The Silence of Scheherazade Read online

Much later it was revealed that Tevfik was not an old friend or anything like it. He was a Turkish nationalist who had met Huseyin at the protest meetings in Bahri Baba. Years later, Hilmi Rahmi would blame this handsome Tevfik for his brother Huseyin’s death and take every opportunity to berate Sumbul for having welcomed the no-good scoundrel into his home that night. But did this blaming of Tevfik for Huseyin’s death on the battlefield, when in fact Hilmi Rahmi’s brother had taken himself off to war, actually mask some other doubt that was eating away at him? Did Hilmi Rahmi not suspect, as I did, that the no-good man sleeping under his roof might have created waves in his wife’s imagination? Was his anger an expression of the sorrow he felt at the death of his brother or was it an expression of his suspicion and jealousy?

  Besides, how was Sumbul to know that Tevfik was a no-good scoundrel? If I could talk, I would like to have asked Hilmi Rahmi this question. The man presented himself as Huseyin’s friend. Huseyin greeted him like a sultan in the men’s quarters with its large chestnut table under the colourful crystal chandelier and even agreed to let the women join in the evening meal at his request, treating him like a family member. Who could have guessed that this polite gentleman was a no-good scoundrel whom Huseyin had only met for the first time that evening?

  On the evening of 14 May, after the British had informed Smyrna’s Turkish governor, Izzet Pasha, that the Greek fleet would be taking over the administration of Smyrna, a huge crowd from the Turkish districts gathered at the hilltop Jewish Cemetery in Bahri Baba to protest the Allies giving Smyrna to the Greeks. As the sun set and the moon rose over the mountains like an orange ball, everyone joined in the protest – young and old, women and children, the educated, the uneducated, the rich and the poor. I myself remember the peddlers who wandered around the different neighbourhoods talking repeatedly about that evening. It was like a fair. Fires were lit, children ate sesame halva, and drums were played through until morning. A resistance organization was formed and plans were made to collect guns, rifles and anything else that could be used as a weapon and smuggle them out of Smyrna and into Anatolia. According to rumour, that same night, under cover of darkness, the members of this newly formed resistance movement went into that terrible jail behind Konak and set all the prisoners free. This Tevfik was one of the ringleaders. Sumbul knew that Huseyin had participated in the Bahri Baba protests, but she did not know that he had gone expressly to meet with Tevfik Bey.

  Before dinner that night, Huseyin lit all the lamps; the room shone as if for a holiday celebration. The crystal chandelier glimmered in Tevfik Bey’s emerald eyes. His moustache, which he kept twisting, had clearly been rubbed with musk oil. Sumbul appraised the guest from the corner of her eye as she ate the pilaf and lamb prepared by Nanny Dilber. Listening to the rain beating on the windowpanes, inwardly she was cursing Hilmi Rahmi. That day it had been revealed that the telegram she’d received from him the previous week had been a ruse, a lie sent to confuse the British. For a whole week she’d been dancing with bells on her toes, for Hilmi Rahmi’s telegram had read: My most precious wife, Only a few last issues remain to discuss with the officers here in Istanbul. Then immediately to Smyrna, God willing.

  Instead, however, it seemed he had set out for Asia Minor. Neither Sumbul nor their sons were on his mind. He talked of freedom, of liberty, as if such things were to be attained by waging war. Dogan was now five years old and had never once seen his father’s face. Hilmi Rahmi was going to be a shepherd for the ragtag army organized under the Ottoman pashas; he was going to save Smyrna from a distance. If you’d asked Sumbul, she would have said that Smyrna should have been left to the Greeks and the family saved. But nobody ever asked a Circassian girl from Plovdiv anything. If they had, she wouldn’t have said anything anyway. Being a Circassian was considered morally suspect in those days. No matter how angry she was, she bit her tongue in the presence of her brother-in-law Huseyin, whose veins were swollen with patriotism.

