The Stone Woman

SEVEN

Nilofer tells the Stone Woman that Selim has stroked her breasts in the moonlight and she is falling in love with him; she is shocked to discover that her mother has been eavesdropping

‘I DON’T KNOW WHERE to begin, Stone Woman. It happened suddenly, without warning, and now I may be in worse trouble than ever before. It happened yesterday in the light of the moon. I wanted to go and count the stars on the beach and I wanted to be completely alone. So I took the tiny path that leads from the cliffs to the entrance of the cave overlooking the sea. When we were children we used to believe that it was our little secret and we were convinced that no adult knew of the path. Even if they did they would find it difficult to follow us because the track was truly little.

As I heard the gentle noise of the water caressing the sand I felt at peace with myself. When I look at the sea glistening in the moonlight and then gaze upwards to catch the stars it somehow puts everything in a different perspective. My own problems shrink into nothingness. Compared to nature, we are but tiny specks in the sand. I was in deep meditation when a familiar voice came from the dark.

“Forgive me, hanim effendi, but I thought I should make my presence known just in case you were overcome by a burning desire to bathe in the silken waters of this sea.”

It was Selim, the grandson of Hasan Baba. I had spoken to him on a number of occasions since the circumcision. He had come to inspect Orhan’s wound and make sure it was healing properly. Orhan had grown to like this young man and I, too, had to admit I found his company pleasing. I liked the fact that he never averted his eyes when I addressed him. His eyes were melancholy for so young a person, but when he laughed they shone like diamonds. I was pleased by his presence.

I know what you’re thinking, Stone Woman. You have seen so much over the centuries and you think I had willed him to be present, but I swear by everything I hold dear that I had not thought of him at all. The social chasm between us was so vast that he never entered my mind except as a kind barber from Istanbul who had travelled a whole day to circumcise my son. He was, undoubtedly, an intelligent man and I must confess I was surprised when he declared his passion for the operas of Donizetti Pasha. The music was alien to me, but the way he talked about it made me yearn for the opera. Of course, none of this can explain what happened yesterday, Stone Woman.

“What are you doing here, Selim?”

“I came to watch the sky.”

“And think?”

“Yes, hanim effendi, and think. In my world solitude is a precious commodity. I live in a house with six other people. I can’t even hear myself think. This place is like paradise. You must have missed it very much when you were in Konya.”

“I did, and please stop calling me hanim effendi. When we are alone you may call me Nilofer.”

“You are beautiful, Nilofer.”

“I did not give you permission to talk in this fashion. Control your tongue, you insolent boy.”

He fell silent.

“I heard you making Orhan laugh yesterday. Tell me a story, Selim. Make me laugh.”

He stood up and began to throw pebbles in the sea. Then he came and sat in front of me.

“I will obey you, princess. Listen, then, to my story. Once long ago in the reign of a Sultan, whose name I cannot recall, there lived a young and beautiful princess. She was a younger sister of the Sultan and he was very fond of her, largely because she kept a storehouse full of jokes. She had been blessed with prodigious powers of recollection. Her memory was the envy of the Court. She never forgot a face, its name or a conversation. She made the Sultan laugh and he rewarded her by never compelling her to get married. She would veil herself and, accompanied by six armed eunuchs, she would visit taverns and places of ill-repute and all this to collect the latest lewd jokes.

“She had refused many offers of marriage, from some of the richest families in Istanbul. She told her friends that she could never be satisfied with one man. She could not commit herself to live the life of a housebound wife. The choice was celibacy or freedom to choose her men. If she saw a man she wanted, she would summon him and lift her veil. Since she was extremely attractive, most men succumbed to her charms. They were conducted by the eunuchs to her private chamber in the palace. Here she lay on a divan awaiting them, only the most flimsy of shawls covering her naked body.

“The lover she had chosen for that particular night was dazzled by the sight of her. When she removed the shawl all was laid bare and as the fortunate man fell on his knees before her she would speak the same words that she had to many of his predecessors: ‘You may gorge yourself on this feast till you are sated. Enjoy it well, for you will never see or taste another. From paradise you will proceed straight to hell.’

