“Selim,” said Halil, “if that happens, shots will be fired. Our young friends in Salonika share your doubts and your impatience. I am not as radical as you or them, but I know one thing for sure. If we fail to modernise over the next few years, we are finished. I don’t mean ‘we’ as an Empire. I mean ‘we’ as a new, modern state. That is why people like me — soft, moderate, cautious — will side with the hotheads from Salonika to ensure that the reforms do not fail. We have waited two hundred years. A few more months or even a whole year will not make too much difference.”
Selim relaxed a little and smiled. I asked Halil about the twins.
“Are the children back?”
“Yes, thank Allah. They are both well. I offered to bring them here, but they were desperate to see their friends in Istanbul. I left them with Zeynep.”
“And will they stay with you permanently from now onwards?”
“Yes. That makes me very happy. I have told their mother she can see them whenever she likes, but I have granted her the divorce she sought. Now that the palace has given us a respite, I might do something about finding a new mother for my twins. Any ideas on this crucial question, Nilofer? Sighted any beauties of late?”
“I always thought you were the one who carried a list with the priorities clearly marked.”
He began to laugh. The return of his sons had cheered him enormously and it was nice to see his forehead free of frowns once again.
“I stopped making a list a long time ago. Don’t mock my lists, you wretched girl. Sometimes they can be a very useful prop for one’s memory.”
“No wonder women find you so romantic, Halil. You really know how to excite them!”
My brother smiled. “Once they have been selected, I release a charge of passion whose depth first surprises and later delights them.”
We ended the discussion as the library was invaded from all sides. Iskander Pasha and Sara entered with my children from one side while the Baron and Memed strolled in casually from the garden. They were followed a few minutes later by Salman, whose face, darkened by the sun, was set in sharp relief to his white hair. It had become much more relaxed and he looked happy. He was carrying his old copy of Verlaine, a book I had first seen him read when I was eight years old. Its cover was now completely faded and discoloured by the Mediterranean sun and, perhaps, the tears of its owner. Everyone was pleased by the sight of him, especially Orhan and Emineh, who had become attuned to his changing moods. Children feel our problems far more acutely than we can ever imagine.
The Baron was in a mellow mood, but without permitting it to dull his competitive edge. “Why don’t you recite your favourite poem from Verlaine and let me see if I can match it with one from my favourite poet?”
Salman put the book down on the table.
“This one is called ‘Mon rêve familier’ from his Poèmes saturniens and I translated it myself though, like all poetry, it is best in its own language. Here then is Verlaine’s ‘Well-Known Dream’:
Often have I this strange and penetrating dream
Of a woman unknown, loved and loving me,
And who each time is neither quite the same
Nor yet another, and loves and understands.
For she understands me, and my heart, transparent
For her alone, alas, is a problem no more
For her alone, and the fevers of my pale brow,
She alone, weeping, knows how to cool.
Is she dark, fair or auburn? — I know not.
Her name? I remember it is soft and clear
Like those of loved ones banished by life.
Her gaze is like the gaze of statues,
And her voice, distant, and calm, and grave,
Has the inflexion of dear silenced voices.
There was a silence. Halil looked at his brother affectionately. Perhaps Verlaine had struck a few chords in the breast of my general-brother. The effect could only be positive. Salman smiled at the Baron.
“Match that if you can, Baron.”
The Baron rose and walked to the shelf containing Latin and Italian poetry, one of the most under-used collections in our library. He climbed up the tiny wooden platform and, having immediately found what he was looking for, gave a little triumphant grunt to himself as he stepped down.
“It gets a bit dusty up there, especially when it isn’t used much. None of you, apart from Memed and Salman, have even understood these languages. Well I, for one, will not read a translation. That would be a travesty and there is not yet a good one in German or French. It is the terza rima that baffles them all. It is Canto V of the Commedia, when our poet meets the lovers Francesca and Paolo in the Second Circle of Hell. Listen closely, Salman, and tell me honestly if the silken verses of your beloved Verlaine can match this gem from the Florentine Renaissance:
Quand’ io intesi quell’ anime offense,
china ’il viso, e tanto il tenni basso,
fin che ’l poeta mi disse: “Che pense?”
Quando rispuosi, cominciai: “Oh lasso
Quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio
menò costoro al doloroso passo!”
Poi mi rivolsi a loro e parla’ io,
E cominciai: “Francesca, i tuoi martiri
A lagrimar mi fanno tristo e pio.
Ma dimmi: al tempo d’i dolci sospiri
a che e come concedetti amore
che conosceste i dubbiosi disiri?”
E quella a me: “Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Ne la miseria; e ciò sa ’l tuo dottore.
Ma s’a conoscer la prima radice
Del nostro amor tu hai cotanto affetto,
Dirò come colui che piange e dice.
Noi leggiavamo un giorno per diletto
Di Lancialotto come amor lo strinse;
Soli eravamo e sanza alcun sospetto.
Per più fïate liocchi ci sospinse
quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso;
ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.
Quando leggemmo il disïato riso
Esser basciato da cotanto amante,
Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso,
La bocca mi basciò tutto tremante.
Galeotto fu ’l libro e chi lo scrisse:
quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.”
Mentre che l’uno spirto questo disse,
l’altro piangëa; sì che di pietade
io venni men così com’ io morisse.
E caddi come corpo mono cade. *
The Baron’s histrionic performance had exhausted him and he fell back in his chair, his hand groping for the non-existent glass of champagne. Since I could not understand a word I had looked at the faces of those who could, and while Salman had remained attentive, Uncle Memed’s features were filled with tenderness throughout the performance. He spoke to his friend in a soft voice.