The Stone Woman Read online

  I wanted to escape from the stifling atmosphere of my house. Dmitri and his poetry appeared as the road to happiness. For a while I was happy, but it had never been enough to obscure the pain I felt at being banished from my family home. I missed my mother and soon I began to ache for the comfort of our home. More than everything else, I missed the summers here, in this house overlooking the sea.

  I had wanted to leave home, but on my own terms. My father’s edict declaring me an outlaw had come as a real blow. I hated him then. I hated his narrow-mindedness. I hated the way he treated my brothers and especially Halil, who, like the spirited stallion he was, refused to be disciplined. My father would whip him sometimes in front of the whole family. That was when I hated my father the most. But Halil’s spirit remained unbroken. My father regarded Halil as a lazy, disrespectful anarchist and was, as a result, astounded when Halil enlisted in the army and because of his family history was rapidly promoted and assigned to duties in the palace.

  Iskander Pasha doubted his younger son’s motives and in this he was not so far wrong. Father could be ever so refined and elegant in the Parisian salons where he served as ambassador from the Sublime Porte to the French Republic for many years. That is what we were told by my older brother, Salman, who had been permitted to accompany him and had received his higher education at the Academy in Paris, which made him a lover of all things French, except its men.

  Whenever Father returned to Istanbul with new pieces of furniture and fabrics and paintings of naked women for the western portion of the house, and perfumes for his wives, our spirits would lift. Halil would whisper, “Perhaps, this time, he has become a modern.” We would all giggle in great anticipation. Perhaps there would be a New Year’s Eve Ball in our house. We would wear dresses and dance and drink champagne, just like our father and Salman did in Paris and Berlin. Idle dreams. Life never changed. In the familiar environment of his city and his country, Father reverted to the behaviour and mannerisms of a Turkish aristocrat.

  This was the first time since my runaway marriage that I had been invited to return to our old summer house, but only with Orhan. Dmitri and my adorable little Emineh stayed at home. Perhaps next year, my mother promised. Perhaps never, I had shouted angrily. My mother visited me three times, but always in secret, bringing clothes for the children and money for me. She acted as an intermediary and, slowly, relations with my father had been restored. We began to communicate with each other. After two years of exchanging polite and unbearably formal letters, he asked me to bring Orhan to the summer house. I’m glad I did as he had asked. I had been close to refusing his request. I wanted to insist that I would not see him unless I could bring my daughter as well, but Dmitri, my husband, convinced me that I was being foolish and headstrong. Now, I’m glad I did not let pride stand in the way. If I had apologised for my defiance and pleaded my case at his feet, I would have been forgiven a long time ago. Contrary to the impression I may have created, Iskander Pasha was neither a cruel nor a vindictive man. He was a creature of his time, strict and orthodox in his approach to us.

  That first night, when Orhan was asleep, I left the house and walked through the orchards, the familiar smell of thyme and the pepper tree reviving many old memories. The Stone Woman was still there and I found myself whispering to her.

  “I’ve come back, Stone Woman. I’ve come back with a little boy. I missed you, Stone Woman. There were many things I could not tell my husband. Nine years is a long time to go without speaking of one’s longings.”

  Three days after my father told Orhan the story of Yusuf Pasha, he suffered a stroke. The door of his bedroom was half open. The windows leading to the balcony were wide open and a gentle breeze had brought with it the sweet smell of lemons. My mother always went into his room early in the morning to open the windows so that he could smell the sea. That morning she had entered the room and found him breathing strangely, lying on his side. She turned his body round. His face was mute and pale. His eyes were staring into the distance and she knew, instinctively, that they were searching for something outside this life. He had felt death’s chill and he did not wish to prolong his life.

  He was paralysed, unable to move his legs, incapable of speech and, if his eyes were an indication, praying to Allah every conscious minute to bring his presence in this world to an end. Allah ignored his pleas and slowly, very slowly, Iskander Pasha began to recover. Life returned to his legs. With the help of Petrossian he began to walk again, but his powers of speech were gone for ever. We would never hear his voice again. His demands and commands were henceforth written on small pieces of paper and brought to us on a little silver tray.

