Like a Sword Wound Read online

  In spite of his father’s important position in the Sultan’s court, and in spite of the great privileges of his job at the palace, he felt the oppression just like everyone else, and moreover, because he knew what a free life was, he felt more uneasy than anyone. Slowly, he sank into the loneliness of a person who lives a solitary life in a foreign land; everything around him, streets, carriages, people, and houses seemed foreign to him.

  In order to conceal the restlessness born of his alienation, he gave himself completely to snobbery and ostentation. His horses and carriage were famous throughout all of Istanbul; a carriage that had been made in Florence, and was pulled by two large Hungarian horses and two white ponies that were tied in front of the horses; the doors were emblazoned with his livery. He had the material for his clothes brought from England, and had his clothes made by the French ambassador’s tailor in Pera, for which he paid with purses of gold.

  He never missed the musical evenings at his friends’ mansions, and took oud lessons from the most famous teachers, but when he was alone in the mansion he played Mozart and Chopin on the piano and wrote his mother long letters in French, addressing her as “chère maman.” He felt the same hatred for the Albanian riflemen at the palace, the mullahs in quilted turbans who always undermined each other, the hypocritical and devious court chamberlains, the Francophile intellectuals who were as snobbish as he was and—although he could never admit this to anyone—even the Sultan himself, and in order to conceal this hatred that could cost him his life, he tried to get on well with everyone. When he was in good spirits, he recited Sheikh Galip’s poems in French and Vigny’s poems in Ottoman.

  An undying yearning for Paris combined with the marvelous debauchery of Istanbul; he knew that he would no longer be content if he returned to Paris, that if he was there he would miss Istanbul too. A calm, peaceful, and healthy childhood was followed by an unhealthy and anxious youth; his only consolations were ostentation, snobbery, and entertainment.

  From time to time he considered going to Paris or inviting his friends from France, but such behavior might arouse suspicion in the palace; because of this he abandoned these thoughts right from the start. He was frequently promoted in rank, his position rose, but he knew he owed this to his father. It came to the notice of his superiors that he never wrote denunciations to the Sultan on any subject, because at that time the rule was very clear: whoever did not write denunciations had to be doing something that should be denounced.

  When he reached the age of twenty-four, his father decided he should marry. Naturally, when the Sultan said, “How is your dear son, Pasha, apparently he hasn’t married yet, the young should be made to marry,” it played an important role in the making of this decision; the Sultan believed that unmarried people were more dangerous, and he was correct in this belief.

  So the feverish search for a bride began; cloth peddlers were sent to the houses of all the pashas who had young, unmarried daughters, those women who worked like a strange espionage network in Istanbul, wandering around with colorful bundles full of silk, lace, tulle, taffeta, seeing the girls at the right moment, gathering gossip about the girls from the locals, and carrying all the information to Reşit Pasha’s mansion without omitting even the smallest detail. The housekeeper passed all of this information on to the Pasha but Hikmet Bey didn’t agree to marry any of them, he found an objection for each one. To marry was to lose the dream of returning to Paris one day, the dream that, even though he knew it would never come true, he kept within him like a beautiful garden that no one could see, a magical bay where mermaids sang, a secret paradise in which he took refuge; to marry was to vanish without a trace for the rest of his life on a barren and silent mountaintop. Even though he would never be able to go back to Paris, he didn’t want to give up this dream; the dream was almost more important than Paris. Meanwhile his father, who had no idea about these dreams, grew angrier every day, grumbling about “the little gentleman’s” impertinence and caprices.

