The Stone Woman

THIRTEEN

Salman meditates on love and talks of the tragedy that blemished his life; his cruel betrayal by Mariam, the daughter of the Copt diamond merchant Hamid Bey in Alexandria

‘AM I REALLY THE first man to appear before you, Stone Woman? When I told my sister Zeynep that I needed to speak with you she became openly hostile and contemptuous: “Why are you desecrating what has been a sanctuary for the women of this house?”

I had to remind her firmly that, as children, it was not the girls alone who hid behind the rocks to eavesdrop on our guilt-stricken mothers and aunts and servants. Halil and I were always here as well. On hearing this she smiled and relented a little and, as a result, I come to you, after almost twenty-five years, with the reluctant permission of my sister.

If you thought that this light-hearted return to your side indicated that I was once again the carefree boy of my youth, you would be wrong. I am tormented, Stone Woman. Over the last five years my soul has experienced far too many dark nights.

Hasan Baba always taught us that without the experience of darkness one can never properly appreciate the light, but there is another side to this profundity. What if the darkness never goes and light becomes a distant memory? I have heard that in parts of the world where the sun almost disappears during the winter, there are many people who find it unbearable and take their own lives. The same is true of the inner darkness that can sometimes smother the soul.

Since you have never heard my story, I suppose I should begin at the beginning. I will not dwell too long on my mother, who died bringing me into this world. Others must have mentioned her to you and told of how her death transformed my father completely. To avoid thinking of her, he became a person who could never have thought of her or been attracted by someone like her. Each of us has an instinct for masquerade and self-transformation. It gives some pleasure to know we are capable of it and it helps to deceive prying eyes. My father, unfortunately, took the self-deception so far that he almost began to believe in his new identity. I was the one who suffered the most. For Iskander Pasha, I must have become a dual reminder of her and the unwitting cause of her death. What my brother and sisters don’t know is that often when he saw me alone as a child, he would lift me off the ground and kiss my cheeks with great feeling. I always knew he loved me, but another side of him wished to punish me and as I grew older, so did my acts of defiance against the petty tyrannies of his household, and our relations deteriorated. From the age of fourteen onwards I wanted to run away from this family. I envied my mother, who had been brought up without a family, and grew up as a freer spirit than any of us.

The moment I was presented with an opportunity, I left Istanbul and after travelling for a year, I ended up in Alexandria. I had spent many months in Jerusalem, Damascus and Cairo, but none of them appealed as a residence. Jerusalem was too religious and the other cities, despite their charms, were far too noisy and too remote from the sea. I was bemoaning the loss of the sea one day, when an arrogant young Bey said to me: “If our delicate little flower from Istanbul wilts without a sea breeze why does he not go and live in Iskanderiya? Personally, I can’t bear it for more than two weeks each summer, but there’s no accounting for Ottoman tastes. Go and live in our house as long as you like, Salman Pasha, and if you like the city then find yourself a place to live.”

That was how I happened to settle down in a city that bore my father’s name. Is it possible to fall in love with a place, Stone Woman? It is. I did. I used to walk for hours each day, till I came to know every corner of Alexandria. To escape the noise of the morning, I would walk away from the city and find refuge near the sea. I had seen a tiny cove on one of my walks and this became my very own and special retreat. I would come here for the early part of the day, before the sun made it impossible to look up at the sky. My only friend in those days was a copy of Verlaine. I would gaze at the sea, dream of happiness, think about my life and sometimes find amusement in writing bad poetry. One of the easiest things in the world, Stone Woman, is to write bad poetry. Has anyone ever told you that before?

The important thing was that I found what I had craved for all these years. I was on my own. Solitude, I discovered, is essential for the mind to gauge its own strength. It is true that a solitary existence has its drawbacks. The satisfaction we feel at not being injured by contact with others is sometimes negated by the sadness that can overcome us because we have only ourselves. This is again very different from the solitude that was forced on me some years later. The sense of loss I suffered made my life a continuous agony of loneliness. Even in the company of my friends, to say nothing of strangers, I felt completely alone.

