The Stone Woman

NINE

Nilofer and Selim learn to know each other and she realises that her emotions are out of control

I PANICKED WHEN I first looked out of the window that night. It was past midnight. Dark, ugly clouds had disfigured the sky. Behind them I could see the very faint outline of the full moon. A summer breeze was blowing across the sea and might yet clear the sky. The chimes of the big clock in the entrance hall had woken me up about half an hour earlier. How would Selim determine the time of our tryst?

My room was in a wing of the old house which, in the past, had been used to entertain princes and noblemen. It looked out in the direction of the mountains and the road, which led to the entrance. When we were children, Zeynep and I would quarrel over who had this room, because Salman had told us that when the Grand Vizier came to stay, this was where the captain of the janissaries slept so he could keep an eye on arrivals and departures. Later Salman confessed he had been teasing, but the room remained invested with military authority: his joke made sense.

The Baron and Uncle Memed were in the old royal suite below me, but here on the top floor I was alone. Orhan, by special request, slept in his grandmother’s dressing room. I was trembling slightly as I wrapped a shawl round myself and left my room. The last time I had left the house clandestinely was to meet Dmitri in the orange grove. Why had I insisted on meeting Selim at the same spot? Was it to drive out the past or to debase the present?

I left the house by a side entrance. Selim had been unnerved by the moon’s absence and had decided to wait for me in the garden. We held hands in complete silence as we walked in the direction of the orange grove. I was slowly getting used to the darkness. Selim was smiling. It was the innocence that appealed to me. I did not want to take him to the orange grove. Perhaps we could go to the cave overlooking the Stone Woman. If she saw everything I would not need to repeat it to her, but there were snakes and lizards in that cave and fear of them would undoubtedly throttle my passion. He sensed my hesitation.

“What’s the matter?” he asked in a whisper, which sounded really loud.

“Nothing,” I answered. “The breeze has cooled the ground and I’m feeling slightly cold. I thought it would be warmer.”

And then I knew what had to be done.

“Come with me,” I said to him as I started walking back towards the house.

It was his turn to tremble. “Nilofer,” he said, “this is madness.”

I did not reply. We reached the side-door and he stopped, refusing to move forward. I pinched him hard on his buttock, which made him laugh, and pushed him through the door. We climbed the stairs, trying hard not to laugh even though the situation was anything but funny. I entered my bedchamber and pulled him in behind me.

“Now, my nightingale,” I said in a normal voice, “should we retire to bed, or has the danger muted the excitement?”

“I want to marry you.”

“Don’t be foolish. I’m married to someone else.”

“I want you to have my children.”

“I’ve got two and they’re enough.”

“Just one more, then… just for me.”

Outside the breeze had done its work. The sky had cleared and the room was bathed in moonlight. I threw down my clothes and undressed Selim. We began to explore each other’s bodies.

“Is this what the dervishes have taught you?” I whispered in his ear.

“No, but should I tell you what they did teach me?”

“Yes.”

He sat up in the bed, unconcerned that he was naked. Without ceasing to caress my body, he began to sway a little and started to mutter some Sufi invocation.

“If they ask: what is there on your head, your eyebrow, your nose, your breast, the answer must be: on my head is the Crown of high estate, in my eyebrow is the Pen of Power, in my nose is the fragrance of paradise and on my breast the Koran of wisdom.”

“I could not lie, Selim. My reply would be different. I would have to say: on my head the burden of being a woman, the eyebrow we could agree on, but in my nose there would be the smell of poverty and on my breasts the hands of Selim.”

After we had taken our fill of each other, I asked him about his mother. He was surprised at my interest.

“She lives with us in my grandfather’s home. My father, as Hasan Baba has told you, is lost to our world. He lives what he preaches and we see him, but rarely. My mother was once part of that world. The order to which my father is attached does not permit women to whirl and dance. Their role is simply to prepare the food and supply the needs of the dervish. My mother was given permission to leave after she had agreed to marry my father. You should hear her talk of what happens when they go into a trance.

“Can I ask you a question?”

I nodded.

“They say that your marriage is finished.”

“Do they? Who are they?”

“The maids who serve your mother.”