  Then, one Friday afternoon, when he was out riding in his carriage in Kağıthane, getting some fresh air and trying to forget his sorrows, a goods carriage with a broken wheel blocked his way. When Hikmet Bey leaned out the carriage window to see what was happening, he saw the curtain of a black landau open a bit and the most beautiful face he had ever seen peer out briefly and then disappear. At another time he wouldn’t have cared, and he passed by thinking that in any case he would soon forget, but at that time, with the search for a bride proceeding furiously, he thought he had the right to be interested in all women, because in this land of prohibition he had a valid and moral reason to approach all women; the possibility of marriage increased the boldness with which he approached them. Many years later, he said to Osman, “It was a face that would change the life of whoever saw it; in any event it changed mine”

  They learned at once who the face belonged to, and found out all they could about her. It was not a problem for Hikmet Bey that Mehpare Hanım was divorced. He insisted over his father’s objections. He only had one condition: he wanted to talk face-to-face before they married. Even though his request was strange, the Occidentalism and the wealth of the prospective groom made this acceptable.

  When they were left alone in a room that looked onto the back garden of the house where Mehpare Hanım lived with her aunt in Laleli, the curtains were half closed. At first there was a short silence, then Mehpare Hanım lowered her eyes and looked attentively through her eyelashes.

  They didn’t know it then, but both of them had long ago decided to fall in love with each other, and perhaps they fell for each other the moment they saw each other. In any case, at that time, sudden love was the only kind of love that existed in the Ottoman capital; the fear and oppression enveloping this city that smelled of the sea, honeysuckle, rose, figs, lemon, and melon, that was covered with elder and cedar trees and was full of the sounds of the call to prayer and of hymns, contributed to a local climate that was both conservative and seductive; in such a climate the souls of the people who contained their emotions in the deepest part of themselves, who were surrounded by prohibitions and religious laws, became pitch black, and their emotions exploded suddenly like fireworks; in that darkness they fell in love with whoever was illuminated by the light of the fireworks, whoever entered the burst of light, and this love was fed and raised on fear. On carriage tours and boat excursions, women’s eyes, prowling from under black, green, and purple veils, were searching for the same thing, looking for the face that would be lit up by the sudden burst of light.

  Hikmet Bey straightened first his fez, then his silver collar and his wide necktie.

  —How do you do, Mehpare Hanım?

  —Well thank you, sir, and you?

  —You probably know the reason for my visit.

  Mehpare Hanım didn’t raise her head.

  —Yes, sir.

  —I wish to ask for your hand in marriage, mademoiselle, I’ve already introduced myself to your aunt, but I didn’t think it right to make a proposal without meeting you, without getting your consent. Although this is against our tradition, I insisted on hearing my future wife’s opinion about our marriage with my own ears; I hope you don’t see my insistence as disrespectful.

  —Not at all, sir.

  —Hoping that you won’t regard it as disrespectful, I want to express my feelings and thoughts about you directly to you, madam. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this marriage for even a single moment; if you accept, you will make me the most joyful, the happiest man in the world, will you marry me, madam?

  Mehpare Hanım raised her dazzling eyes and looked at Hikmet Bey; Hikmet Bey lowered his eyes, unable to endure the beauty he beheld. The beauty that had frightened Sheikh Efendi didn’t frighten him; on the contrary, even though he sensed he would be a slave to that look in her eyes for the rest of his life, he accepted this enslavement trembling with joy and impatienc
e.

  Mehpare Hanım spoke in her hoarse voice with a natural assurance.

  —It is an honor for me, sir.

  —The honor is mine. Believe that you have granted me the world with these words. I implore you to believe that I will strive to make you happy as long as I am alive.

  Hikmet Bey paused for a moment, a mad thought had occurred to him, because of the excitement caused by the beauty before him he believed he could do anything.

  —If it is acceptable to you, I want to hold the wedding as soon as possible, then I was thinking of having our honeymoon in Paris. I don’t know if you know that I spent a large part of my childhood and youth in Paris with my mother; I want to take you there so we can see the places where I grew up. Paris prides itself on its beautiful women; if you allow me I want to show them what a beautiful lady is.”

  —As you wish. Whatever you think best.

  This strange and meaningless conversation etched itself as love onto the minds of this man and woman who sat excitedly across from each other in that dim room that looked out onto the wooded garden through cambric curtains: both of them would say “I fell in love there, in that room”; they spoke the same words with the same confidence.