  And so it came about that every day, after the evening meal, a group of us would gather in the old room with the balcony overlooking the sea. Once everyone was comfortably seated, Father would sip some tea from the corner of his mouth—his face had been cruelly affected by the stroke—and while Petrossian’s grandson, Akim, gently massaged his feet, he would lie back and insist that we tell him stories.

  It had never been easy to relax in my father’s presence. He had always been a demanding man. Ever intolerant of even the mildest form of criticism directed against his own conduct, past or present, he was always finding fault in others.

  My brothers and sister, who had been summoned to his bedside from different parts of the Empire, were convinced that his affliction would make him more tolerant. I was sure they were wrong.

  TWO

  The family begins to assemble; the Baron makes an impressive entrance; Salman’s melancholy

  I WAS LYING IN bed in a darkened room, a cold compress covering my face and forehead. I was resting to soothe a dull headache that refused to go away. That was the day Salman and Halil arrived to see our speechless father. I was not on the terrace with the rest of the family and all the servants to see them disembark from our old coach, which, flanked on each side by six cavalrymen, had transported them from Istanbul. I was later told by my mother how the sight of my father sitting motionless on a large chair had shaken both men. They had fallen to their knees on either side of him and kissed his hands. It was Halil, in his general’s uniform, who was the first to realise that silences can easily become oppressive.

  “I’m pleased you’re still alive, Ata. Heaven alone could have helped me if Allah had decided to make us orphans. This brute of a brother of mine would have ordered Petrossian to strangle me with a silken cord.”

  The thought was so ridiculous that a smile appeared on the face of the old man, a signal for the loud laughter from the entire assembly that woke me so rudely. But the headache had disappeared and I jumped out of bed, wet my face with water and ran downstairs to greet them. I arrived in time to see Halil take Orhan in his arms. He tickled the boy’s neck with his moustache and then threw him up into the air, hugging him warmly as he came down again. Then he introduced Orhan to the uncle he had never seen. Orhan looked at the new uncle with a shy smile and Salman awkwardly patted the boy on the head.

  I had not seen Salman for nearly fifteen years. He had left home when I was thirteen. I remembered him as tall and slim with thick black hair and a deep, melodious voice. I was startled when I first glimpsed his silhouette on the terrace. For a moment I thought it was Father. Salman had aged. He was not yet fifty, but his hair was grey and thin. He seemed shorter than when I last saw him. His body had grown larger, his face was over-fleshed, he walked with a slight stoop and his eyes were sad. Cruel Egypt. Why had it aged him thus? We embraced and kissed. His voice was distant.

  “And now you’re a mother, Nilofer.”

  Those were the only words he spoke to me that day. His tone had expressed surprise, as if bringing children into the world had somehow become a novelty. For some reason Salman’s tone and his remark irritated me. I’m not sure why this was so, but I remember feeling slightly angry. Perhaps because it suggested a refusal to see or treat me as a grown woman. I was still a child in his eyes. Before I could think of a suitably cutting r
eply, Petrossian had taken him away for a private audience with our father.

  Then it was Halil’s turn. He had never lost contact with us and made a point of communicating regularly with Orhan’s father. He had been of great help to us during bad times, making sure we were properly fed and clothed after Dmitri and most of the Greeks in Konya had been deprived of their livelihood as a punishment. I had last seen Halil when he arrived without warning on a beautiful spring afternoon in Konya. Orhan was three years old at the time, but he never forgot his uncle, or rather the moustache, which always irritated him. I looked at Halil. He was as handsome as ever and the uniform suited him. I often wondered how it had happened that the most mischievous member of my family had accepted the disciplines and routines of the army. As he embraced me, he whispered.

  “I’m glad you came. Did he tell Orhan a story?”

  I nodded.

  “Yusuf Pasha?”

  “Who else?”

  “Which version?”

  We laughed.