“The excited lover was by this time too agitated and overcome by desire to reflect on her warning. It was only after she had been pleasured that he began to show signs of nervousness, but by then it was too late. The eunuchs entered the chamber and escorted the unfortunate lover to a boat moored nearby. One of the eunuchs sang a lament for lost lovers, while the others gently circled the condemned man’s neck with a cord and strangled him to death. The delicate morsel of last night’s banquet was thrown into the Bosporus so that the fish could feed on him. The royal flesh of unmarried females was forbidden to a commoner. He who had enjoyed must be destroyed. He could not be allowed to live and tell the tale. The princess had made one exception to the rule.

“‘If,’ she instructed the eunuchs, ‘any of them ever shouts his defiance of death and declares that a night in my arms is worth the sacrifice, spare his life. Such a spirit should be preserved, not suffocated.’

“Every morning she would inquire anxiously, but none of them ever did. This made her sad, but she lived a long time and in her old age spent a great deal of time in tekkes, where ecstasy is not dependent on physical contact.”

I was greatly moved by this story, Stone Woman, or so I thought. Now I think it was the story-teller who affected me.

“Did the princess have a name?” I asked.

“She was called Nilofer.”

It was a warm night and, perhaps, the moon had touched us both, so that when Selim moved closer and stroked my cheeks, I did not resist. When he felt my breasts I made a half-hearted attempt to restrain his ardour, but I wished him to go further. I kissed his eyes and his lips and undressed him. After I had made love to him we washed ourselves in the sea. He was inexperienced, but it did not matter to me. I had not been intimate with a man for nearly a year and the warmth alone had comforted me.

We did not speak for a long time. I stroked his hair as he rested his head in my lap. His first sentence was a whisper.

“Will Petrossian take me out on a boat tonight and drown me?”

I laughed as I hugged him.

“No. In order to do that it would be necessary to castrate him first. Only eunuchs can carry out such an assignment.”

“I thought he was a eunuch. It is said in the kitchen that your family has castrated him in spirit if not in flesh.”

When I suggested that it was time for me to leave, Stone Woman, he held me in a tight embrace and aroused my passion. This time we did not wash because the night was almost over and there was no time to dry ourselves. Am I a lost woman, Stone Woman? What if he has left me with a child? Will the passion I felt for him lead to love?’

My words froze on my lips as I heard the noise of rustling.

“You have embarked on the road to unhappiness, my child.”

“Who’s there?”

My mother emerged from behind the stones. I wept as I screamed at her. “This is a sanctuary, Mother. You have defiled it by your presence. It was cruel of you to eavesdrop.”

“I had come to speak to the Stone Woman myself, child, when I heard your voice. How could I walk away without hearing your story? When you were children, you would hide and listen to all of us. Now it is our turn. You must not complain. My reasons are not so different. You’re such a secretive girl. You never told me about the Greek teacher — and look where it has led you. I know that life with him has made you morose and you were always such a cheerful child. I am starved of information concerning your life, Nilofer. I’m glad I heard your story even though it was an accident. Come with me.”

She put her arm around my shoulders and took me to her room. I sat on the floor so she could massage my head as she did when I was a child. Neither of us spoke for a long time. The reassuring sound of her hands rubbing my scalp had the soothing effect of a balm. As I began to recover my composure I realised, to my astonishment, that she was not in the least angry with me.

“I always wanted you to be happy. When you ran away with the school teacher, I was sad only because I would have liked to celebrate the wedding of my only child. I missed the music and the feasting and the dancing. I would have liked to send you off to your husband in some style. That was a mother’s unrealised dream. Once I had recovered from my disappointment nothing else mattered except your happiness. If you were happy, what right did I have to be sad? But you weren’t happy, were you, Nilofer? That was the impression Halil brought back with him after his first meeting with you and that stick, Dmitri.”