  The full moon, shining like a lantern, slipped into the earth’s shadow and bit by bit was buried in darkness. A lunar eclipse was a bad omen. From over by the Jewish Cemetery at the end of Bulbul Street, drums were beating to chase away the moonlight-eating shadow. Dogs stretched their necks and howled continuously. Tevfik Bey, unaware of the tension in the family around him, treated Sumbul and Mujgan as ‘European women’, asking their opinion on works of Russian and French literature, and entertaining them with tales of flirtatious ladies in the mansions of Istanbul. At one point, he turned to Huseyin, who was being made most uncomfortable by his wife Mujgan’s careless giggling, and said, ‘My dear Huseyin, you still keep the men and women separate in your home. That sort of thing isn’t done any more, especially not in a modern city. I really do not find it fitting that you still have the women spend their time upstairs and the men downstairs. Open up the house. Make the downstairs into a library or a sitting room. Move the guest rooms upstairs. Spend your time together.’

  Instead of finding an answer for his friend, Huseyin just looked down and mumbled something, which led Sumbul to surmise that Tevfik Bey was not only an old friend but also a person of importance. If the bedrooms were to be moved upstairs, did that mean that the guests and the women would sleep on the same floor? In which case, should their paths happen to cross at, let’s say, midnight, what would ensue? Where did the guests of those flirtatious ladies in the Istanbul mansions sleep? Did Tevfik Bey regularly stay in such mansions?

  When she looked up and noticed that the young visitor had been appraising her for a while with a teasing expression on his face, the mouthful of food she was eating got stuck in her throat, causing a coughing fit that lasted for several minutes. After drinking the glass of water Ziver filled for her, she glanced across the dining table to find the young man twirling his moustache again.

  The real reason for his visit became apparent only after coffee had been drunk and the women had retired. As soon as Sumbul and Mujgan got upstairs, they knelt down on the step at the edge of the shaft through which the dumb waiter travelled, carrying food from the kitchen in the women’s quarters to the dining room downstairs. Nanny Dilber had rolled up her shirtsleeves and with her pudgy hands and pale-skinned palms was kneading bread dough to be sent to the bakery on the corner of the street the next morning. She laughed under her moustache as the two ladies of the house pressed their ears to the wall like little girls.

  Though he was trying to speak softly, Tevfik’s deep voice was carried up through the emptiness of the shaft as if it were a pipe.

  ‘The British have convinced the Sultan, and a death sentence will now be meted out to anyone involved with the National Struggle for Independence. Papers will be posted to that effect very soon, announcing it to the people.’

  ‘As if our people know how to read and write!’ whispered Mujgan.

  The women, squeezed together beside the lift shaft, giggled.

  ‘Sister Sumbul, did you see how he twisted his moustache when he looked at you?’

  ‘Shut your mouth, girl! Have you lost your mind, saying crazy things like that? Be quiet and let’s listen to what they’re saying.’ Sumbul turned towards the wall to hide the smile spreading across her face.

  Tevfik’s voice continued to filter up the shaft. ‘After tomorrow, there’ll be nothing more for us to do here. The struggle will start in the heartlands, in Asia Minor. The highest-ranking Ottoman officers have already begun to take action. The country is waiting for you, Huseyin Bey; for us. The people are poor and cowardly, and the tribal gangs do whatever blows into their minds. I’m talking about a formal organization. The country has a great need for young men like us – strong and educated. Believe me, this Greek invasion of Smyrna will prove to be to our advantage. You saw the crowd tonight – a common consciousness is growing from our ancient soil. The Greek invasion is the spark that will ignite our gunpowder.’

  The women looked at each other in fear. It seemed strange that the two men who had spoken as if they were intimate friends at dinner wer
e now, when left alone, talking so formally. There was a moment of silence. Tevfik was probably lighting one of his thinly rolled cigarettes. The two women sitting on the stone step squirmed as they pictured his long, thin, skilful fingers. An image from earlier came into Sumbul’s head, of the smoke from Tevfik’s cigarette swirling in the air like a bluish-white cloud as he drank the aromatic coffee Ziver had served on a silver tray after dinner.

  When he began to speak again, Tevfik’s voice was hoarse. ‘I suppose you are wondering how we will finance such an organization’s activities. Huseyin Bey, a caravan is created as it travels along the road. Look at what the British have done. Hasn’t Lloyd George, fearful after the Italians independently invaded Antalya, sent the Greeks to us? They acted so fast that a part of the Greek fleet still doesn’t even know where it is heading. This is inside information I have obtained. They’ll wake up tomorrow morning and find themselves in our harbour. We shall do exactly the same thing. First of all, let us set out. People will help us. If we come with a strong enough force that cannot be undermined by the tricks of the great powers, they will support us, of course. Negotiations with the French will begin shortly.’