My money supply was beginning to contract. As always, my Uncle Kemal responded generously. Before I left he had made me promise that if I was in financial difficulty, I was always to approach him and not worry my father. This suited me perfectly. I sent Uncle Kemal a telegram, thanking our stars that the Empire had agreed to install the telegraph system. A few weeks later one of his ships touched port at Alexandria. The captain called on me with a small, sealed packet. I thanked him, offered him some coffee and asked if he knew my uncle’s plans. To my amazement he informed me that Uncle Kemal was preparing to visit Japan and set up an office in Tokyo.

The minute he left, I quickly undid the packet and found, to my delight, a medium-sized, uncut stone nestling in cotton wool. I did wonder then why Uncle Kemal was so fond of me. I had never attempted to cultivate his affection. He had three daughters, each uglier and more stupid than the other, so perhaps I was a surrogate son. There had been other hints, but I had made it very clear to his wife, my aunt, that I was not in the least interested in any of her daughters as a possible wife. My uncle had laughed on being told this.

There was also a letter of credit to my uncle’s bankers in Cairo and a note for me which recommended that I should use the diamond as surety and not, under any circumstances, sell it without first consulting him. He had sent me the name of “a small, but very reliable” diamond merchant in Alexandria, with whom he had often “done business. He is a Copt, very trustworthy and an old family friend. Go to him if ever you’re in trouble”. He had told me of this person before I left Istanbul, but since I had no plans at that time to visit Alexandria, I had not shown any interest. When I finally did reach here I remembered my uncle’s friend, but I had forgotten his name and felt that if I sent for his address from my old office, it might burden me with tiresome social responsibilities. I remained aloof. I could let nothing breach my solitude. Nothing except the shortage of funds.

The journey to the house could be delayed no longer. I went there one day straight from the beach and a fairy princess opened the door. She burst out laughing at the sight of me. I had sand on my clothes and hair, sandals on my feet and a tattered copy of Verlaine in my hand. “Have I come to the right house?” I stammered, unable to stop my eyes from travelling her entire body. “Does Hamid Bey live here?”

She nodded and invited me into the house. She had deep black hair, an olive complexion and small eyes, which made me wonder whether her mother was Japanese. She was wearing a European-style dress, which revealed the lower parts of her legs, but what had delighted me the most was her laugh and the fact that her feet were bare.

“You caught us by surprise,” she said. “My father is taking a bath at the moment. Are you Salman Pasha? We were expecting you one of these days. Can I offer you a drink? I hope you will join us for lunch. If you will excuse me, however, I must go and change my dress. Please feel at home.”

It was my turn to laugh. She disappeared without asking me to explain the cause of my amusement. Do you know why I laughed, Stone Woman? Their house could not have been more unlike home. In Istanbul we lived in the eighteenth century, and here, in Yusuf Pasha’s summer palace by the sea, time lost all meaning. The house in Alexandria was very much ahead of its time. I had never seen such elegant furniture in Istanbul, not even in the house of the Bragadinis. They, too, preferred to live in the past, but here was the latest furniture from Italy. In the hall there was a large Chinese chest. Everything was new. As I was admiring the decorations on the walls, Hamid Bey came down the stairs in a white silk suit and greeted me warmly. He must have been approaching sixty, but was extremely well preserved and surprisingly slender, unlike my father and uncles who were all on the portly side.

I thought it might be best to get our business over with before lunch. I showed him the gift from my uncle. He took it to his desk and inspected it under a microscope. “It is a very good stone. I assume you wish to use it to raise some money for whatever project you are preparing at the moment?” My only project was to enjoy life to the full and it was for that I needed the money, so I nodded and smiled. “I trust Kemal Pasha more than my own brother. You did not need to show me the stone. How much do you need to borrow?” Without thinking I named a figure. He told me to return the next day and collect the money.

When his daughter came down for lunch a transformation had taken place. She looked demure, was far less relaxed and more traditionally attired in a yellow tunic that touched the floor and leather sandals, which, to my great annoyance, hid her naked feet. Her face, if anything, appeared stern. I hoped it was only her father’s presence that was responsible for the change.

“This is my daughter, Mariam. She has managed the affairs of this house ever since her mother’s absence.”

Nothing more was said of the mother and it was not till many months later that Mariam told me the whole story. Our conversation during lunch was polite. My Arabic not being as fluent as that of Hamid Bey and Mariam and their Turkish being non-existent, I lapsed into French. The pleasure on her face was visible. She never had the opportunity to practise and perfect her knowledge of the language and was excited by the fact that I spoke it so well.