My mother wished to talk of the past. My thinking was concentrated on the present. I wanted to know exactly where Selim was at this moment. I wanted to know what he was thinking. I wondered whether he had told anyone about us. Was he regretting his audacity? As these thoughts raced through my head, my heartbeat quickened in unison, but the impatient expression on my mother’s face was beginning to disfigure her features. It could not be ignored any longer. She would not permit me to move on until I had satisfied her. Perhaps it was more than mere curiosity. Perhaps it was a concern for the children and for my future. Perhaps it had something to do with her own life and frustrated hopes.

“Answer me, Nilofer. What went wrong?”

This was a question I had often asked myself over the last five years. My feelings poured out like a waterfall and almost overwhelmed my mother. I told her that what I had thought of as love had been nothing but the romantic fantasies of an immature mind. Dmitri had offered an escape from the closed world of our family and I had foolishly made the leap with him. I spoke of how I felt my mind beginning to atrophy in the house in Istanbul. I was imprisoned by its routines, stifled by its traditions, crushed by the weight of its history. I was overwhelmed by a desire to experience the real world. Our summer house and the sea represented freedom. Ever since I was three years old I had always loved being here. Dmitri just happened to pass by at the right time. It could have been anyone.

I told her of how all this had become very clear to me even before I had become pregnant with Emineh. Her birth had marked a point of no return. After that I found him physically repulsive and intellectually unsatisfying. He began to resent what he called my superior ways and our relationship disintegrated. I thought perhaps that a period of absence might change my mind, but after a week here with Orhan I knew it was over. I could never go back to Konya and share his hideous bed.

“And now, Mother, you have compelled me to invite him here for Orhan’s sake and so that we can see my Emineh. He kept her as a hostage, you know. To make sure I returned. Perhaps he will not come, but if he does he must return alone. My children will stay here with us.”

“The boy is attached to him, Nilofer. He has been a good father to both his children. Poor man. I feel sorry for him. What a misfortune to have you as a wife. He needed someone submissive and a good cook. Like me, you are neither. Meanwhile you are satisfying your needs with the help of a young barber. If Iskander Pasha finds out he’ll have another stroke. First a teacher, now a barber. What next?”

“Selim may be a barber by descent, Mother, but his intelligence transcends that of most of this family.”

“Stop this at once. You used exactly the same words with exactly the same stubborn look on your face ten years ago, when you decided to elope with that school teacher. At least learn from your own mistakes, my child. Selim does not pose a serious problem. A handsome purse from one of your brothers might seal his mouth. I don’t want him boasting or mentioning your name in the coffee houses. He should be sent back immediately to Istanbul. And don’t you dare tell me that you will return with him. You have two children to think now.

“I will not permit Selim to be insulted by you or anyone else in this family, Mother! The very idea of offering him money fills me with nausea.”

“Really? Surely the nausea you feel is induced by a fear that he might accept our offer. Whichever it is, I would rather you were sick than sorry, Nilofer.”

My anger was about to explode but I managed to contain myself. “I am not a child any longer. Ten years seems a lifetime away. I accept my head is in a whirl, but I am not about to do anything foolish or impulsive. Let us remain calm and think of the future.”

“How strange that you should use that particular phrase. You sounded just like your grandmother Beatrice. She was always a great believer in remaining calm and imagining a prosperous future.”

I looked over my mother’s shoulder and saw the familiar portrait of Grand-mother Beatrice on the mantelpiece. It had been painted the year after she married Grandfather and if her features had not been exaggerated by the painter, as was often the case in those days since painters always wanted to please in order to be employed again, she must have been a very striking woman, much more so than her own daughter, my mother Sara. The same Sara was looking at me intently as I thought of her past.

Before this day, I had never found a chance to speak with my mother as an equal. Before I ran away with Dmitri we were hardly ever alone and, in any case, I had been too young to be taken seriously. I had heard vague rumours that my mother was unhappy when she first married Iskander Pasha, but Zeynep denied that this was so and told me not to believe anything I heard in the kitchen.

Everything had changed since then, and as the mother of two children, my status had suddenly risen, at least as far as my mother was concerned. I asked her a question I had been saving for over ten years.