  The odd thing was that Osman felt this love living in that room, that day, that moment in his dusty room, recreating the moment through what he had been told; yes, there was real love there. The extraordinary beauty of Mehpare Hanım’s face was transparent, not refracted by the objects, the magnificent death that appeared to Osman in that room; reflected on the thin globe in the middle of the room, moving the mountains, seas, plains that all faded into the same yellow color in that vast landscape, she said, “I fell in love there, in that room,” and those words awoke love in Osman’s soul. The love between Mehpare Hanım and Hikmet Bey was reflected on Osman’s soul as well, he shuddered inwardly, his body trembled, the dazzling eyes and the fleshy lips that pronounced the word “love” added Osman to their caravan of “slaves.” Hasan Efendi, rocking his large body, groaned as he said, “That whore will ruin you too,” with the sad experience of having watched Mehpare Hanım for years, and his observation of the men who burned with the desire to be ruined.

  The young couple, who were allowed to see each other once more before they married, discussed every detail of the wedding; they decided on each of the people to be invited, what food would be served, which singers and dancers would perform, what would happen in the harem, what would be done in the selamlık; while Hikmet Bey considered everything in minute detail and with great care and excitement, Mehpare Hanım listened to it all in silence and showed her approval by nodding her head. Her impatience to marry after having been divorced for a year, moreover to a man with whom she was “in love,” made all the details insignificant for her. Yet neither Osman nor Mehpare Hanım herself knew that this beautiful woman found love in a much different manner than they had thought, or rather that feeling she called “love” only came to life under a certain condition.

  During this meeting, Hikmet Bey learned by coincidence that Mehpare Hanım played the piano, he was mad with joy to encounter an unexpected love of music in the Sheikh’s former wife, immediately he placed another piano in the living room of the house where they would live together. In this city where everyone watched each other, playing the piano with his wife at night made him believe that he could find the freedom he had known in Paris; he felt as if he had rid himself of the burden of Istanbul, the Sultan, informants, and prohibitions.

  The piano would intensify and strengthen the connection between them, they would not simply be husband and wife, but also piano partners; they would play the same pieces on their two pianos, they would establish a new world in the living room of their mansion, a new empire, a new country, the piano would make them independent.

  Indeed, the two black pianos with their gleaming ivory keys, placed back to back, were the most important element of their relationship, indeed were members of the family, and completed their love; in different notes, on their pianos, they expressed to each other their sorrows, happiness, love, and their desire to make love.

  The compelling zikir worship that had distanced Mehpare Hanım from her first husband and brought her closer to God was replaced by the piano that opened new doors with its range of sounds and that awakened in her the desire to make love. From time to time she repressed her longing for the zikir worship through the keys of her piano.

  The three-day wedding was held in the large waterfront mansion in Arnavutköy; for the first two days the gate of the large back garden was open to everyone: fishermen, coachmen, the servants of nearby waterfront mansions, soldiers, policemen, oarsmen, peddlers, börek sellers, sherbet sellers, tradesmen from the market, old men from the local coffeehouse, and passing travelers entered as they wished, had wedding soup, ate zerde and rice at tables set under the trees, and, as they left, receiving gifts of money from the butler, they blessed the couple, saying, “May Allah grant them happiness, may their two heads grow old together on the same pillow.”

  The third day was the real wedding day.

  Lanterns were hung on every branch of all the trees in the small wood at the back of the garden, and when it grew dark servants lit all of them; the small wood became a firelit forest consisting of thousands of flickering flames; the light reflected on the water of the Bosphorus was like fire. The reflections of lights trembling in the wind increased with the motion of the sea and spread redness across the dark waters; those looking at the sea thought the flames would travel with the current; they were struck with childish amazement when the flames remained in place even though the water flowed.