  As we were about to follow the rest of the family into the house, Halil noticed the rising dust on the distant track that led to our house. It had to be another carriage, but whom did it contain? Iskander Pasha was known throughout his family for his antisocial habits and his bad temper. As a consequence, very few people arrived at our Istanbul house uninvited and I can’t remember anyone ever coming here. Traditional hospitality was alien to my father as far as his own extended family was concerned. He was particularly hostile to his first cousins and their progeny, but could also be distant from his brothers. Because of all this, unexpected visitors had always been a pleasant surprise for us when we were children, especially Uncle Kemal, who never arrived without a coach full of presents.

  “Is someone else expected today?”

  “No.”

  Halil and I stayed on the terrace waiting for the coach to arrive. We looked at each other and giggled. Who dared arrive at our father’s house in such a fashion? When we were very small, the house had belonged to Grandfather and at that time it was always full of guests. Three bedrooms were always kept in a state of readiness for Grandfather’s closest friends, who walked in and out at their own pleasure. The entire staff was aware that they could arrive any day and at any hour, accompanied by their own manservants. That was a long time ago. Soon after my father had been given this house, he had made it clear that Grandfather’s old friends were not welcome. This created a scandal in the family. Grandmother had objected and in unusually strong language for her, but my father remained adamant. His style was different and he had never liked the lechers who hung around the house during his father’s time, making life miserable for the more attractive maidservants.

  The carriage drew up, and we recognised the coachman and the manservant perched next to him. Halil chuckled as we walked down the stairs to greet our father’s older brother, Memed Pasha, and his friend, Baron Jakob von Hassberg. Both men, now in their early seventies, appeared in good health. Their complexions, usually very pale, had been touched by the sun. They were dressed in cream-coloured summer suits and straw hats, but the cut was not identical. Each believed firmly in the superiority of his own tailor. My father could never conceal his irritation when these two men discussed their clothes. Halil saluted the Prussian fondly and respectfully kissed his uncle’s hand.

  “Welcome to your house, Uncle and you, too, Baron. An unexpected pleasure. We had no idea you were in the country.”

  “Nor did we till we arrived,” replied Memed Pasha. “The train from Berlin was late as usual.”

  “Only after it had crossed the Ottoman frontier, Memed,” interjected the Baron. “You must be fair. It arrived in perfect time at the border. We are very proud of our trains.”

  Memed Pasha ignored the remark and turned to Halil. “Is it true that death’s arrow pierced my brother, but he refused to fall? Well?”

  “I’m not sure I understand your question, Uncle.”

  He looked at me.

  “Our father has lost the power to speak, Uncle,” I muttered. “Otherwise he is well again, though he will always need help to walk.”

  “I don’t regard that as a complete tragedy. He always talked too much. Do you know what your mother has ordered for supper? Is there any champagne in the house? I thought not! We’ve brought a few cases from the Baron’s estate. I spent too many melancholy evenings in this wretched house when I was your age. Never again. Is there any ice in the pit?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Have them cool a few bottles for this evening, child, and tell Petrossian to prepare our rooms. I’m sure they haven’t been aired for thirty years. And you, young man, take me to see my brother.”

  Father did not much care for Memed Pasha, but he was never impolite to him, and for a very good reason. When my grandfather died, Memed Pasha, being the oldest son, inherited the family residence in Istanbul as well as this house, which he had always disliked. We had never understood his antipathy. How could any person be unhappy in these surroundings? We never discussed the matter in too much detail because Uncle Memed’s prejudice had benefited us greatly. Our curiosity was overtaken by joy. We loved this house. We loved our Stone Woman. I remember the excitement when our father told us that Uncle Memed had given us this house as a present. Halil, Zeynep and I had clapped our hands and hugged each other. Salman had remained grave and asked an awkward question. “Will it revert to his children after you’re dead?”

  Father had glared at him in silence as if to say, you imbecile, we’ve just been given this house and you are already thinking of my death. My mother had attempted to suppress a smile. None of us would have known the reason for her merriment had Zeynep, aware of my mother’s routine, not hidden behind a rock after sunset that day and heard Mother talking to the Stone Woman.