“Were you forced to marry him?”

To my surprise she hugged me and began to weep. Tears, which must have been stored there for many years, poured out in a torrent. It was my turn to hold her close and comfort her.

“I told the Stone Woman everything all those years ago. Nobody told you?”

I shook my head.

“Perhaps I was really alone. There were no eavesdroppers that day.”

“You don’t have to tell me now, Mother. There will be other occasions.”

But she wanted to talk about herself. It was as if listening to me talking to the Stone Woman had unblocked something deep in her heart.

‘If only my father had not been a court physician, my whole life would have taken a different course. Because like his father and grandfather before him he attended the Sultan and the royal family, it was considered a mark of prestige for lesser nobles to employ him as well. I suppose he was also good at his work, though he often used to quote his grandfather returning from the palace and remarking that the task of a good physician was not just to heal the body, which was often difficult, but to comfort the mind, which was always possible. My father thought that this commonplace was very profound and he repeated it often when we had guests, so that Mother and I would look at each other when we saw it coming and silently mouth the words.

Iskander Pasha, a great believer in maintaining traditions, had employed your grandfather as the family physician. Even so, had it not been for an accident of fate, my future might not have been determined so hastily. One day Iskander Pasha’s coachman collided with another coach. Your father was slightly hurt. I think a piece of wood grazed his forehead and he began to bleed. The frightened coachman drove straight to our house and asked for my father. He was out on a visit and my mother insisted that Iskander Pasha be brought into the house so that one of my father’s assistants could disinfect and dress the wound. This was not an uncommon occurrence in those days. I was with my mother when your father entered our house. After he had been bandaged my mother, aware of the fact that he had been recently appointed as the Sultan’s ambassador to Paris, offered him some refreshments. He was about to refuse when he caught sight of me. A woman can always tell when a man looks at her in that particular fashion. He stayed and broke bread with us. He was still there when my father returned an hour later and he was invited to stay to dinner. To our amazement he accepted the invitation. He was in a charming mood, breaking into French and German and impressing us with his knowledge of Paris and Berlin. My father, to be honest, was flattered that such an important dignitary from such a distinguished family had spent four hours in our house.

As the coffee was served, Father was about to enlighten Iskander Pasha on the task of a good physician, when to our delight and surprise, Iskander Pasha stole the moment from him. He had heard the story before. My father was crestfallen till Iskander Pasha confided that it was the Sultan who had first relayed to him this immortal saying. A smile took over my father’s face. It was so ingratiating and so servile and eager to please that I really felt my stomach turn. I had no choice but to leave the table. I rushed to the bathroom and vomited everything. Strong premonitions can have that effect on one’s body.

When I returned, my face pale and drained, Iskander Pasha had made his farewells and left. I was relieved, for during the meal he had kept looking at me in a fashion that made me nervous and fearful. I was not in the least interested in him and I remember that night when I was in bed I kept repeating to myself: “Treat him like a closed door which must never be opened. If you push it even a tiny bit in order to peep through the crack you will sink into oblivion.” This was not difficult to achieve, since he had not succeeded in arousing my curiosity to the slightest degree. Remember that I was not yet twenty and your father, twice my age and more, already appeared to me like an old man…’

At this stage I interrupted her. I was irritated that she was exhibiting such complete apathy towards my father. After all, he was neither stupid nor ugly and I did love him, despite his many imperfections. I was in a hurry to reach the root of the problem.

“Before you continue to explain your indifference to my father, let me ask you something. Were you in love with another man at the time?”

“Yes,” she replied with a fierceness that took me aback, “I was in love with Suleman. He was my own age. We shared each other’s emotions, desires and dreams. There was a harmony between us, which went so deep, so deep, that it felt like the wellspring that is the source of life. Do you want to hear about him, Nilofer, or will you feel disloyal to your poor, crippled father, lying speechless next door? Be honest.”

