Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature) (32 page)

“There’s a school building of some kind in Ankara. They stayed there for a time. Kemal was taught how to read and write telegraphs, as well as how to set up telegraph stations. Then they sent him off to the Aegean region with coils of wire and some insulators.”

“And?”

“From what I understand, they plan to set up telegraph stations in areas invaded by the Greeks, so they can communicate with Ankara.”

“Good lord, what on earth does that boy know about telegraphy?” cried Saraylıhanım. “They’ll get him into trouble, I just know it. What if he gets dizzy stringing up all those wires and falls . . .”

“Bless you, Mother,” Behice said, “Kemal won’t be stringing up the wires himself, someone else will be doing it.”

“Ladies,” said Ahmet Re
ş
at, “I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d kindly stop conversing among yourselves and pay attention. There’s some news you’ll all welcome.”

“What news?”

“Guess who Kemal met in Ankara?”

“Who, who?”

“Gazi Pasha?” Mehpare asked. “Wrong.”

“Come on, tell us son.”

“Azra Hanım.”

Mehpare was unable to restrain a cry.

“What’s Azra doing in Ankara?” Saraylıhanım asked. Then she stood up and walked directly over to Re
ş
at Bey. “What’s Azra doing in Ankara?” she repeated.

“She’s learning telegraphy as well.”

“Is she going to the Western Front?” asked Mehpare, who despite her affection for Azra couldn’t help but speak in slightly brittle tones.

“No. She’s working in Mara
ş
. She’s learned all she needs to learn and is returning to Mara
ş
.”

As Mehpare fought to conceal her relief, Behice muttered, “Is Azra mad?”

“She’s not a woman she’s a tomboy. God protect our girls,” Saraylıhanım said.

“Is there any other news of my husband?” asked Mehpare.

“I’ll give you the letter and you can read it yourself. But he’s used a lot of code words, so there’s a lot you won’t understand.”

Mehare found herself at Ahmet Re
ş
at’s side. She very nearly snatched the letter from his hand.

“There are two letters addressed to you, Mehpare,” said Ahmet Re
ş
at.

All three women looked up, wide-eyed.

“One of them is from Kemal. What’s the second one?” Saraylıhanım asked.

Re
ş
at Bey pulled two envelopes out of his pocket and handed them to Mehpare. At the sight of Kemal’s handwriting, she tore one of them open.

“Who’s the other letter from? Tell me at once!”

Eager to mollify Saraylıhanım, Mehpare opened the second envelope and checked the signature. “Azra has written to me as well,” she said, “and if you’ll excuse me I’d like to read both letters in my room.”

“No good has ever come of careless correspondence, mark my words,” said Saraylıhanım.

Mehpare ignored the elderly woman’s insinuations, as well as the transparent look of envious hurt on Behice’s face, and ran off to her room. With the tips of her fingers, she caressed Kemal’s words. Then she kissed the sheet of paper and began reading.

The letter opened with Kemal’s greetings to everyone in the household. Mehpare skimmed through the questions about everyone from Saraylıhanım to Sabahat and reread, several times, the bit about the chance meeting with Azra in Ankara. No, there wasn’t the slightest indication of anything untoward. Kemal had sincerely enjoyed running into an old friend and wished to share his happiness with his wife. That was all. In any case, Azra had returned to Mara
ş
after two days and Kemal was just about to be posted to the Aegean, to a town whose name he didn’t reveal in the letter. Her beloved husband wrote that there had been signs in his dreams that pointed to happier times ahead and that he was convinced fate would unite them within the year. He called on Mehpare to remain light of heart and to be extremely careful with their baby. When Mehpare finished the letter she wiped her eyes and moved on to the one addressed to Re
ş
at Bey. The letter to Kemal’s uncle was much more specific concerning Kemal’s duties, but, as she’d been warned, was full of code words that made it difficult for her to decipher. Once she’d reread Kemal’s letter several more times, she felt ready for the one from Azra.