Stone Woman, I know that nothing surprises or shocks you. That is why so many have sat in your presence over centuries and spoken to their heart’s content.

On that very first day, while I was having lunch at her father’s table and as his honoured guest, I fell for this creature. Love can never be planned like a book of accounts. You cannot say to yourself: this person meets all the conditions I have laid down for falling in love. She has features that are attractive. She is well-spoken, but will not speak out of turn. She has a reasonable dowry. She will bear me healthy children. I will, therefore, proceed to fall in love with her.

I have known merchants who measure love as they do their trade; physicians who feel their own pulse to make sure they are in love; philosophers who constantly doubt their own love; gardeners who think love grows like a fruit and egotists who can never love anyone else. Don’t misunderstand me, Stone Woman. I am not saying that love does not grow, deepen and become stronger with each passing year. That is all true, but for that to happen it is important how it begins. In my book there is only one true beginning. All others are false. Love must strike one like lightning. That is what happened to me eight years ago on that pleasant summer afternoon as the sea breezes wafted through the house of the Copt merchant, Hamid Bey. Mariam had barely turned eighteen. I was approaching my thirty-second year.

I returned the next day to collect my money. An old woman with a cross hanging ominously from her wrinkled neck opened the door and informed me in a very formal voice that Hamid Bey had left for Cairo on business. He would be away for several days. He had left an envelope, which she would now hand to me, and would I please return in ten days’ time, when her master would be back in the city. The old crone must have seen the disappointment on my face, for it registered a degree of pleasure on her own. I stood there, paralysed and despondent.

Before I could think of saying anything, Mariam came running into the house from the terrace, slightly out of breath, but, Heaven be praised, bare-footed. My heart melted at the sight of her feet.

She shouted at the old woman, “I told you to send for me when Salman Pasha arrived.” The retainer shrugged her shoulders in disgust and left the room.

Mariam turned to me. “Ignore her, Salman Pasha. She is over-protective and impolite. She’s been in my father’s family for centuries and really enjoys being discourteous. She hated my mother. Should we go and sit on the terrace? Would you like a fresh lime drink? Have you brought any French books with you? Why are you laughing?”

I do not have the strength to live through the entire experience again, not even for you, Stone Woman. Some of the memories are so pure and sweet that they would make me weep. I would become weak and love her again and all would be lost. It would be like falling into the abyss, but never hitting the ground — the worst possible nightmare. I am determined, whatever the cost, to avoid such a calamity. For that reason and that alone I will quicken the pace of this narrative.

Hamid Bey’s stay in Cairo was extended beyond a week. Mariam and I would meet every day, but never after sunset. The crone with the cross had expressly forbidden that, and Mariam felt it foolish and unnecessary to defy the restriction. Wherever we were in that large house, I began to feel we were being watched, and Mariam began to feel the same. We were being suffocated. I told her of my secret cove. Her eyes grew large at the thought of an adventure. She would send for Maria, for that is what the crone had been christened, instruct her to make us some coffee and while she was in the kitchen, we would run away from the house like thieves with our French books firmly tucked under our arms. Mariam, too, fell in love with the little cove, where we were completely alone.

We declared our love for each other on that day. She, too, admitted that the sight of me with sand on my hair had touched her greatly though she was sure it must have been the sight of Verlaine that had created the lightning effect. We kissed and caressed each other. We discarded our clothes and swam in the sea. We dried ourselves and read aloud to each other. I delighted in each part of her body described in this verse from Verlaine’s love poem, “Spring”:

Beauteous thighs, upright breasts,

The back, the loins and belly, feast

For the eyes and prying hands

And for the lips and all the senses?

The poem excited us even more, but I did not possess her, even though she was prepared to sacrifice her virginity and I was by now in the grip of a white-hot passion. I ached for her. My testicles were hurting, desperate for the fluid to be released, but I resisted her. Why? Because making love to her would have been a violation of her father’s hospitality. Strange, isn’t it, Stone Woman, how old traditions and habits become so deeply embedded in our minds and how difficult it is to uproot them? She was enraged when I confessed this to her and began to curse all Pashas and Pashadoms and declared herself to be a free citizen in the Republic of Love. She became cruel in her mockery. She also made me laugh a great deal. I had never met anyone like her.

