Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature) (20 page)

Deciding there was no need to take Kemal’s laundry up to his room, she stacked it neatly on the chiffonier, grabbed her cloak and raced off.

The most recent letter that Azra had sent to Kemal rested on Ahmet Re
ş
at’s knee. He’d put on his reading glasses and studied it carefully from start to finish. Other than one particular detail, everything conveyed at some length to Azra by Fehime Sultan was already known to him.

“ . . . Sheikh Sait, in particular, enjoys close relations with the Association of Anglophiles, many of whose members are influential Armenians. A portion of the substantial payments he receives from them are spent on his own extravagant lifestyle while the rest is being used to fund the formation of a pro-English cabinet. The first duty of this cabinet would be the elimination of the Nationalist movement . . . Ferit Pasha is preparing a counterinsurgency against the Nationalists and has accelerated the frequency of his meetings with Kurdish tribal leaders, which are being arranged by Sheikh Sait, himself the head of a Kurdish tribe . . .”

After re-reading the letter, Ahmet Re
ş
at returned to a particular sentence, which he read aloud, as though for confirmation: “Our Sultan is fully aware of these circumstances.”

With a mild oath, he removed his glasses and looked at his nephew.

“You see, uncle!” Kemal said. “That’s our Sultan for you! Had Mahir been able to summon up the courage he would have told you about this long ago, but he was disappointed in his efforts to find an appropriate opportunity.”

“Intimately familiar as I am with your lunacy, I’m not surprised to find you in the thick of all this; but as for Mahir—he has a career! I’d never have expected him to get involved in an underground organization.”

“Everyone in his right mind is on our side now, Uncle. And it’s not just the patriots among us, even the French are supporting the uprising taking root in Anatolia.”

“If the French support us it isn’t for love of our black eyes. They’re settling old scores with the English,” Ahmet Re
ş
at countered. “The Greeks are now demanding territories given to the Italians. English support for the Greeks has driven the French and the Italians, in particular, towards the Turks. I heard as much from Caprini Efendi himself.”

“But it doesn’t change anything, does it? The Sultan is on the wrong path; you see that, don’t you?”

Ahmet Re
ş
at was unable to respond. I see everything clear as day, were the words he couldn’t bring himself to utter. The Sultan to whom he had pledged his allegiance had, upon falling into the sea, chosen to embrace a serpent in the form of the English, a nation whose ruthless designs on the Ottoman Empire were unmatched. But the Sultan’s choice of serpent was unfathomable. It had for some months been so obvious to Re
ş
at Bey that the English planned to establish a Kurdish state under the puppet government of Sheikh Sait on lands seized from the Ottoman Empire that he was truly astonished that the Sultan and the Freedom and Unity Party seemed unable to perceive what was happening under their very noses. No—in fact, he was no longer astonished: backed by money or propaganda or whatever else it took, Sait the Kurd had managed to enlist the services of a sizeable number of Ottoman intellectuals, and it was these intellectuals who were leading the Sultan astray. With each passing day, Ahmet Re
ş
at found his faith slipping further as His Majesty invariably responded to disastrous news by closing his eyes and losing himself in mediation.

On numerous occasions he’d discussed this very matter with Home Minister Ahmet Re
ş
it, and while neither man had been happy with the Sultan’s blindly pro-English stance, they had at first found some justification for it in Sultan Vahdettin’s emphasis on religion over country. It had become painfully apparent, however, in the days immediately following the occupation, that they had been wrong on that count: every one of their Christian subjects had toadied up to the state sponsors of their religions. The Bulgarians, Serbians and Orthodox Armenians had turned to Russia; the Catholic Armenians to France. And when it came to the Americans, they’d been thronging to Anatolia seeking converts from among the Ottoman Christians for years. Religion was like concrete, and it was the Ottomans who had failed to harness its adhesive powers to their own ends: had the Muslim tribes of Arabia hesitated to stab their co-religionists and Caliphate in the back?

Ahmet Re
ş
at stood, ignoring the ash that tumbled from his cigarette onto the carpet as he wearily paced the length of the room.