I was touched by the depth of her emotions and even more so by the fact that she could still feel all this after thirty years in this household. My feelings seemed so transient when compared to what she must have suffered. I was overcome by love for her and I leaned over and kissed her face, wiping away the single, salty tear that was crawling down her left cheek.

“I want to hear everything, Mother. Everything.”

‘Suleman was a distant cousin of my mother. His family, like ours, had moved to Istanbul from Cordoba in the fifteenth century, when we were expelled by the Catholics. My father came from a family of physicians who claimed kinship with Maimonides. My mother’s family were merchants and traders. They were made welcome here. The Ottomans gave us refuge and employment. Suleman’s forebears moved away and settled in Damascus, but without ever losing contact with the family in Istanbul. Since they were traders they travelled a great deal and, as a consequence, contact was never broken. The marriage of my parents, which was a happy one, had been arranged through the exchange of letters.

Suleman wanted to be a physician. He was tired of Damascus. He found it far too provincial and he wanted to be close to Europe. His father wrote to mine and, naturally, Suleman was invited to stay with us indefinitely. My father had agreed to procure his entry into the medical school in Istanbul. I was eighteen years of age at the time. He was a year older. It was as if the sun had entered our house.

All my friends had brothers and sisters and I had always felt odd that I was an only child. Mother could not conceive again after my birth, which had been difficult. She said that if Father had not been present, the midwife would have been incapable of stemming the flow of blood and she would have died. Strange that I, too, have only produced a single flower, which has fruited so beautifully. I was truly relieved when you produced Orhan and Emineh. I felt the old curse had been broken.

Suleman was like the older brother I never had and certainly my parents treated him like a son. There were no restrictions. I took him everywhere, both in the coach and on foot. I showed him the hidden delights of our city. Visitors from the West look at Sinan’s mosques and sigh with admiration. They are bewitched by the palaces and they marvel at the rituals of the Court, but few of them ever penetrate the inner life of our city. The loves we share with a city are always secret, adolescent day-dreams, especially if that city is wide open like Istanbul, but I felt like keeping nothing secret from Suleman even though I had known him for less than two weeks. The affinities between us were deep, but there were also differences. I was wilful and headstrong. He was emotional and tender-hearted, but also insecure in many ways.

We would often dress like Westerners and take tea in a hotel and speak in French to the waiters. It was only when we heard them wondering in Turkish whether we were brother and sister or a newly married couple on their honeymoon that I replied in pure Stambouline, just to observe their amazed expressions. They were the happiest days of my life, Nilofer. The innocence that precedes true love can never be repeated. When it vanishes, it has gone for ever.

Everything seemed magical when Suleman and I were together. We would sit in a café sipping coffee in Europe as we observed the sunset drowning Asia across the Golden Horn. We could speak with each other about everything and anything. There were no taboos. Nothing was sacred. It was not simply that we exchanged reminiscences or discussed the more peculiar episodes in the history of our respective families. From the very beginning there was something much more intimate. It was as if we had never been without each other. And we laughed, Nilofer. I have never laughed so much in my life before or since that time.

Till I met Suleman, nobody had shown any real interest in me. I was the daughter of the house and, no doubt, I would soon be married off and that would be the end of my story. My father, in particular, was so busy looking after the health of his more illustrious patients that he had very little time for me.

Suleman was the first and last person to ask me what I wanted of life. He did not laugh when I confessed my deepest fantasies. He encouraged me when I said that I wanted to be a novelist like Balzac. He gave me his undivided attention. He never attempted to impose his will on mine — not that he would have succeeded if he had ever tried. At moments like this, it is sufficient simply to love life. Everything else will follow, or so I dreamed. It would be just as beautiful as now. This was not to be.

One evening, Suleman and I found ourselves alone at home. My parents, attired in all their finery, had left to attend a wedding feast at the palace. The servants had been permitted a free evening. At first, we amused ourselves by playing duets from Mozart’s opera Don Giovanni on the piano. Then we ate. It was only later, when our conversation had reached a natural pause that I felt slightly tense in his company. My heartbeat quickened its pace. He left the room and returned with a sheaf of papers. It was on that evening he first showed me those three sketches he had made. If I shut my eyes now I can see them very clearly.

