Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature) (25 page)

“Would you break the news to Saraylıhanım?” asked Kemal, with a sheepish grin.

“Enough! I’m not telling her!” protested Ahmet Re
ş
at. “You made me break the news of your leaving; I’ve done quite enough. Either pluck up the courage to tell Saraylıhanım yourself, or start making other plans!”

As Saraylıhanım left the kitchen, she called out, “Bring my coffee to the arbor, Mehpare.”

“I’ll send it with Zehra, efendim,” Mehpare said as she looked up from the
dolma
she was busily preparing.

“Bring it yourself.”

“My hands smell like onion—your coffee cup would . . .”

“Bring it yourself, I said.” Saraylıhanım had been exceedingly bad-tempered for the past two days. Putting aside her work, Mehpare lathered her hands with soap. Saraylıhanım was waiting under the arbor in a large wicker chair. Mehpare cautiously set the coffee on the end table and slowly raised her brown eyes to meet Saraylıhanım’s stern stare.

“I know the reason for this wedding, Mehpare.” Mehpare lowered her eyes. “When I arranged for you to come to this house I thought you were an honorable girl, a clever girl.”

“I am, efendim.”

“An honorable girl would never do what you’ve done!” Mehpare waited with her eyes on the ground. “Regarding your cleverness, I have no doubt. May it serve you as well in the future.”

“But I loved him, efendim. I loved him very much.”

“Enough. I’d meant for Kemal to marry well. But you were too clever for me.”

“Efendim . . .”

“Don’t interrupt me. Now listen, Mehpare. No one knows about your condition, and no one will. I won’t have my nephew disgraced in his uncle’s eyes. I’ll speak to the midwife, handle everything myself.
Ş
ayeste and her ilk are not to set foot in this house. I hope you realize that. Distress at the absence of a distant husband will induce a premature birth. Do I make myself clear?”

With burning cheeks and tear-filled eyes Mehpare replied, simply, “I understand, efendim.”

“Tell me, how many months has it been?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you telling me you don’t know when this wicked act occurred?”

Mehpare didn’t dare to say: If you mean the first time, of course, I know exactly when it happened. But I have no idea when I became pregnant. I was walking on air, oblivious to everything but him. She bit her lip, gazed at the ground.

“Speak up! When did the bleeding stop?”

“It’s never been regular . . . I’ve been queasy for about a month . . . While you were away at the island . . .” Mehpare stammered.

“While we were at the summer house. Of course. I should have known. I wish we’d taken you with us. Foolish of me. Are you telling me you’re two months pregnant?”

“I suppose so.”

“I see. Now get out of my sight.”

For a brief moment, Mehpare had to lean on the table for support. Then she returned to the kitchen. She was guilty, and she knew it. But she had no regrets. Once Kemal left the house she’d be left to the mercy of Saraylıhanım, berated daily. When the child was born, anyone who took the time to make a few simple calculations would learn the truth and she could well end up without a friend in the house. She’d be known as the hussy who’d seduced the young master.”

Well, wasn’t she?

Of course she was. She’d done all she could, first to get Kemal to notice her, then to perpetuate his interest.

No! She wasn’t a hussy. She’d hidden her love as she’d tended to her patient, and it was Kemal who’d kissed her. Kemal. It was he who had struck the match. She closed her eyes, remembering.

“Mehpare Abla, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Zehra. I had a stabbing pain, but it’s gone now.”

“Where?”

“In my heart.”

“There’s no fighting that sort of pain at your age,” the housekeeper laughed knowingly.

Mehpare placed a pinch of mincemeat on top of a vine leaf and rolled it into a cylinder. Life behind the trenches, with all of those guns, those bullets, would be easier than life in this house. She was sure of that. But she’d endure anything for the sake of the baby. She’d deliver a healthy boy for Kemal. A boy? How did she know? Would it really be a boy? Of course. She would bear her darling a son. She felt it.

– 11 –
October 1920

The wedding was held at home, three days before Kemal’s departure. Among the small circle of honored guests was Mehpare’s aunt, along with her daughters, Mualla and Meziyet, and her son, Recep, all of them there to spend the night. Around the bride’s neck they placed a “five in one,” the traditional necklace of five gold coins. Mehpare couldn’t help wondering which needy waif had been deprived so that she, the orphaned niece, would be able to receive such a valuable present. Her aunt had often told her how upset they’d been to send her off so young. “It was for your own good, Mehpare, so you wouldn’t have to suffer in poverty with the rest of us,” she’d always say. But if it was really for her own good, why hadn’t they sent one of their own children to Re
ş
at Bey’s mansion?”

