Selim. I am not sure whether or not he did so. I have lived with this secret long enough, Stone Woman. Over the years I often heard Iskander Pasha’s father wondering who could have killed his uncle. Memed once remarked that whoever had done the deed was a modern hero to be sought out and awarded a purse posthumously. I wonder what they would have done had they known it was Hasan Baba? I think Iskander Pasha would have been proud.
I did not come here to talk of the past, Stone Woman, but your presence has the effect of dragging old secrets out of us. I came to talk of what is going on in my village. Over two hundred years ago this family gave us money to buy land in a village, close to where they themselves owned a large amount of land. As happened in those days, other Armenian families began to move in so they could be close to us and live under the protection of this family. It was Iskander Pasha’s grandfather who could not bear sharing anything with his brother Murat, and therefore began to sell his land. Fifty years ago the family had sold off all its land and bought properties in Istanbul and Damascus and heaven knows where. Many Armenian merchants looking to spend their money bought some of the land, but it was the Kurds who arrived to work as seasonal labourers. Some of them settled.