Her reassuring words had little effect on me. I lay in my narrow little bed and wept without restraint. Later, when the old woman took me to the Pasha’s chamber, I fell on my knees and kissed Mahmut Pasha’s feet. I beseeched him to spare my honour. I whispered that I was promised to another. I confessed my love for Hikmet. I told of my desire to be a mother and to give my children the love that had been denied me. In my foolishness I thought my honesty might impress him, but it had a completely different effect. He took my pleas for resistance and this inflamed him further. He made me undress and then he pushed me back on his bed and took his pleasure. For my part, and this, I swear to you, Stone Woman, is the truth, I felt only anger and sadness and helplessness. No enjoyment did I feel, not even momentarily. The blood I saw on my legs frightened me. All the while his ungainly body, with its mounds of flesh, was heaving over me. I became inwardly angry with my parents for dying when I was only three and I cursed my grandfather for selling me like a piece of cloth to a passing merchant.
He noticed my indifference. This angered him. “Return tomorrow night,” he said as he dismissed me in the voice a master uses when reprimanding an ungrateful slave.
I returned the next night and the one after and every night after that one. My indifference only seemed to arouse him and he became ever more determined to break my will. He wanted me to say that I enjoyed him. He would look at me and ask whether I could ever love him. I never replied to these questions, but I also ceased to resist. He bought me clothes, gave me expensive jewellery and, on one occasion, dressed me in the clothes of a European lady and took me to the reception at the German Embassy, where he introduced me as his European wife, who had lost the power of speech after the tragic death of her father. He moved me to a special room in the house and I was given my own maid. One day he was entertaining some guests in his own rooms. I was seated next to him, watching the men getting more and more drunk. A few of them looked at me with desire in their eyes. Suddenly his wife, the princess Sabiha, walked into the room. She was intoxicated with anger. She stood there for a moment, ignoring his frown. She screamed abuse at him, informing his friends that he was worse than a eunuch. As he stood to escort her out of the room, she undid her trousers and lifted her tunic to reveal her most private parts. As the men averted their eyes, she shouted at her husband: “Wasn’t this good enough for you? Answer me, you sweeper of horse-shit!” The Pasha’s face had frozen in horror. Her performance had a magical effect. I have never seen men in their cups sober themselves so quickly. Then, satisfied with what she had done, Sabiha swept out of the room. Previously I had never liked her and this was long before I was chosen by the Pasha. She was rude to us and her chambermaids loathed her. After this display I began to admire her. I wanted to speak with her and explain my own despair, but I never found the courage to face her anger. I pray that Allah will forgive my cowardice.
But I could not stop thinking of Hikmet. The only time I forced Hikmet out of my head was when the master was taking his pleasure of me. I never enjoyed those moments. They told me that the mistress had sent a message to Hikmet and told him what had happened. He was never seen again. I wanted him to come to me, Stone Woman. I would have cleaned his feet with my tears, begged him to forgive me and take me with him, far away from here, but he never returned to the house. Perhaps he did not love me enough. Perhaps he was scared off by the Pasha or perhaps a pregnant purse, heavy with coins, bought his disappearance.
And now I carry the child of a man I despise. I’m sure it’s a boy and that makes me even more angry. I will not have his child. I will not bring this poor creature into the world. I will jump into the sky and I will fly away, Stone Woman. When I get tired of flying I will fall into the sea and when they find me, I will be floating on the water, like a bloated, dead fish, but with my eyes shut. I will be in a sleep as deep as the sea. Do you understand why I’m doing this, Stone Woman? To punish him. These cursed Beys and Pashas think they are gods. They believe all they have to say to a poor girl is, “I love you, have my child”, and she will be so grateful for their affection, their food, their clothes, their money that she will ask for nothing more from this world. I dreaded his touch. My worst fear was that one day the Pasha would put his poisonous seed in me and it would sprout. And yet when it happened I was no longer frightened. I became very calm. I knew what had to be done. There was no more anguish in my life.
The day I lost my Hikmet, with his soft skin and smiling eyes, the sun stopped shining for me. In Istanbul, the Pasha tried to avoid leaving me on my own. He thought his company kept me cheerful. I felt more alone when he was with me than at any other time and especially when he was filled with lust and groaned like a donkey on heat. Not a day passed when I didn’t ask myself what I should do with my life.
What shall I do, Stone Woman? You listen, but you never reply. If only you could speak. Just once. Can you see the sky tonight? There is a crescent moon, which always travels fast as if in search of a lover, but it will soon become full-blown, like my belly, and when it does I know what I will do. I will go to the cliffs and fly to join the moon. I will laugh as I leap. The distance will disappear and on that day I will know that no other man will ever enter my life again. I will laugh at the thought of the Pasha’s fat face, white with anger, when they tell him that his slave-girl has freed herself. He will know why I did this and that will hurt him even more. He will know I left this world because I could no longer bear his touch or that of his child. He will never be able to admit this truth to anyone, but I hope the secret devours his insides. I want his death to be pure agony. My only regret is that I will not live to see that day.’
FIVE
Petrossian tells of the glory days of the Ottoman Empire; Salman insists that the borders between fiction and history have become blurred; Nilofer writes a farewell letter to her Greek husband; Orhan’s belated circumcision at the hands of young Selim
I FIRST SAW THE strange gestures he was making from a distance. They made me smile. I knew precisely what the old Armenian was doing. Like everything else in this house, it revived memories of my own childhood. Scenes from my past were being repeated, but this time for the benefit of my son. I was pleased. Petrossian was engaged in a weekly household ritual, which he would never entrust to anyone else. He was polishing my father’s old silver shaving bowl. It was an item that had been brought back from Paris many years ago. He treasured it greatly and, for that reason, Petrossian had taken it upon himself to ensure that the bowl never lost its lustre. Normally such tasks were assigned to less important servants, but Petrossian, who always accompanied Iskander Pasha to Paris, must have known the value attached by his master to this particular object.