  Makbule Hanim, Huseyin and Hilmi Rahmi’s elderly aunt, appeared at the kitchen door, her face even more sullen than usual. Her black headscarf had fallen to her shoulders, exposing her white roots and strawberry-blonde bun. Prayer beads in hand, she looked in the direction of the dumb waiter. Thank heavens she couldn’t see very well. Before she could make out Sumbul and Mujgan in the dim light of the lantern, the two women jumped to their feet and began circling Nanny Dilber, as if inspecting her work. Makbule Hanim had received information that her daughters-in-law had taken their evening meal in the men’s quarters in the presence of a strange man. Drily, she said, ‘Nanny Dilber, put the boys to bed. It is late. Mujgan, your daughters are still sitting in the garden. Be mindful that they do not walk around in front of the guest. Their heads are not covered. Tell Ziver to repair the garden gate tomorrow. Anyone with a shoulder can push their way in, God forbid. May disaster not befall us on this inauspicious night.’

  The women nodded, knowing that she had actually been talking about them. It was not the twelve-year-old girls who had appeared in front of the visitor with uncovered heads but they themselves. The reference to the garden gate was an insinuation that their house had turned into an inn for passers-by. The old aunt’s displeasure at Tevfik Bey’s presence under their roof was clear.

  ‘And you should waste no time in going to bed immediately. Nowhere is safe. Turn out the light. The house has been lit up like a palace, God be praised. When there is an eclipse of the moon, one should not light so much as a candle; it is bad luck. Nanny Dilber must fill a container with water and place it in front of the window tonight so that the water can absorb the moonlight and the wind. Who knows, we may need that water to break some spell in the future.’

  ‘As you wish, Makbule Hanim.’

  ‘When Nanny Dilber finishes kneading the dough, she will put the boys to bed. She will extinguish all the lamps. We will get the girls from the garden and go straight to bed. Sleep well, Aunt Makbule.’

  Though she made it clear by puckering her lips that she did not believe her daughters-in-law, the old woman did not linger in the kitchen. As her footsteps resounded on the marble floor leading to the bathroom, Sumbul and Mujgan ran back to their place beside the wall. Mujgan’s face was drained of colour.

  Unaware that they were being listened to, the men were continuing to speak softly.

  ‘The Sultan has been turned into a puppet. Look, I’ll say it again: very soon a fatwa will be issued by the Sheikh ul-Islam decreeing that it is holy to kill those involved in the National Struggle against the Sultan and the British. These are dangerous times, Huseyin Bey. Are you sure you want to join the forces in Asia Minor and fight for independence?’

  No reply came from Huseyin. Mujgan’s body was tense, as if she’d had an electric shock.

  ‘The British are putting a great deal of pressure on the Sultan. They know about our resistance movement. They know everything. They’ve posted the Sultan’s men along all the roads, and any vehicle they consider suspicious gets stopped and searched. The first thing the Greeks will do tomorrow will be to make it mandatory to have an official pass if you want to leave Smyrna prefecture. Travelling without those documents will be impossible. God willing, we will still be able to use the Kasaba Railway tomorrow evening. We’ll try to make it as far as Afyonkarahisar. After that we will be in God’s hands. If luck is with us, we will get the train to Eskisehir, after which we’ll continue on foot or by oxcart. The houses where we can take shelter have already been identified. If you are sure about your decision, here’s what we will do now.’

  The voices had become too low for the women to hear what came next. Mujgan stood up and made her way to the kitchen door as if in a dream. She looked miserable; her shoulders were sagging and her back was bowed. Without saying a word, she took the kerosene lamp and left the room. Sumbul continued to sit beside the dumb waiter as she listened to the sound of her sister-in-law’s mules slapping against the floor. So Huseyin was going to run off as well.