  ‘What should one tell the children these days, Stone Woman? How far can we go?

  Poor Salman. All he wanted to know was whether he would ever inherit this house. My husband looked at him as if he had attempted a murder. Even though I’m not his mother, I feel fond of the boy. I wish his father would talk to him. Tell him how much he really loves him. It’s not Salman’s fault his mother died giving birth to him. He feels his father’s indifference. Most of the time Iskander Pasha sees his first wife in the boy’s face and loves him, but there are moments when he looks at Salman with hatred as if he had consciously killed his mother. Once I asked Iskander Pasha about his first wife. He became very angry with me and insisted that I must never question him on this matter again. I had asked so that I could console him, but he was very strange. It did make me wonder whether he had anything to hide. What is it with the boys in this family, Stone Woman? Once they have reached puberty they seem to become aloof, look on their mothers and sisters as inferior beings. I hope Halil never becomes like that. Even though I’m not his real mother, I will do my best to stop him.

  As for Memed Pasha, what can I say? Nobody would have objected if he had also married and produced children, but he refused and his father punished him severely for his disobedience. He was kept under permanent watch and special tutors were hired to educate him. Who could have known that this young Baron who came here over fifty years ago to teach Memed and his brothers the German language would become so attached to Memed? Not even the servants suspected. Petrossian’s father was questioned in some detail when the whole business was discovered, but he swore in the name of his Allah that he had not known.

  If only you could speak, Stone Woman. You could tell Salman that his uncle Memed will never have children and that Salman will one day inherit this house.’

  Zeynep told me. I told Halil. Halil broke the news to Salman and Salman began to laugh. He would stop, look at us with a serious expression, but could not maintain his composure for more than a few seconds. He would collapse. His laughter became uncontrollable. The room had filled up, with Petrossian and even the maids—normally very quiet, but now infected by the strange mirth which swept through the house like a summe
r storm. Everyone wanted to share the joke, but Salman could not bring himself to speak.

  Halil, Zeynep and I became quiet and even a bit frightened, especially when Iskander Pasha came down the stairs. At first he smiled, but Salman, on seeing his father, laughed even more. The atmosphere became tense. Petrossian, alert to his master’s moods, shepherded the maids out of the room. It was only after they had left that Iskander Pasha asked in a deceptively soft voice, “Why are you laughing, Salman?”

  Salman suddenly stopped laughing. He wiped the tears off his face and looked straight into our father’s eyes.

  “I’m laughing, Ata, at my own blindness and stupidity. How could I have been so foolish as to ask you about Uncle Memed’s heirs? I mean barons, even of the Prussian variety, have not yet been known to bear children.”

  My mother took a deep breath. Iskander Pasha could not contain his rage. All I remember is his predatory profile as he clenched his fist and hit Salman on the face. My brother staggered backwards, horrified.

  “If ever again you refer disrespectfully to your uncle in my presence or that of your mother, I will disinherit you. Is that understood?”

  Salman, his eyes filled with tears of anger and hurt and bitterness, nodded silently. Iskander Pasha left the room. I was not yet nine years old, but I really hated my father at that moment. This was the first time I had ever seen him strike anyone.

  I took Salman’s hand in mine, while Zeynep fetched him some water before stroking the cheek that had sustained the blow. Halil’s face had become pale. Like me, he was greatly dismayed, but for him it went much deeper. I don’t think he ever respected our father again. I was very young, but I never forgot that afternoon.

  It was not simply the act of violence against Salman that had upset us so much, but the explosion of a frustrated bitterness that had lain concealed below the surface. The mask had been torn aside to reveal a twisted face with heavy and coarse features. Salman was twenty-six that year. All four of us, all Iskander Pasha’s children, had left the house together as if in a delirium. We walked to a flat rock, not far below where the Stone Woman stood, hidden from us by a grove of pine trees.