What a shame, what a terrible shame! The officers of a mighty empire spanning half a millennium had been reduced to saluting lowly Greek privates. And the royal patronage of the Sultan had been extended to organizations clamoring for Shari’a. No, this was going too far! Things had reached breaking point; well, let them snap.

“Son,” he wearily said to Kemal, “our people are divided in two: there are those who believe we must take up arms against the invaders, and those who believe it prudent to rely on diplomacy to soften the terms of the armistice. I’m fully aware that our finances can not endure another war, for which reason I have consistently counted myself among the latter group. But the events of recent months have convinced me it’s in our interests to support those who want to fight.”

“Now that you’ve seen the truth, please help us.”

Ahmet Re
ş
at went to his nephew’s side and whispered his next words.

“The coffers are bare. If it’s money for arms you want, there isn’t any.”

“We’re not looking for monetary assistance. What we will need is the authorization and blessings of the government. That’s when we’ll apply to you for help.”

“And when you do, I’ll be of assistance any way I can.”

“Thank you. I knew that one day . . .” Kemal kissed his uncle’s hand and pressed it to his forehead “You’ve always been the father I never knew. Young as you were, you looked after me, you brought me, you forgave me my mistakes. If I’d been forced to leave this house without your blessing, and died somehow, I’d have had no one to close my eyes for me. But I’m at ease now. You’ve made me very happy.”

“When are you going, my boy?” asked Ahmet Re
ş
at. “I’m awaiting word. I’ll go the moment I receive it.”

“I’ll be thinking of you. Wondering how you are. And my aunt will weep for you every day. We’ll be a worried house again, a house of suffering.”

“I returned from Sarıkamı
ş
; surely I’ll be able to return from Bakırköy.”

“But weren’t you going to Anatolia?”

“Later. When the time comes. Along with supplies . . .”

“God speed you on your way,” said Ahmet Re
ş
at, “and don’t tell anyone else until the day you leave.”

“I may be going in a few weeks.”

“Well at least we’ll have a few more weeks of calm. The women of the house are going to be in an uproar, and I don’t have the strength to endure it just yet.”

The two men fell silent when Leman entered with some sheet music.

“Look what the doctor sent me, Father.”

“Oh, did he really? But Mahir Bey’s left, hasn’t he?”

“An orderly just brought it. If I’m able to learn all the pieces inside, I’ll surprise him when he gets back.”

“Well, you’d better get to it.”

“Did he tell you when he was returning?” Leman said. “When his work is done.”

“When will it be done?”

“How am I supposed to know, Leman. The hospitals are overflowing with patients who’ve contracted everything from typhus to trachoma. He may not be back for some time.”

“May God protect him.”

“God looks after doctors,” said Kemal, “just as He looks after children.”

“I’m not so certain God looks after anyone anymore,” Ahmet Re
ş
at said. Kemal glanced at his uncle with raised eyebrows. His uncle had never been one for gloomy pronouncements. His disillusionment with the Sultan appeared to have spread.

Mehpare’s back was cramped with constant bending and her fingertips had gone numb wrapping parcels. The contents of the salon, the office, and every bedroom in the enormous mansion had been tied into bundles. While she admired the many precious objects, Mehpare was thankful that her own house was less ostentatious. The foreigners had passed over the less grand mansions, with smaller gardens, that lined the street. Otherwise, finance minister or not, Ahmet Re
ş
at and his family might have found themselves out on the pavement one winter’s day. The English had seized the Taksim house of a family friend,
Ş
akir Pasha. They’d been forced to move to their summer house on Büyükada Island, in the Sea of Marmara, in the dead of winter. Were the same thing to happen to Ahmet Re
ş
at, they’d have no choice but to move to the island as well . . . And freeze to death. It had been difficult enough to heat the city mansion, and the cold northern winds sweeping across the pine-topped hills of the island would have killed Kemal, while causing Saraylıhanım and the girls to come down with pneumonia at best. Mehpare silently mouthed a prayer of thanksgiving she’d learned from Saraylıhanım; then she touched wood and tugged her right earlobe for good measure.

“We’re both exhausted. Let’s stop for some tea,” Azra said as she struggled to secure the ends of a bed sheet she’d wrapped around a large Acem carpet.