“I never knew you were an artist,” was all I could say as I attempted to mask my confusion and remain aloof, calm and sophisticated at the same time.

“Nor did I,” he replied.

The first sketch was a tender reproduction of my face, the second was the same face, but this time in sharp profile. I hated this one because he had exaggerated my nose, drawn it too thick, like a shapeless cucumber, but before I could remonstrate, he showed me the third… O, the third, Nilofer, the third. It was how he imagined my unclothed body. His hands trembled as he held it up for me. I was thunderstruck by his audacity but also very alarmed by his accuracy. Many months later he confessed that he had spied on me bathing one afternoon, but by then we had reached a new stage of intimacy and nothing else mattered.’

Sara paused. The memories had stirred old passions and she was upset. She poured herself some water from the jug near her bed. I saw her now in a completely different light. I still could not believe that she had permitted Suleman to make love to her. If that were the case, why had they not run away together? He could have taken her with him. But why should it have reached that stage in the first place? Had my grandparents forbidden her to marry Suleman? Why?

“I can hear all the questions going through your mind, child. You want to know the exact degree of intimacy we enjoyed. Why we didn’t marry or run away like you and that Greek with ugly eyes. As you know, I have never spoken of these matters to any living person. It is not easy speaking of such things to one’s children. There is always an innate desire to conceal, but I feel like telling you everything. There is too much secrecy in our world, and concealment usually hurts more than the truth.

“If I was dead and buried and one day, by accident, you heard this story from one of Suleman’s brood, you might or might not have believed it, but you would be upset at your ignorance. You might think badly of me. You are the only treasure I have left in this world. I want you to know so that one day you can tell Orhan and Emineh about their grandmother. Who knows but that it might even help them live a better life. Press my feet, child. I’m beginning to feel tense and tired.”

I had never pressed her feet before, but, over the years, I had observed so many maidservants at work on them for hours at a time that the task posed no mysteries for me. I pressed each toe in turn, then moved to the soles, kneading them gently with my knuckles. Slowly, I felt Sara beginning to relax again.

‘Suleman and I fell into each other’s arms so naturally that evening it did not feel as if it was the first time. It had always been intended. The passion that we had hidden from ourselves poured out of us. We did make love then and on many other days. Sometimes our longing for each other became so great that we would rush out of the house in search of safe spots, but these were not easy to uncover. Often we had no other alternative but to hire a covered boat, oblivious to the world as the boatman, pretending to be blind, took us first to one continent and then another. This was always risky because the boats were often used for these purposes by the lower classes and I was always nervous lest one of our maids, who had confided in me regarding her adventures on a boat, should catch sight of us. In fact, that was how I knew that love-boats existed in the first place.

My mother Beatrice was beginning to look at me with suspicion. “There is something different about the way you walk, Sara. Something has happened to give you a new confidence. It is almost as if you have been fulfilled as a woman.”

The day after I reported this remark to Suleman, we informed my mother that we wished to be married. Suleman had already written to his parents informing them of this decision. I thought my mother would be pleased that I loved someone from her side of the family. I thought this would reassure her. My father was always grumbling that he did not have enough money for a dowry. Even though this was not the case, I was relieved that no such expenditure would be necessary.

Your grandmother’s doe-like eyes narrowed and her lips tightened when she heard the news. “I feared this might happen,” she said, “but I hoped your affection for each other was that of a brother and sister, especially since you are an only child. That is why I agreed so happily that he should come and live with us for as long as he wished. How foolish I was, how blind not to see what was happening before my eyes and in my house. This marriage is impossible, Sara. I know this sounds cruel, but both of you must face the weight of reality.”

We were shocked. We looked at her in disbelief. What reality was she speaking of, and what did it have to do with our love for each other? She refused to speak any further till my father returned home after his visits. She left the room saying that they would both speak to us after the evening meal. Suleman and I sat holding hands and looking at each other in bewilderment. He thought that the hostility could be related to his relative poverty; my parents would probably want me to live in style. I did not think this could be true, for Suleman was learning my father’s trade and it would be natural for him to inherit the practice which the family had built up so carefully over two centuries.