“Saraylıhanım chose you,” her aunt had said. “Out of all the children, it was you she chose.”

Had Mehpare been selected because she was prettier than her aunt’s girls?

They too were tall, well-formed, comely. Mehpare had wondered long and hard about why she’d been chosen. Finally, she’d understood: it wasn’t because she was prettier, smarter or better behaved; no, it was simply because she was alone in this world. Saraylıhanım had wanted her because she was utterly helpless, completely dependent. Were she to be mistreated, she could complain to no one; were she to run away, there was no home for her to run to, no mother and father to receive her with open arms. Cunning woman. But God works in mysterious ways: she’d been sent to a strange house for her own good, and the wheel of fortune had indeed turned, and something wonderfully good had happened to her: she was now a bride in the same house where she’d arrived as an impoverished stray. Some would say she’d seduced the young master; others would claim that his love for her was that of a kind-hearted man for an orphan. Say what they would, it was a storybook tale, complete with a happy ending. And she was its heroine.

At this very moment, Saraylıhanım was slipping a bracelet of beaten gold onto her wrist, the very bracelet Re
ş
at Bey had brought to his aunt from Damascus many years before. How Mehpare had admired it! She remembered the day she’d stroked it with her fingertips, lingering over the clasp, which was shaped like a pair of serpent’s heads with eyes of ruby.

“You’re quite partial to that bracelet, aren’t you?” Saraylıhanım had said.

“I adore it.”

“God willing, one day your husband will provide you with one even finer.”

She’d closed her eyes and imagined a faceless husband placing such a bracelet on her wrist. And now, there it was. And as for the husband: for weeks and months she had studied Kemal so intently that even if she weren’t to see him for years, she would remember, always, each detail of that beloved face, down to the curve of his lash.

Dilruba Hanım was crying, while out in the hallway Ömer Hodja prayed in a deep bass voice. Kemal was on the other side of the door, with the hodja. When they finished praying, Kemal would respond: “I take Mehpare Hanım at Allah’s command, in the name of the Prophet and of my own free will.” Words would be spoken, words mysterious and unintelligible to Mehpare, like
mihr-i müeccel
(the part of the wife’s dowry paid to her by her husband upon consummation of the marriage) and
mihri-i muaccel
(the part of the dowry agreed to be paid to a wife if divorced or widowed); the papers would be signed and, from that moment onwards, she would be Kemal’s wife.

Kemal’s lawfully wedded wife! What more could I ask of you, almighty Allah? All I ask is that Kemal return to me, safe, in good health. I don’t care if I’m lavished with bracelets, with “five in ones”—I don’t care if I’m beaten, degraded. Nothing else matters. Just bring me my husband, God, that’s all I’m asking.

Her head bowed, Mehpare glanced out of the corner of her eye at the people sitting in the room. Perhaps she’d been unfair to them? Yes, she’d suffered Saraylıhanım’s rebukes, but which of them hadn’t had to endure that woman’s tongue? Since the day she’d stepped into the house, no one else had treated Mehpare with anything but respect: the children thought of her as an elder sister; Behice Hanım was mild-mannered by nature; Re
ş
at Bey had always been kindly. She’d been scolded on occasion by Saryalıhanım, that was all. It was she herself who had argued that a stranger would never be able to tend to Kemal’s needs, thus preventing the employment of a nurse. No one had expected or even wanted her to shoulder so much work, but she’d voluntarily undertaken every task she could, and, over time, they’d come to take it for granted. If she’d gone from impoverished relative to overworked servant, it was her own doing.

The moment the wedding ceremony was over, all of the women, led by Leman and Suat, rushed over to Mehpare. Lining up to offer their congratulations were her aunt, her aunt’s daughters, Behice, housekeeper Gülfidan, Azra Hanım, Zehra and, last of all, Saryalıhanım, who remained seated but reached out her right hand for Mehpare to kiss. Mehpare kissed the hands of all her elders, was practically smothered by the girls and tightly embraced by Azra. Saraylıhanım was even sufficiently moved at last to place a cool kiss in the center of her forehead.