“To Mehpare Hanım, my long-suffering and self-sacrificing Sister,” the letter began. Next, Azra described her coincidental encounter with Kemal in Ankara. She had found him healthy and well. There was no cause for Mehpare to be concerned about her husband’s health. He was proud of and pleased with his duties and even blamed his extended illness in Istanbul upon his having been confined to the house, where he was of no use to anyone.

Next came the most important section for Mehpare. A very important piece of news.

Last autumn, as the two of them were walking home together from
Ş
ayeste Hanım’s lecture, Azra had confessed that her heart had been empty for a very long time and that she wished she were able to love a man with all the passion and longing Mehpare felt for Kemal. Mehpare had said that she felt certain Azra would soon meet such a man. Mehpare had been right. Azra was in love with a major she’d met in Mara
ş
. When she’d seen Kemal in Ankara she had spoken of this man and was now sharing her secret with Mehpare as well. While a part of her wanted to trumpet her love to the whole world, she preferred for the moment that no one knew about it and asked that Mehpare promise to keep it a secret. One day, God willing, they would meet in Istanbul and she would reveal his identity, if he survived.

If he survived! Mehpare sat on the edge of the bed, held up her cupped hands and prayed, “Please, may all of you survive.”

Mehpare was getting ready to reread all three letters, again and again, when the bell to the garden gate rang. She walked over to the window and was surprised to see her aunt and her aunt’s daughters, followed by Recep, whose arms were full of parcels, traipsing through the garden, all smiles. No one had told her Aunt Dilruba would be visiting. She slipped the letters under her pillow and ran downstairs.

Dilruba Hanım had arrived both to give the news of Mualla’s engagement and to share with her beloved relatives, while it was still fresh in her mind, the distress and sufferings of an event that had happened some ten days earlier. With frequent interruptions from her daughters and her son, accompa- nied by impromptu reenactments, she related how, very late one night, the infidels had begun celebrating one of their new years, the terrific explosions, how everyone had taken to the streets, fearing for their lives, and how she’d lost a slipper and headscarf in the panic and mayhem. Leman, Suat and Behice were in stitches over the whole affair, but Saraylıhanım more or less successfully banished the traces of a smile that had crept into the corners of her lips. Her mind still on the letters she’d put under her pillow, Mehpare was unable to concentrate. She wanted nothing more than to return at once to her room and to the world of her letters, but was incapable of committing such a blatant discourtesy while there were guests.

After repeating her tale several times to the general mirth of her hostesses, Dilruba turned to Mehpare and remarked, “Are you sure you aren’t expecting twins, my girl? Your belly is absolutely enormous.”

Mehpare, who had grown accustomed to that question, merely answered with an enigmatic smile.

“We don’t have any twins in my family but Mehpare might on her mother’s side. Do you know anything about that, efendim?” Dilruba Hanım asked.

Saraylıhanım was preparing an appropriate response when they were interrupted by the entrance of the housekeeper.

“There’s someone downstairs. He’s brought the master a message,” she said.

Re
ş
at Bey raced for the door; Mehpare went pale; Saraylıhanım clutched her breast. The women anxiously awaited Re
ş
at Bey’s return. For so many years, all news had been bad news: they expected nothing else. A few moments later they heard Re
ş
at Bey’s step on the stairs. “He’s walking up the stairs quickly, so it can’t be bad news,” Mehpare said to herself. She was proven right when Re
ş
at Bey appeared in the doorway with a broad smile waving a telegraph.

“Dilruba Hanım, you’ve brought good fortune with you. Kemal sends us fresh news. The National Army has succeeded at last in holding the line against the Greeks. And this despite the Greeks’ twenty thousand rifles to our six thousand. It happened at a place on the Western Front called
İ
nönü.”

“In on who?” asked Saraylıhanım, who was hard of hearing.

“I don’t know who’s on what; all I know is that Re
ş
at Bey is smiling for the first time in months, so it must be good news,” Behice said.

– 19 –
February 1921

It was evening. The women and children had just finished dinner. Mehpare was in the kitchen preparing a tray for Re
ş
at Bey, who was late, as usual. Typically, Saraylıhanım couldn’t resist meddling, calling down the stairs to Mehpare, who was arranging slices of börek on a plate: “Mehpare, Re
ş
at Bey doesn’t care for potato börek; be sure and give him the one with parsley, won’t you.”