“Let me help you,” Mehpare offered, disposing of the task in a trice. Then they settled themselves side by a side on a sofa swathed in calico. “Could you bring each of us a tea, Housekeeper Nazik? The alcohol stove and teapot should still be in their old places,” Azra said.

With the housekeeper out of the room, Azra and Mehpare were alone for the first time. Mehpare seized the opportunity to speak.

“Azra Hanım,” she began, looking directly into the young woman’s blue eyes, “I wonder if I could speak frankly with you for a moment.”

“What about, Mehpare?”

“I have something to say about Kemal Bey.”

“Please,” Azra nodded, prepared to retort sharply when Mehpare asked about her relationship with Kemal.

“You may have guessed, Azra Hanım, what I want to ask of you.”

“What?”

“You may not appreciate the extent of Kemal’s illness, both physical and . . .”

“I’m well aware, Mehpare.”

“You’re not aware of everything, efendim. He was bedridden for two years. His lungs are weak. As are his kidneys.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because if he falls ill again he won’t recover. He’ll die. Doctor Mahir has told me as much. Other doctors have said the same.”

“Then continue to tend him well. I’ve noticed how attentive you are.”

“Azra Hanım, I’m begging you, don’t drag him into this dangerous business.”

“What are you saying? What dangerous business?”

“You know what I mean. You’re a clever woman. I know you’re working for the good of the country. I commend you for it. But if Kemal Bey were to leave our house, catch cold, wear himself out . . . He’d get ill and . . . and . . . I can’t say it. He’s already served his country. He was in the war. Please, leave him out of this. I’m begging you, Azra Hanım.”

“You’re worn out. You don’t know what you’re saying, Mehpare.”

“Tell me, I’ll do whatever it is you want him to do. I’m healthy; I’m strong.”

“I don’t want anyone to do anything. That’s enough. Please stop talking nonsense.” Azra sprang to her feet and began pacing the room.

“I’m upset enough as it is today, preparing to turn my home over to the enemy, and then this. The housekeeper will bring your tea. You’ve been of sufficient help to me, Mehpare, and you’re free to go home when you’ve drunk it. Thank you.”

Azra was walking through the doorway when Mehpare ran up and clutched her arm.

“Don’t be angry with me. I’m only trying to protect him. And Azra Hanım, I’m ready to help any time you need me. I’ll deliver messages. Drop off letters . . . Even weapons. Make use of me; I’m not afraid.”

Azra was uncertain how to respond to the desperate young woman clinging to her arm, but she stopped and glanced around the room, taking in the salon that had once been brightly lit and airy, not at all like this place of empty shelves and shrouded armchairs, this reception room for ghosts. It was here that they’d celebrated her late brother’s circumcision ceremony, and here that she’d been engaged to Necdet. In a few days, this room would echo with the stamping boots of English officers. The downstairs sitting rooms and anteroom would become classrooms for Christian children. And in that, Azra found solace . . . At least children would be racing through the house, much as she’d done at a happier time with her brother. It was a cruel life. And this woman clinging to her arm, begging. So many different kinds of suffering. It staggered you. A deep sense of compassion arose in her heart.

“Mehpare,” she said, “I understand your concern, but there’s nothing I can do. If Kemal Bey has made up his mind, he’ll go and he’ll assume whatever duties he chooses. I can’t prevent that; neither can you. And if you think I’m a spy, I’m not. I lost my brother, and my husband, and the situation in which my father is spending his last days in Bursa is one he never deserved. There’s nothing for me to cling to but my country, and I’d like to do my share to liberate it, that’s all.”

“I apologize. I never thought you were a spy.”

“There’s something else I’d like to say to you . . .”

“Please.”

“Kemal Bey might leave home to join the war of liberation. And he might die in battle.”

“God forbid!”

“God forbid. But thousands of men just like Kemal Bey are leaving their families and loved ones behind. And it’s not just men, women are rushing off as well.”

“But what can women do?”

“So many things, Mehpare. From preparing meals on the front lines, dressing wounds and rolling bandages, to taking up arms and standing guard, when necessary. There are many things women can do. Don’t forget, soldiers need food, sleep and clothing.”

“You’re right.”

“We have to think of our country, not our loved ones and sweethearts. Try to understand.”