  Large tables were set among the flowers of the garden, illuminated by the thousands of lanterns in the small wood and the flames reflected on the surface of the sea, and Circassian chicken, stuffed vegetables, pilaf with almonds and cream, cheese pastries, and a variety of meat dishes were served on silver platters that had been ordered especially for the wedding. Ethiopian servants, who let the ends of the white kerchiefs they wrapped around their fezzes fall to their shoulders, and who wore tuxedos in the European style, carried the platters back and forth, unaccustomed to walking in the strange clothing they had put on especially for that day; from silver pitchers, they poured pomegranate sherbet that turned from violet to purple and from purple to red in the reflected light into their guests’ mother-of-pearl embossed cups.

  On a stage set up in a corner of the garden, first one of the foremost virtuosos of Europe, who had come from Italy, gave a piano recital under the silent and uncomprehending gazes of the guests, then a French couple who had come from France sang a duet, then traditional musicians played a fasıl, and finally some famous hafiz sang hymns. The guests wandering around the garden listened to this incongruous music with the same uneasiness and need to sit down, they grew tired at the same time, but they left their complaints and gossip for the next day.

  After the final prayer of the night, on the drunken French couple’s whim, six pairs of lobsters were soaked in rum, set on fire, and left on the quay; the poor animals, spouting flames, with trembling gills and a crooked gait, rushed towards the sea to escape their own fire. Servants caught them before they reached the sea, and the smoked lobster meat was placed on the tables. Fearfully, the guests took and tasted the burnt-smelling white meat, but they didn’t quite appreciate the taste of these strange sea monsters.

  Old pashas, Reşit Pasha’s friends, in huge quilted turbans studded with emeralds, rubies, and diamonds and long caftans embroidered with golden threads and pearls, watched everything with distant, frozen, silent gazes as they sat on satin-covered sofas that had been prepared for them in a corner of the garden; they made it felt that they didn’t approve of the burning lobsters nor the bare-headed French singer—indeed, they murmured among themselves that she was “most strange and peculiar”—but in any event, they didn’t want to be on strained terms with the Sultan’s physician, they d
idn’t dare to express their disapproval with anything more than muttering; thinking of what would be said about this wedding the following day, they were already trying to decide what comments to make.

  As for Hikmet Bey’s friends, thinking that this strange chaos, that was becoming even more ridiculous as it tried to please everyone, was what high society consisted of, made comments such as, “Wonderful, my dear chap, this woman sings like a nightingale,” or “There are no pianists like this here in Istanbul, my fine fellow.” In their tight frock coats and deep red fezzes with the tassels thrown back, they pretended they were not as peculiar as the wedding itself; they tried to conceal how strange they felt about themselves and the wedding with the exaggerated enthusiasm they showed for the foreign entertainment.

  The detectives who mingled among the guests examined everything minutely for hints of treason, recorded which viziers sat next to each other, who said what to whom, who listened to the Italian pianist with interest, who looked at the French woman, which young men flirted with her in the hope of spending the night with her, who arrived at the waterfront mansion by carriage, and who arrived by boat. Some of them even submitted their reports to the palace without waiting for the next day. Among them was one who wrote that the lanterns hung in the small wood were a signal to the crown prince imprisoned in the Çırağan palace, that in fact the wedding was a diversion and that they wanted to reach the crown prince’s palace by boat, liberate him, and place him on the throne.

  The wedding celebration held in the harem was completely different; although a few of the young women played the piano and read books like Mehpare Hanım, most of them had conventional tastes, and everything was arranged to appeal to these tastes. The old ladies settled in the corners, and the younger women settled on thin mattresses placed on the floor. First, gypsy girls did a belly dance with all kinds of amusing movements, and then female traditional musicians played slow songs that became faster as the wedding progressed, and one by one the young women started dancing, ignoring the admonishing looks their mothers gave them. They tried several times to get the bride up to dance, but she refused each time, though finally she agreed to dance around a few times so as not to be labeled “haughty.”