When Hamid Bey returned to Alexandria, and before Maria could pour poison in his ears, I asked for Mariam’s hand in marriage. I told Hamid Bey I wanted nothing else. I was not interested in a dowry. We would be married and live on our own. I had thought he might ask me to wait a year or, at least, six months and in some other city to determine whether my affection was real or transient, but he had no such doubts. “I felt from the first day you lunched with us that Mariam and you were ideally matched. You have my blessing. As you know I am a Copt. I would like the wedding to be in church. When you take her to Istanbul you can have another ceremony.”

My heart was so filled with joy that I laughed. “Hamid Bey, I would marry her anywhere. As you know, I am not a believer. The actual ceremony is of no consequence to me.”

Hamid Bey did not wish to delay the matter any further. I had no desire to inform any member of my family, with the exception of Uncle Kemal. The telegram I despatched to his office was firm on one point. I told him that the news was for him alone. I did not wish to receive messages from anyone in Istanbul. He sent me a telegram of congratulations and wrote that he accepted my request for secrecy, but in return he insisted that the house I was buying must be a joint wedding gift from Hamid Bey and himself. Stone Woman, I accepted their kindness. After all, it was a house they were offering me, not a camel herd. I did, however, firmly turn down the offer of Maria as our housekeeper. Some sacrifices are simply unacceptable.

Within two weeks Mariam and I were together. These were times of real happiness for both of us, but now when I look back even on that early period I remember episodes that at the time seemed insignificant or even childish.

All of us have different aspects to our character, Stone Woman. It would be unnatural if this was not so, but Mariam was a deeply contradictory woman. In a way I think she really would have preferred Hamid Bey to deny us permission to marry. In her eyes that would have been a test of my love. Would I have run away with her to some other part of the world? My affirmative responses had little real effect on her because it was something that could never be proved. At other times she would say: “I hate it when you’re too happy with me. I prefer you when you’re sad.” I never fully understood why and when I questioned her about this later she denied she had ever said anything of the sort.

It was a long time after the festivities that she explained why Hamid Bey had been in such a hurry. He knew that if there had been a long engagement, it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to prevent her mother’s attendance.

Her mother, Arabella, was the daughter of an English plantation owner and his Chinese mistress, who lived in the British colony of Malaya. Her father, who was unmarried, recognised her and she had grown up in the plantation house, but without her mother, who saw her once or twice a week. Later she was sent to study in Britain. Mariam loved and hated her mother. The words in which she told me the story reflected this duality.

On her way back home from London Arabella was overcome by an urge to see the pyramids at Giza. The ship’s captain telegraphed Singapore and her father agreed. She disembarked at Alexandria. Her father had friends here and had informed them that his headstrong child was on her way. An old couple (now dead) had arrived at the pier to receive her. She was always a spoilt child and took everything for granted. In her photograph she appears to be an Englishwoman. In real life her complexion was slightly darker, but she never wanted to be mistaken for a hybrid. That’s why what happened in Egypt astonished everyone.

Hamid Bey had sighted her at a private dinner, where she confessed her desire to see the Sphinx. He offered to organise her tour and a chaperone. But he was smitten with her and followed her everywhere. Hamid Bey is still a striking man. Twenty years ago, he must have been irresistible. She was flattered by his attention, amused by his jokes, impressed by his wealth and attracted by his body. He proposed. She accepted. Her father sent numerous telegrams forbidding the match, but she was of age and in a defiant mood. Her hosts told her she could not possibly marry an Egyptian. She walked out of their house, declaring that she was half-Chinese and proud of the fact. Everyone knew, of course, but it was never mentioned since everything about her appeared to be English.

Another small problem arose. Hamid Bey comes from a Copt family which traces its descent back over a thousand years. They were already upset that he was defiling the purity of his family by marrying an Englishwoman, but his mother was close to tears when Hamid Bey proudly told his mother that he, too, would have been doubtful if Arabella had been completely English, but the fact she was half Chinese had greatly reassured him.

For Mariam’s grandmother, the Chinese did not exist except as figures that appeared on the screens she sometimes bought from Italian furniture shops. She probably thought that the whole Chinese race was a comic invention. Hamid Bey got very angry. He screamed at his mother. Then he calmed down and gave her a lecture on Chinese civilisation. They had invented the compass, gunpowder, printing, and so on.