Next, Mehpare received the men. She kissed the hands of Re
ş
at Bey and the hodja, and shook the hand of her aunt’s son. The last man to enter the room was Kemal. As he stood facing his bride she made to kiss his hand. But he stopped her, took her hands and gazed into her eyes. Mehpare expected him to say something, but not a word left his lips. He seemed too stunned to speak.

Zehra brought in a tray of mint-scented lemonade. From now on, Zehra would be responsible for running and fetching. Mehpare had risen to the rank of “young bride.”

Behice had ensured that the wedding feast was as lavish as the conditions of the day permitted. There was the traditional wedding soup, rice pilaf with chunks of lamb, two cold vegetable dishes drizzled with olive oil, and
ho
ş
af
, a cold drink made of stewed fruit. No wedding would be complete without the dessert of sweetened, spiced rice—
zerde—
but it had been impossible to find saffron. There hadn’t been any sugar for the lemonade and the other desserts either, so they’d been sweetened with the honey sent by
İ
brahim Bey a week earlier.

After dinner, Leman and Suat played the piano and the violin together and Aunt Dilruba’s daughters sang to the accompaniment of the ud. Even so, the gaiety of a wedding party was missing: the atmosphere in the house that day had the solemnity of a funeral. Other than Mehpare’s aunt and her daughters, no one seemed to be in high spirits. When the men retired to the selamlık to bubble noisily at their water pipes the women began conversing in the sitting room on the upper floor. Azra sat next to Mehpare on the divan and in a low voice said, “You’ve changed your mind about going to Anatolia, Mehpare.”

“Kemal Bey wouldn’t allow it.”

“When you said you’d never leave him, I assumed . . .”

“I wanted very much to go, but Kemal Bey thought it would be wrong of me to join him.”

“My word! Your Kemal Bey was singing quite a different tune just ten days ago. So, heroism and duty are sacred as long as they’re performed by others.”

“It’s something else, Azra,” said Mehpare, “something I can’t explain right now. I’ll tell you later.”

“What is it?”

“A personal matter. Concerning me.”

Without another word, Azra carefully studied Mehpare out of the corner of her eye. “When’s Kemal leaving?” she finally asked.

“Friday.”

“Does Re
ş
at Bey know?”

“He’s known for some time. Saraylıhanım has been told as well, but she didn’t expect him to be leaving quite so soon. She wept for hours and wouldn’t be comforted.”

“So there’s a reason for her swollen eyes. Well in that case, I’ll say farewell to Kemal tonight. I’ll be leaving the house first thing tomorrow morning. I suppose you newlyweds will be asleep at that hour.”

“You might have the opportunity to see Kemal again at the farm or somewhere in Anatolia. I’m the one you should be making your farewells to.” Tears sprang into Mehpare’s eyes.

“Don’t cry, Mehpare. Keep your composure. Who cries on their wedding day?”

Mehpare wiped at her face. “You’re right, Azra. And when are you off to Anatolia?”

“Next week, I hope.”

“May God watch over you.”

When the men finished chatting over their water pipes they trooped up to the sitting room—at which point Zehra and the housekeeper went downstairs to air out the selamlık and prepare a bed for Aunt Dilruba’s son. Dilruba Hanım and her daughters were to spend the night in Mehpare’s room, while Azra would be staying in Kemal’s room. A double mattress was placed in the large room where Azra had stayed previously, now the nuptial chamber. The newlyweds would have only a few days together, but those few days were among the happiest of Mehpare’s life, and would sustain her later, during the hard times. After about half an hour of conversation among the assembled guests, Re
ş
at Bey announced, “All right everyone, the time has come to send the newlyweds to their chamber.”

“I’m rather tired myself,” Behice said to the guests. “May I request your kind permission to retire to my room as well?”

When Re
ş
at Bey and Behice Hanım had gone to their room, Azra came up to Kemal. “I’ll be staying in your bed tonight. Aren’t you afraid I’ll rummage through your things?” she laughed. “I remember how worried my big brother was that I’d go through his books and papers, or find his love letters.”