“That’s just what I’m doing, efendim,” Mehpare replied.

Mehpare had grown heavy-limbed and her ankles were swollen; even so, she’d been doing her best to assist the housekeeper ever since the irregularly paid salary of the master of the house had left them no choice but to dismiss Zehra. Poor Housekeeper Gülfidan was getting too old and fat to manage the stairs. Not that the heavily pregnant Mehpare could take them two at a time herself, any longer. Her belly was so big that Suat and Leman were convinced she was carrying twins. If they were boys, their names were ready: in her capacity as honorary elder sister, Leman had decided on Selim for the younger boy: it would go well with Halim, the name reserved for the elder.

As the girls chattered on, Mehpare would tilt her head slightly to one side and listen in resigned silence. She could easily foresee the girls’ disappointment when she didn’t bear twins; what she couldn’t predict was how Re
ş
at Bey and Behice Hanım would react to the early arrival of the baby. Would there be much scratching of heads and counting of fingers? Would they reproach her; fling it in her face, even? Or had the ever crafty Saraylıhanım long since hatched an explanation of some kind?

Having placed a dish of stewed prunes and a mug of ayran on the tray with the börek, Mehpare set it on the marbletopped table in the entry hall. When Re
ş
at Bey arrived he could take the tray either to the selamlık or to the upstairs sitting room, whichever he preferred.

No one had done the shopping that day, so there weren’t any newspapers in the house. Hüsnü Efendi had lost a relative and would be away for several days attending the village funeral. As Re
ş
at Bey had left that morning, Mehpare had asked him to bring home a newspaper from the ministry. She had begun studying the newspaper every day to see if there was anything that might involve Kemal.

At Saraylıhanım’s insistence, Behice had descended to the pantry so the two women could take inventory. The sugar was long gone. There was very little cooking oil. It was only through much sifting of the remains of a sack of flour that they had been able to bake börek that day. Behice would write to Beypazarı that night and request that her father send some grain, oil and cottage cheese.

Clutching the banister, Mehpare began climbing the stairs. The girls were in the anteroom singing to the accompaniment of the piano and violin.

“Come and join us, Mehpare Abla,” Leman called out, “bring your ud and we’ll switch to something
à la Turca
.

Mehpare declined. She had a twinge in her lower back and wanted to lie down in her room. She’d just reached the second floor landing when she heard the bell to the garden gate. It would be far too much trouble to go back down two flights of stairs, she decided. Let Gülfidan open the gate for a change.

Mehpare got to her room and walked over to the window. The housekeeper was waddling through the garden. So, she’d heard the bell. The women of the house had been led to believe that Gülfidan was quite deaf and certainly unable to hear bells and knocks, but they’d all chosen to turn a blind eye to the servant’s little ploy. The housekeeper opened the gate and began talking to two unfamiliar men. Even from her vantage point at the window, Mehpare could tell from the men’s stiff movements and stern demeanor that whatever had brought them to the house was of a serious nature. Mehpare left the window and sat down on the edge of the bed, her hand pressed to her chest. Her heart felt heavy and troubled. And it wasn’t just her heart. Even though she’d eaten nothing but a bowl of rice, she’d been burping all day. She felt listless; nothing appealed. She uncovered her head, unbuttoned her blouse, to relieve herself of the weight pressing onto her chest, reached out her hand to get the bottle resting on the nightstand, splashed cologne on her temples and breasts, kicked off her slippers and was just stretching out in bed when something told her to get up and walk back over to the window.

The housekeeper was gone. Standing at the garden gate with the strange men were Saraylıhanım and Behice. One of the men pointed into the distance as he explained something. Mehpare watched as Behice began beating her knees; Saraylıhanım swayed for a moment, tilted forward and fell to her knees on the grass. The men took her arms and tried to pull her to her feet.