They were married quickly. Mariam was born. Her mother was bored. Hamid Bey was travelling a great deal in those days. She led an aimless life. She read little, was not really interested in Egypt or its history and soon began to resent the fact that she was no longer invited to European homes. Soon she started seeing a new set of people. They were non-official Europeans and they met at one club in particular, but usually at each other’s houses to drink gin and play cards. One day she met an Englishman on his way to India. She left her husband and daughter without even a note. Mariam was eleven years old at the time. Her mother wrote to her once saying that she had never really loved Hamid and that true passion was a wonderful experience, which she hoped Mariam would discover one day. Mariam did not see her again, though the two exchanged letters and Arabella sent money every month. She went on to have two more children, whose photographs Mariam has never asked to see, for fear of upsetting Hamid Bey.

It was unbearable for her to witness the decline in her father. He became a mere shadow. They would eat together, discuss books, meet friends, but the joy had gone out of his life. Arabella’s room was left just as it had been on the day she left. Her clothes remained in the cupboard for many years. That dress Mariam wore the first time she and I met, which I liked so much, belonged to Arabella. Later Mariam emptied the room, gave most of her mother’s things away, kept a few for herself and transformed it into a library. She told her father that books were the one item that would never remind him of his wife. He smiled.

Then he went with Uncle Kemal Pasha on a long journey to Japan. He returned a different man. Mariam had no idea what happened or what he experienced, but he became more like his old self. They began to entertain in their house again. Once she tried to speak with him about her mother. His face became lined with pain and he whispered that she had died a long time ago. Mariam never raised the subject again.

The aspect of this story that struck me as peculiar, Stone Woman, did not concern Hamid Bey. His feelings were natural. The only surprise in his case is that he never married again. What puzzled me was Mariam’s own reaction to her mother. In her tone there was always a mixture of anger and admiration. She had been abandoned. That made her angry. But her mother had put love and passion before all else and Mariam had forced herself to admire this side of her mother. I suppose it was the only way she could deal with the betrayal.

The thought that a woman who had done this to her only child was selfish beyond redemption was something that occurred to her but it was always put out of her mind. The result was a deep ambivalence in Mariam’s own character. She developed a real fear of commitment. The experience of losing her mother at a young age had wounded her deeply and the scars never disappeared. To me, who had never known a mother, it was incredible that in all our time together she never once evinced the slightest desire to see her mother again. I was more curious than she was and offered to take her to India, but she was angry with me for the suggestion. It would, she said, be an act of betraying her father and he had suffered more than enough in a single lifetime.

After a year and a half she had still not conceived and this made her very unhappy. She wanted children for more reasons than a normal woman in her position. Her own family and children would help her forget what her mother had done to her, and she became so desperate that it began to affect our relationship.

One day she said, “Perhaps it is your seed that is defective. I should find another man.” She would start crying after she made remarks of this nature, hug me warmly and plead forgiveness. I was not angry at that time, Stone Woman, just sad. To find a woman whom you love so much that she becomes part of your very being and you learn to share everything — joys, sorrows, victories, defeats, good times and bad — is this not rare for men as well as women?

She became pregnant in our third year together and then again the following year. I have rarely seen her so happy. She became absorbed in the children and would take them to visit Hamid Bey every week, sometimes spending the whole day in the big house. Her interest in me had diminished considerably. I remember on one occasion when Uncle Kemal was passing through Alexandria and stayed as our guest, she became extremely irrational when he kissed the children and gave them each a tiny little purse with a gold coin. It was when he began to speak to them with great affection and as a great-uncle that I first noticed her face. When Uncle Kemal said, “Your grandfather Iskander Baba will be so pleased to see you one day”, I saw Mariam’s face darken with anger and she left the room in a rage. I was genuinely amazed. It was inexplicable.

After Uncle Kemal left I tried to discuss her behaviour with her, but my remarks only provoked a tirade against my family. She spoke of why she did not want her children to be taken over by the Pashas of Istanbul; of how there was degeneration and madness in my family and she manufactured numerous other complaints. Given the extent of my own alienation from the family, I found her conduct pathetic and unreasonable.

Even at this stage I made excuses for her irrationality. I convinced myself that she was merely being extra possessive because having lost her mother, she was now fearful of losing the children. Who knows how long I would have continued deluding myself, Stone Woman? But fate took pity on me.