“Azra, if you knew how much I missed those days, growing up together. The most carefree time of my life . . . but it’s only much later that you realize how precious they are.”

“Well then, here’s a word of advice from me: make sure you appreciate how precious your wife is. Don’t leave it till later. She’s devoted to you,” Azra said.

“I know.”

“Is that why you’ve prevented her from going to Anatolia?”

“It’s important she stay at home . . . for health reasons.”

Azra gave Kemal a knowing smile, but contented herself with the words, “You’re quite the rake, my dear.” Then she extended her hand. “I’m leaving early tomorrow. We might not see each other for a long time. Goodbye, Kemal.”

“I’ll see you to your room,” Kemal said. “We’ll say goodbye upstairs.”

Mehpare’s dejected demeanor at the sight of Azra and Kemal whispering and laughing as they left the room together wasn’t lost on Saraylıhanım, who, with a slight lift of her chin and arched eyebrows, indicated that Mehpare was to follow them. “Mehpare, why are you just standing there, why don’t you take your aunt’s girls up to their room? And don’t forget to take a candle with you.”

Mehpare shot a look of gratitude at Saraylıhanım and turned to her aunt.

“Please follow me, Aunt.”

“Follow your husband, Mehpare. We’ll find our room on our own,” said Dilruba Hanım.

“Mehpare Abla, I’m going down to the kitchen for a glass of water. Will you show me where it is?” asked one of Dilruba’s daughters. Mehpare had no choice but to lead the girl downstairs, but before doing so she kissed Saraylıhanım’s hand, pressed it to her forehead and bid goodnight to the others.

“Mehpare Abla, he’s so handsome! However did you manage to steal his heart? Well done!” enthused Meziyet the moment they were in the kitchen and the door tightly shut. “Saraylıhanım’s stewing, but you just ignore her!”

Mehpare’s face went bright red. “Come on, get your water and go to your room, Meziyet,” she said as she pulled the muslin cloth off the mouth of the earthenware jug.

“Why are you mad at me? I’m only telling the truth. And mother says she’ll make me a better match than ever, now you’re the daughter-in-law of a minister.”

“It’s late, Meziyet. I’m tired. We’ll talk about all that tomorrow.”

“But we’re going home tomorrow morning.”

Exactly, Mehpare thought to herself.

“Oh, I get it,” Meziyet gushed. “The groom’s expecting you. I’m so thick sometimes. Quick, run to your room, Mehpare. Better not keep your husband waiting.”

Before Meziyet could say another word, Mehpare hastily re-covered the mouth of the jug, left the kitchen and raced up the stairs.

Kemal had already arrived in their room and was performing his nuptial prayers. Mehpare sat on the edge of the bed and waited. When he was done she sprang to her feet to roll up his prayer rug. “Wait,” he said, “that can wait till later.” He pulled a diamond ring out of his pocket.

“This was my mother’s, Mehpare. I never knew her. My father put it on her finger when they were married. It didn’t bring her good luck. But—God willing—it will to you.”

Mehpare took the ring, kissed it and slid it onto her finger. “There’s something I want to tell you,” Kemal said. “I’m leaving on Friday.”

“I know.”

“If I can’t be with you for the birth of our child . . .”

“You’ll be there, I’m sure of it . . .”

“We’re only human, Mehpare. We don’t know what the future will bring. I may be on the road, or far away . . . Anyway, if I’m not with you, I’d like the baby to be named after my mother if it’s a girl, after my father if it’s a boy.”

“We’re having a son.”

“Then call him Halim.”

“You’ll be the one whispering his name into his ear, God willing,” Mehpare said. But she turned her head so her husband wouldn’t see her tears. “Could you undo my buttons?” she asked. “I can’t reach them.”

For some reason, Mehpare the legally wedded wife seemed much more timid than the bold, uninhibited servant girl she had once been. She didn’t even turn to look at Kemal’s face as he undid her buttons, gathered her long hair in his hands and kissed the back of her neck. Mehpare shuddered slightly, hastily slipped out her clothing, dashed to the bed so she wouldn’t be seen naked, threw on the nightgown beneath her pillow, and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

“So, you’re my reluctant bride now, are you?” Kemal laughed. “Carry on then, it’s your due.” Lifting the corner of the blanket, he slid in next to Mehpare, pulled her close and moved in for a kiss.