Hair uncovered, blouse unbuttoned, feet bare, Mehpare bolted down the stairs and toward the two men propping up Saraylıhanım, one on each side, as they half carried, half dragged her to the house, Behice immediately behind them, talking continuously:

“Mother, please mother, I’m begging you, try to remain calm. Mehpare mustn’t hear of this or, God forbid, something could happen to the baby, I implore you, mother, please . . .”

Mehpare darted out of the front door and straight up to the men. “What happened to Kemal?” she screamed. No one spoke. No one moved. The four people standing across from her were frozen in place, like a photograph, staring at Mehpare as she stared back at them. Mehpare stretched out her arms and with a fluttering motion gently fell forward and down, collapsed on the marble slab in front of the door.

“My God, I hope she hasn’t bumped her belly,” Behice shouted as she knelt and put her ear to Mehpare’s breast to listen to her heartbeat.

A growing pool of pinkish fluid was staining the white marble by Mehpare’s legs.

“She’s losing the baby!” Behice shrieked.

“It’s not a miscarriage; she’s giving birth,” Saraylıhanım managed to say.

“Help!” Behice shouted at the men propping up Saraylıhanım. “Help us! For God’s sake, go tell the housekeeper, tell the girls. Call the midwife. Get a doctor, quick! Don’t just stand there, run! Run!”

The men dashed into the house, leaving Saraylıhanım on the ground. Unable to stand up unassisted, she crawled on all fours across the lawn to Behice and Mehpare. Pulling off her headscarf she folded it, handed it to Behice and said, “Put it under Mehpare’s back, my girl. Bend her knees and pull her legs a little apart.”

Mechanically, Behice did as she was told. Saraylıhanım crawled closer to Mehpare, leaned over and, with the back of her hand, slapped hard on each cheek. Mehpare opened her eyes and stared blankly.

“Mehpare, you’re giving birth. Think of nothing but the baby. Only the baby. You expected a boy, didn’t you? Think about your son. Take a deep breath. Now breathe in and out. In and out. That’s it, dear. And another. And another.”

The two men and the other women of the household came rushing out and gathered around Mehpare, everyone talking at once. The housekeeper fluttered about, wringing her hands; both girls were crying.

The men leaned over, hoisted Mehpare and began hauling her towards the house. Now fully conscious, she started screaming and shouting. Helped to her feet by her grandchildren, Saraylıhanım followed the men inside, barking instructions all the way, trailed by the others. “As soon as you get her inside, lie her down in the selamlık, the first room on the right.”

Behice turned her attention to Leman, who was confusedly running circles around her. “First, run to the midwife’s, then go to Belkıs Hanım’s house, the next house down. Tell her what’s happened. Get them to send a servant to your father. Perhaps they can take the coupe and go all the way to the ministry. But whatever they do, someone has to get word to your father. We need him here immediately and he’s got to inform Mahir Bey as well,” she said.

“I’ll just get my çar
ş
af . . .”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Leman! Get going this minute. It’s an emergency. I don’t give a toss about your çar
ş
af. Run!” Leman stared at her mother, normally so courteous and such a stickler for propriety. Smoothing back her hair, she headed for the garden gate, thanking God that the midwife was a next door neighbor.

With Leman gone, Behice turned on Suat, who was still sobbing. “What are you crying about?” she said.

“Mehpare Abla’s dying.”

“She’s not dying. She’s having a baby.”

“But what if she dies?”

“Stop being ridiculous and make yourself useful. I left poor Sabahat in my room. Go wait with your little sister.”

“I want to wait with Mehpare Abla. The housekeeper can look after the baby.”

“She’s helping deliver the baby, boiling water and preparing strips of cloth. She’s got work to do.”

“But mother, I . . .”

For the first time ever, Behice lifted a hand against one of her children. “Suat, I told you to go and look after your sister. I left the balcony door open. A cat might come in. Look, if anything were to happen to her, as God is my witness I swear I’ll tear you to pieces with my own two hands!”

Suat darted off to the house, so eager to avoid the first smack of her life that, for the first time, she was willing to do exactly what she was told. Mehpare’s screams echoed beyond the garden and into the street.