One day, while taking my afternoon walk by the sea, I was approached by a European woman dressed in black and wearing a hat with an attached veil. She was clearly distressed and asked if I was “Signor Salman Pasha, the son-in-law of Hamid Bey”. I acknowledged my identity, whereupon she insisted on speaking with me urgently and immediately. I asked her to accompany me to a less crowded section of the promenade. We sat down and she began to sob. The memory still upsets me and I will not dwell on it too long, but she told me the truth, Stone Woman, even though I only half-believed her at the time. I may sound calm now as I talk to you about all this, but at the time what she told me made me want to die. The sky and the sea went dark. The people walking in front of us became shadows. My mind became numb. The Italian lady told me that I was not the father of our children. Her husband was their real father. It emerged that she was married to the son of the furniture-maker who supplied the needs of the rich in Cairo and Alexandria. The furniture in Hamid Bey’s house had been made by them and I now remembered the young man, Marco, who had measured our villa and who visited our house often till the job was done.

His wife described in every painful detail how Mariam had seduced Marco away from her. She knew because she had taken her suspicions to her father-in-law, who had expressed amazement, but instructed an old carpenter to follow his son discreetly. They used to meet in the early afternoon in my little secret cove, where Mariam and I had first tasted each other. I screamed aloud on hearing this detail. She must have been far gone in her depravity that she took such a risk, knowing that I often went there to read and write. Was she hoping I would see her?

Marco’s father had forced him to confess this and every other detail. He had been sent first to the confessional and then despatched to work in his uncle’s shop in Genoa as a penance. His wife told me that she and her two young daughters were preparing to join him within a month. He now pretended to be remorseful and claimed it was Mariam who had taken the initiative and enchanted him. He had become a slave to her passion. He did not see her before he left, but he told his father that she wanted him to give her another child. Marco’s wife referred to Mariam as a loose and crazy woman and said she had come to me with the truth because she had heard that I was also suffering. I doubt that this was her real motive, but I took my leave of her and wished her well in the future.

I have no recollection of what I did after that encounter. When I reached home it was past midnight. I went into my room and sank on the bed. She was in her room but not asleep. Will it shock you, Stone Woman, if I say that my love for her was so strong that even at this stage I was prepared to forgive her? It was, after all, my seed that had failed to sprout. I told myself that if she was so desperate for children, what else could she have done? She came into my room wearing my old grey silk dressing gown and asked why I had been out so late. I looked at her face and found myself overcome with rage. I wanted to hit her, but I controlled my anger.

“Mariam, I knew we had employed the best furniture-makers in town to supply us with tables and chairs and beds. I had no idea that you had asked their carpenter, Marco, to furnish you with children as well.”

She was shaken, Stone Woman. Her face became pale and she began to tremble. I spoke to her again. “If only you could see your lying, hypocritical face in the mirror! Are you trembling with fear and guilt? Good! Before I finish with you…”

I stopped because she had begun to weep. The sight of her tears had always touched me deeply. I walked to her and began to stroke her face. She reacted to my touch as if I were a leper. Her face was transformed completely. I no longer recognised her as the woman I loved. A strange, scornful smile appeared on her face, a smile of triumph. She was actually pleased at the sight of my misery, glad that I had been humiliated and betrayed. She looked at me with real loathing and said, “My true feelings for you have long been those of disgust and contempt. It is not just that your seed was infertile, but your love had become a punishment for me. I needed to free myself from you and the restraints of this life.”

I did not sleep that night. Her pitiless cruelty left me with no choice. I thought of the two beautiful children I adored. It was difficult to think of them as not belonging to me. I was tempted to see their little trusting faces for the last time, but I resisted the urge. I packed a little valise and walked out of the house at the first sign of dawn.

The streets were empty. The only noise was that of the seagulls scavenging for food. The beautiful sky was red at the edges and slowly turning pink. I couldn’t help contrasting the beauty of nature with the ugliness of what Mariam had done to my life. I walked to Hamid Bey’s house. Maria the crone opened the door, clutching her rosary. For the first time she looked at me with sympathy and patted my back as I entered the hall. Perhaps the pain etched on my face attracted her sympathy. Perhaps she knew. Hamid Bey came down the stairs, took one look at me and realised what had happened. He embraced me warmly and asked Maria to bring us some coffee.