In fact, Father had already begun to reveal some of the secret prescriptions for treatments that had travelled with us from Spain long, long ago. They had been written and copied in big books bound in black leather, which long use had faded years ago. I remember Suleman’s excitement when he was first shown one of these books. My father had assumed that Suleman would succeed him and therefore I did not think that lack of money could be the problem.

When he finally returned home that night, I heard Mother whispering anxiously as she dragged him into her room. We ate the evening meal in total silence. I knew they weren’t angry because occasionally both of them would look at us affectionately, but with sorrowful eyes. It was my father who spoke that night and explained the reasons that lay behind their opposition.

It made no sense to me. He spoke of a mysterious disease that had developed in Suleman’s branch of the family after centuries of intermarriages. Since my mother belonged to that family there was a serious danger that our children would be born with severe deformities and afflictions and die young. It had happened too often for the risk to be undertaken lightly.

Suleman’s face had paled as he heard my father speak. He knew that this disease had claimed the life of one of his own cousins several years ago, but surely, he pleaded, the blood relationship between my mother and his was so distant that the chances of our children suffering must be equally remote. My father rose and left the room. When he returned it was with another bound volume. This contained our family tree. He showed us that the great-great-great grandmothers of my mother and Suleman’s mother had been sisters. The link was far too strong to take any risk. He was moved by our love for each other and he embraced Suleman with genuine affection, but shook his head in despair.

“It will only bring you unhappiness, Sara. However much you resent your mother and me for this, I cannot as your father and as a physician permit both of you to destroy your lives.”

I began to weep and left the room. Suleman stayed behind and talked with them for a long time. I had no idea what they said to each other.

Neither of us could sleep. I went into his room later that night and found him sitting cross-legged on his bed. He was weeping silently. We made love to calm ourselves. I told him very firmly that I was prepared to take the risk and that if my parents objected we could run away. But the sight of the family tree had shaken him. He described his cousin’s death at the age of seven. He did not wish our child to die in that fashion.

I pleaded with him, Nilofer. I threatened I would take my own life if he dared to leave me. Nothing would shake him. He left the next day.

I was desolate. I went searching for him everywhere. I visited the cafes we used to frequent. I went to the boatmen to ask if they had seen him, but there was no trace at all. My parents denied all knowledge of where he might have gone, though, later, my father admitted he had given him a purse to help him on his way. I never stopped mourning for Suleman. Nothing else mattered to me any more. Life could go on or it might stop. It was a matter of complete indifference to me.

It was ten days after Suleman had deserted me that my father returned home one evening with an offer of marriage from Iskander Pasha. I was to be his second wife. This, too, did not bother me a great deal. I remember saying to my mother: “Here, at least, there is no danger of any affliction.” I was told I would have to convert to the faith of my husband and acquire a new name. This change of identity was the only thing that amused me at the time. It would not be Sara who would enter Iskander Pasha’s bed, but Hatije. I was named after the first wife of the Prophet Memed, peace be upon him.

I was married in the house in Istanbul. There were no festivities since I was only the third wife. The first, as you know, had died giving birth to Salman. This was also convenient since I was not in the mood for any celebrations. Iskander Pasha was very kind and, mercifully, he soon departed for Paris with Petrossian and Hasan Baba, but not me. This, too, suited me greatly. Naturally, before his departure he had entered my bed and convinced me that he was a man. I did not particularly enjoy the experience, Nilofer. It did not even comfort me. The wounds created by Suleman’s betrayal were still bleeding. You were born eight and a half months later.’

Something in my mother’s tone had told me that this was not the end of her story. An unusually complacent smile had crossed her face when she mentioned my birth.

“Sara!” I said to her sharply. “You promised the whole truth.”

“Can’t you guess?”

I shook my head.