Ahmet Re
ş
at and Mahir didn’t arrive home until several hours later. He had been at a privy council meeting and they’d waited until it was over to give him the news. All he knew was that Mehpare had gone into labor, meaning the baby, which by his calculations was only five months old, was certain to be stillborn. Why, he wondered, did the children of this family seem fated to arrive in the world before their time. Perhaps there was truth in the saying “an overprotected eye is certain to be pricked.” That is, perhaps the premature births could be blamed on the over-coddling of the women during their pregnancies.

As Ahmet Re
ş
at considered how he would break the news of the stillborn baby to Kemal, his ears started to burn and his head began throbbing. Pulling himself together, he sent one of his clerks to Mahir’s house, the other to the hospital where the doctor was working. Fortunately, Mahir was working on the European shore at that time and Ahmet Re
ş
at prayed he would be found quickly. He himself dashed down to the street and began looking for a coupe. When none appeared, he jumped onto a passing tram, one hand clutching the metal door handle, his foot on the running board, looking for all the world like a student. He silently prayed no one would see him. When the tram reached Divanyolu he leapt off and began running home. When he arrived at the top of the street, he found Mahir paying a driver.

His first words were, “The baby’s unlikely to have survived. It’s stillborn, isn’t it?”

“Just let me get my foot in the door and we’ll see,” said Mahir. “Even at seven months, premature babies can be kept alive these days.”

Ahmet Re
ş
at didn’t have the heart to tell him that the baby wasn’t even six months yet.

They quickly walked to the house without speaking. Behice opened the door. Her eyes were red, her face chalk white. As Ahmet Re
ş
at removed his fez he asked:

“Is the baby alive, Behice?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, sobbing as she threw herself into his arms.

“And Mehpare? Is she well?”

Still sobbing, Behice responded, “Yes . . . as well as can be expected.”

“I’ll go upstairs and see how they are,” Mahir offered. Doctor’s bag in hand, he was heading for the stairs when Behice said through her tears, “Mahir Bey, Mehpare is in the selamlık.”

Mahir opened the door to the selamlık. A sheet had been spread over one of the divans and Mehpare lay there, arms at her sides in the narrow space, still as a corpse. In a cradle next to the divan lay a tiny infant, obviously premature, swathed in cotton. Its cries were so weak they were barely audible. The midwife sat on a cushion at Mehpare’s feet, reading the Koran. When she saw the doctor she collected herself. “It was premature,” she whispered. “She’s going through a bad time. She doesn’t want to see her son.”

Mahir went over to Mehpare and asked, “Are you all right, Mehpare Hanım?” She didn’t open her eyes.

“Mehpare Hanım . . . Mehpare . . . It’s me, Doctor Mahir. Are you all right?”

When there was still no response he assumed Mehpare was sleeping and went over to the cradle. He leaned over, took the baby in his arms, set it on the divan and began examining it. To the midwife, who was standing over him, he said, “The chances of survival are good.”

He went upstairs to say he thought it would be a good idea to keep the baby under observation at the hospital for up to ten days and that, if they permitted him, he would take both mother and baby to the Italian Hospital in Beyo
ğ
lu, where some of his close friends were working. He opened the door to the sitting room and poked his head inside. Ahmet Re
ş
at was sprawled in his chair and when the doctor saw the expression on his face he forgot all about Mehpare and the baby. “Re
ş
at Bey!” he whispered.

Saraylıhanım was sitting cross-legged on the divan in front of the window, hands folded in her lap, rocking back and forth and repeatedly muttering something unintelligible to Mahir. He listened carefully for a moment, but when he still couldn’t make out what she was saying he set his bag on the floor and carefully looked around the room. Behice and Suat weren’t there. It was Leman who stood at her father’s side, massaging cologne into his temples and his arms; it was Leman whose face was as pallid and drawn as her father’s. Leman came up to Mahir, leaned forward as though she was about to tell him a secret, and said, in a near whisper, “We received some painful news today . . .”

Mahir stared at Leman’s face. She’d aged at least ten years that day and it was only now that he could make sense of Saraylıhanım’s repeated lament: “There’s not even a grave for me to visit!”