I sat down on a large sofa, whose frame had probably been constructed by Marco, and told Hamid Bey the whole story, just as I am telling you, Stone Woman. I hid nothing. I did not spare his feelings. I did not care that she was his daughter. I was bitter and angry. He heard me in complete silence and then said, “She has turned out just like her mother. Leave Alexandria today, my son, and think of Mariam as dead. It will take a few years, but you will recover. I will make sure all your affairs are in order. I do not know what will become of Mariam, but she remains my child and I will provide for her. Perhaps she will move back here with her children. Let that not concern you any longer. Consider yourself free of any responsibilities and re-make your life somewhere else, Salman Pasha.” And with these words he embraced me once again. There was sadness in his eyes as we parted and he muttered a few words almost as if to himself: “She who was the wife of a prince has become the keep of a carpenter.”

I left Alexandria the next day on a boat bound for the East. I spent a year in Tokyo, which was so different from our world that it distracted me from the pain and grief I had left behind in Alexandria. The mind has a capacity to relegate unwanted baggage to its most secret recesses. I was never fully cured. Memories of those early days of happiness sometimes came flooding back and I fought hard to drive them away by recalling the ugliness of the last week or the cruel words that she had deployed to kill our love.

My Uncle Kemal was also in that part of the world, expanding his fleet of merchant ships, opening new offices in Tokyo and Shanghai and seeking solace in the arms of his numerous mistresses. I had met one of them in Tokyo. He had decided that there should be no secrets between us and introduced me to her. She was beautiful and, on the surface, submissive in her exquisitely embroidered red silk kimono.

She had prepared a meal for us and I was, frankly, horrified when she sat cross-legged with us on the floor, but did not touch her food till she had fed my Uncle Kemal. She did so with some delicacy. The fish never escaped from the little sticks as she dipped it in a tasty sauce and popped it into my uncle’s mouth. I could see why he spent so much time in the East. He had never been happy with his wife. How could such a good-looking man with a passion for finery and a strong sensuality have married a woman with no redeeming qualities? He could never understand why I was puzzled by his choice and would say, with a touch of irritation, “Do you think I would have agreed to the marriage if her dowry had not been able to finance my shipping company? I always loved boats and the sea. So I thought if I had to marry this midget and fertilise her with my sperm, I must make sure the means of escape was always nearby. There are times, Salman, when one is forced to sacrifice long-term happiness in favour of short-term gain. What is really annoying is that all my daughters have inherited their mother’s shape, size and stupidity. It will require three very generous dowries to have them removed from the house. I mean, can you imagine anyone, and I really mean anyone, falling in love with any of them? The pity is that I love Istanbul more than your other uncle and your father. Iskander loves Paris. Memed is besotted with Berlin. I have remained faithful to my Istanbul, but the beauty of the city has become associated in my mind with the never-ending ugliness that greets me at home. So I escape and, as you can see, I am happy here. I prefer Tokyo to Shanghai. Here I can submerge myself in the landscape. Shanghai is too noisy and too filthy. I never feel safe in its streets.”

I was keen to visit China, Stone Woman, and for many reasons, but Uncle Kemal suggested I return to Istanbul. “They worry about you,” he said. “They imagine you are still in Egypt. I think you need them a little now. Solitude cannot help you any more. You can always come back to me later. You have always been like a son to me, but now we have also become friends and this is a rare pleasure at this stage of one’s life.”

I followed his advice and returned to Istanbul. I was there when my father suffered a stroke and I rushed here with Halil. Remember Halil when he was little? Full of mischief. Who would have thought he would be a general?

When I first came here I was gripped by a severe depression and unable to focus on anything, but the clouds have lifted at last, Stone Woman. My father and I have never been as close as we are now. I love Nilofer’s children and soon I will tell her my story so that she knows why I do not speak of “my children”. And as for General Halil Pasha, what can I say? He, of all people, has reawakened my youthful interest in politics and history. We are on the verge of big changes, Stone Woman. Everything could be different. The inertia that has always marked our lives could be swept away by a tidal wave of reform. It is in times like these that one realises that there are other joys in this world apart from those of love and union with the beloved.

All will change, Stone Woman, and it will change soon, but I hope you will always remain to provide comfort for those who find it difficult to tolerate pain in silence.’