“They’re not far wrong, but they gossip without knowing the whole truth and they share the prejudices against Greeks. Listen, Selim, my husband has been a good father to his children and, for that reason, I will never humiliate him. We are separated now and once the summer is over, I will return to Istanbul. Orhan and Emineh must be educated in a proper school. I will let my husband see the children whenever he wishes and he will always have a bed in our house, but will never share mine again. I think he will accept these conditions. A messenger was sent to Konya with my letter and he should be returning soon.” I asked him of his future and he laughed.

“When Hasan Baba leaves this world I will sell my barber’s shop. I could do it now, but it would upset the old man a great deal. Our family has, after all, been cutting the hair of yours for many centuries. How can we stop now? Hasan Baba has still not forgiven my father for betraying our profession. I will wait.”

“You could become a world-famous singer. You could sing in the operas of Donizetti Pasha. You could…”

“No! I have no desire to sell my voice. Let it give pleasure to everyone. I will continue to sing at our own festivals and in the streets when the mood takes me, but what I would really like to be is a photographer, like the Signor Bragadini.”

“But why?”

“I’ve surprised you, haven’t I? I’ve surprised Nilofer with the green eyes and the beautiful nipples. Why? Answer me truthfully. Is it that you could not imagine a future for me other than that dictated by my past and my origins? Do you think only Italians can be photographers? This new art is beyond the reach of a poor boy from Anatolia?”

“Are you angry?”

He laughed and kissed me on the lips for the first time. I admired his confidence. How could he be so self-assured, so oblivious to the impediments that lay ahead of him, especially in our world, which was still closed to people like him? Perhaps he had inherited his optimism from his mother. Perhaps she had inculcated him with the belief that everything was possible. All that was needed was determination and inner strength. As if to prove that this was the case he spoke again.

“I know that one day we will be together. I feel this in my blood. Your Uncle Memed has already recommended me as an assistant to Signor Bragadini, which is what he says I will have to call him. One day I will be famous and then you will come with me. Is this impossible?”

“No,” I lied. “Why should it be impossible?”

“Because I come from a poor family and you are the daughter of a Pasha.”

If only he knew the truth. Perhaps I would tell him one day. I decided to change the subject.

“I’m three years older than you.”

“Still not old enough to be Mother,” he laughed.

“I am sure you will find many beautiful young maidens ready to fall in your arms the minute they have heard your voice.”

“That would not be a new experience for me.”

He said this in such a serious voice that we both burst out laughing. Even near the sea, the first time we made love, I had not felt that he was a novice. What puzzled me was the degree of sophistication that he had acquired.

“Did you learn to read at home or in a medresseh?”

“Why do you ask, princess? Are you surprised that I am not a yokel?”

“No. Intelligence has nothing to do with a formal education. But I get the feeling you are both inside and at the same time removed from our culture.”

“Now you’re saying that I’m not simply a singer of Sufi verses, but someone with an imagination of my own. Perhaps someone who might even one day become a photographer and a more talented one than Signor Bragadini.”

“Why are you so sensitive?”

“Because I still sleep in the servants’ quarters and that fact colours your picture of me.”

“Tonight you’ve slept in this house. In my bed.”

“Wrong again, princess. It is now too late to sleep.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I learnt to read our language in a medresseh, but I learnt to read French from my grandfather and to speak it from a French diplomat whose hair I cut regularly and who shares my admiration for the work of Monsieur Balzac.”

“My favourite is Lost Illusions.”

He began to recover his clothes and dressed quickly.

“Sometimes French novels can become a terrible distraction. I would recommend the work of a philosopher. Auguste Comte. He has much to offer this country. He could stop our future from becoming a bottomless pit.” Selim slipped out of the door without the sentimentality of a last embrace.

I covered myself and rushed to the window. The very faint first light of dawn had begun to change the colour of the sky. Selim was walking across the garden. He must have felt my gaze because he suddenly turned around and looked up in my direction. I blew him a kiss. He smiled and walked away.

I had always thought Selim’s emotions might get out of control, that he might start to sing underneath my window, deliberately embarrassing me in front of the family. His serenity surprised me. I realised I was the one in an agitated state. An image of his naked body flashed through my mind and I began to feel weak with pleasure.