  Recently, their neighbour Saadet’s seventeen-year-old son had run away from Smyrna to join the forces in Asia Minor. At this latest blow, Saadet’s hair had turned white; her hands shook continually now. Fourteen years ago, her brother Ali had vanished into thin air, and later her husband had returned like a ghost from the frontline in the Allahuekber Mountains. As if this were not enough, now she had lost the apple of her eye, her son Mehmet. She had not heard a word from the boy since he left. Sumbul couldn’t erase from her mind the sight of Saadet on the kitchen floor hitting herself until her clothes were ripped to pieces. Mujgan’s elder daughter Munevver had run to fetch Old Aybatan from her shack over by the cemetery, but even her elixir couldn’t calm the wretched Saadet.

  Perhaps if Mujgan held her husband warmly in bed that night, he would change his mind about this crazy adventure. She was a lively, flirtatious woman; she would know what to do. Furthermore, when Hilmi Rahmi had set off to fight in the world war, he had left his family in the care of Huseyin. Would her brother-in-law break the promise he’d given to his brother and leave the women and children to face the infidels alone?

  It’s possible that Mujgan’s caresses and tears that night might have persuaded Huseyin to give up on his plan, but events the next morning quashed any lingering indecisiveness. The Greek ships entered the harbour, sounding their arrogant whistles. The Turkish barracks known as Sari Kisla were raked with machine-gun fire. Anyone with a fez on his head was taken prisoner. On top of all this, Huseyin’s father, Mustafa, was brought home unconscious at around noon. This was the last straw. Huseyin was going. His decision was final.

  Upon hearing about his father from Ziver, the servant boy, Huseyin rushed back to Bulbul Street. Greek ships were sailing into the harbour one after the other. The first thing he did was take out the weapons he’d hidden in a sack suspended down the well shaft: the German Mauser, the Russian Nagant revolver and the automatic Parabellum. He put them in a different sack, together with plenty of ammunition. The Greek soldiers had wasted no time in fanning out across the Turkish districts and confiscating every type of weapon they could find in people’s houses, including kitchen knives and barbers’ razors. Leaving the double-barrelled shotgun and the old Greek Mauser inside, he lowered the sack into the well once more.

  Mujgan had never in her life held a gun, but Sumbul was a Circassian girl who knew how to ride a horse and use a rifle. Since the days when she’d gone out hunting with Hilmi Rahmi, the double-barrelled shotgun had been considered hers. She was a good shot, much better than one might have expected from her delicate pink and white complexion, and at least as skilful as Huseyin. If she ever found herself in danger, she would have the courage to protect herself, Mujgan and the children. Huseyin’s decision was final. He would leave the women who’d been entrusted to him to fend for them
selves, and that night, once darkness had fallen, he would set out on the road to Anatolia to join the National Struggle for Independence.

  The Adventure Addict

  It was on that same day, with Butler Mustafa lying unconscious in his son’s house on Bulbul Street, that Edith rang the bell of their home.

  Once the frog rain had let up, she had searched the coffeehouses, alleyways and gardens of the neighbourhood around the French Hospital for Mustafa. Although she knew perfectly well that on such a tense day he would have waited for them in the hospital courtyard, she traipsed down one waterlogged street and into another, peering through the dirty windows of deserted coffeehouses, but did not find her mother’s faithful butler anywhere. It was as if the earth had opened up and swallowed the old man.

  When she returned anxiously to the hospital, she found Nurse Liz holding cloths soaked in cologne to her mother’s forehead and wrists. Juliette had her eyes closed and was moaning as she leaned her head against the brown leather armchair into which she had collapsed.

  Edith went over to Jean-Pierre, who was still sitting by the window where she’d left him. ‘Brother, I haven’t been able to find Mustafa.’

  Jean-Pierre raised his head from his palms and looked at Edith with glassy eyes. In the far corner, Juliette was having trouble breathing, making gasping noises as she fanned herself.

  ‘The best thing would be to telephone Philippe and ask for a motor car.’

  ‘He would bring water from a thousand brooks, but now…’

  ‘Tell him what a state Mother is in. He’ll help us if only to avoid Anna’s nagging. Go on, run down and telephone him. If I call, it might make things more difficult.’

  A short while later, the three of them were in the motor car the ill-tempered Philippe Cantebury had sent to the hospital gates and on their way back to Bournabat. Grandmother Josephine had been left under the protection of the French flag. On the pretext of not leaving the old woman alone, Edith had planned to slip out of the car at the last moment, but Juliette, despite her hysterics, had anticipated that and pulled her daughter into the back seat beside her.