“You were the proof that my parents were wrong. Suleman’s cowardice was totally unjustified. That made me really angry. My sadness began to disappear. He was a traitor. My love began to drain away and I was filled with contempt for him. You were the healthiest and most beautiful child I had ever seen.”

“What are you saying, Mother? You’re sick! You’re mad! This is just your imagination. You wanted it to be so, but it is not so. Iskander Pasha is my father!”

I began to cry. She hugged me, but I pushed her away. My first reaction was disgust. I felt my whole life had been taken away from me. I sat there and stared at her. When I spoke, it was in a whisper.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, my child. If I had not been pregnant, I would never have married Iskander Pasha. If I had told my parents they would have attempted to get rid of you. Never forget your grandfather’s profession. He had some experience in removing unwanted infants.”

“But why didn’t you tell Suleman?”

“I only discovered my condition the week after he left. I would have told him the next day, but he had gone.”

“How can you be sure?”

She went to a cupboard and brought out a box I had never seen before. It contained a photograph of both of them. They looked so happy. My mother covered Suleman’s nose and lips. The eyes were exactly the same as mine.

“You never told your parents?”

She shook her head.

“Why?”

“They would have been very upset. They were fond of Suleman. I was their only child and I did not wish them to feel that, with the best of motives, they had wrecked my life.”

“And you never told him?”

“No. When he wrote to me, you were already eight years old. His letter was brief, its tone distant and cold. It had been designed as a cruel farewell. It informed me of three important developments in his life. He was a successful painter. He was happily married. He had three children. How could I ever hope to compete with such bliss? The effect of his message was to kill off all my dreams. I wished then that the boat that had taken him to New York had encountered a storm and I wished that all the passengers in it had survived except him. He should have fallen off the edge and never been recovered. I would rather he had died. It would have stopped him writing these stupid letters.

“I had thought that one day, before death claimed either of us, I would visit him in New York. I wanted so much to see him again, Nilofer. Just once. After his letter I felt futile and betrayed. But there was one consolation he could never take away from me. I had you, the child of our love. In order to survive, he had to rebuild his shattered life, construct an inner wall that could not be breached and obliterate all memories of the love we had once given each other. All I had to do was to look into your eyes and be reminded once again of happiness. I pitied him.”

Silence. Neither of us could speak. I kissed her hands. She stroked my face and kissed my eyes. I had never felt so close to her in my whole life. I wanted to be alone to think of all she had told me. I had to decide the course of my life. It could not be determined by this household.

I took my leave of Sara and went to my own room. It was strange to think that none of them were related to me any longer. Salman and Halil were not my brothers. Zeynep was not my sister. Iskander Pasha was not my father. How absurd my world had become. I felt tears beginning to make their way to my eyes.

“Why are you crying?” Orhan’s voice brought me back to reality. “Are you missing Emineh?”

I nodded, grateful to him for providing me with an excuse, and dried my face. Orhan was cheerful.

“Tomorrow, Hasan Baba will cut my hair himself. He says he cannot return without making sure that my hair is properly cut. Then he will have cut the hair of four generations in our family.”

I smiled inwardly. Our family? The words held a new meaning for me.

Orhan had been filled with such excitement when he met his uncles and his grandfather that the truth suddenly made me fearful. Orhan and Iskander Pasha communicated with each other on paper every day. Both of them felt useful. Orhan felt he was helping his grandfather and Iskander Pasha had begun to teach the child the French alphabet. How could I ever tell my son that we had no right to be here, that his real grandfather was a painter in New York, that we belonged to a different world? I looked out at the sea. It was silent today as it shimmered in the dazzling light of a July afternoon. Its calmness helped to settle me.

I lay down on my bed and shut my eyes. I was pleased that Mother had told me the truth. Orhan’s presence had made me feel that life would go on as before. I might not be related by blood, but this was my family. These were people I loved and would always love — despite the past, despite the future. I heard Orhan laughing outside my window. I got up to see the cause of the merriment.

It was Selim. The sight of him aroused me. I knew then that I would want him for a long time.