stop you?”
“Of course not, Hasan Baba,” I replied in a voice so false that I barely recognised myself. “How could I have Orhan circumcised in your absence? It would breach an old family tradition.”
“I would have come to Konya,” he laughed, revealing a mouth devoid of teeth, “and circumcised the father as well.”
My mother tried to conceal a smile. I decided to change the subject.
“I had no idea my father took you to Paris all those years ago. That must have given you a rest from performing circumcisions.”
“It gave me a rest from performing anything,” he muttered. “I was taken there just for show. It suited your father. He thought the French would be impressed if his special barber accompanied him. In Paris, your father’s hair was cut by an old French sodomite. For myself, I have seen better types in Istanbul. My task was reduced to trimming his beard and cutting his nails once a week. One day your father decided to humiliate me. The French barber wanted to observe an Ottoman barber at work. I was preparing my scissors to trim Iskander Pasha’s hair, when he suggested that, as a special treat, I cut the Frenchman’s hair instead. At first I was angry, but then I saw in this offer an opportunity to avenge the insult. I pretended to be cheerful and friendly. I seated the Frenchman in a chair. I massaged his head with oil so that he relaxed completely. He shut his eyes to enjoy the sensation. I gave him a soldier’s haircut. He screamed with rage as his grey locks fell on the floor, but it was too late. He cursed me, but I had won. Your father had to buy him a very expensive wig and give him a weighty purse. After that incident the Frenchman could not bring himself to look me in the eye. He would turn his powdered face away every time he saw me, but I would go close to him and whisper: ‘Istanbul couture. Tres bien, eh, monsieur?’” Hasan cackled like a hen at the memory.
I couldn’t resist teasing him. “How did you occupy yourself otherwise, Hasan Baba? I have heard that you began to dress like a Parisian and visited night clubs. Some say you even kept a Frenchwoman.”
“May Allah pluck out the tongue that spread such poison,” he replied. “I spent most of my time in Paris studying the Koran.”
The lie was so brazen that all three of us burst out laughing. Then he asked for permission to introduce us to his grandson, Selim.
“He’s opened a barber’s shop in Istanbul, with three apprentices, one of whom is very talented. The Westerners are his main customers. He was reluctant to follow me, but I told him it was a privilege to circumcise the grandson of Iskander Pasha. Selim! Selim!”
A young man who could not have been more than twenty-five years of age entered the room and bowed stiffly in our direction. My mother motioned that he should sit down and he took a seat without any trace of awkwardness. My first impression was favourable. He had an intelligent face. He was clean-shaven and dressed in Western clothes and did not look at the ground in fake humility when I spoke to him. Unlike Hasan, he spoke with a soft, reassuring voice.
“Orhan Bey is nearly ten years old and I realise you must be worried about the ceremony, hanim effendi , but it will be safe and painless. The thought of it frightens him and that is what will make him scream, not the actual circumcision. Have you determined the day?”
“In three days’ time. Are you sure you can be away from Istanbul that long?”
He smiled. “I told them I would be away for a week, hanim effendi .”
My mother indicated with a slight nod that the two men could leave. As he was walking away, Hasan remembered that he had not yet offered his condolences on my father’s affliction.
“I am off now to pay my respects to Iskander Pasha. It will be the first time that I will do the talking and he will have to listen. Perhaps the shock will be such that Allah will return his tongue to him.”
After they had left I asked
“Of course not, Hasan Baba,” I replied in a voice so false that I barely recognised myself. “How could I have Orhan circumcised in your absence? It would breach an old family tradition.”
“I would have come to Konya,” he laughed, revealing a mouth devoid of teeth, “and circumcised the father as well.”
My mother tried to conceal a smile. I decided to change the subject.
“I had no idea my father took you to Paris all those years ago. That must have given you a rest from performing circumcisions.”
“It gave me a rest from performing anything,” he muttered. “I was taken there just for show. It suited your father. He thought the French would be impressed if his special barber accompanied him. In Paris, your father’s hair was cut by an old French sodomite. For myself, I have seen better types in Istanbul. My task was reduced to trimming his beard and cutting his nails once a week. One day your father decided to humiliate me. The French barber wanted to observe an Ottoman barber at work. I was preparing my scissors to trim Iskander Pasha’s hair, when he suggested that, as a special treat, I cut the Frenchman’s hair instead. At first I was angry, but then I saw in this offer an opportunity to avenge the insult. I pretended to be cheerful and friendly. I seated the Frenchman in a chair. I massaged his head with oil so that he relaxed completely. He shut his eyes to enjoy the sensation. I gave him a soldier’s haircut. He screamed with rage as his grey locks fell on the floor, but it was too late. He cursed me, but I had won. Your father had to buy him a very expensive wig and give him a weighty purse. After that incident the Frenchman could not bring himself to look me in the eye. He would turn his powdered face away every time he saw me, but I would go close to him and whisper: ‘Istanbul couture. Tres bien, eh, monsieur?’” Hasan cackled like a hen at the memory.
I couldn’t resist teasing him. “How did you occupy yourself otherwise, Hasan Baba? I have heard that you began to dress like a Parisian and visited night clubs. Some say you even kept a Frenchwoman.”
“May Allah pluck out the tongue that spread such poison,” he replied. “I spent most of my time in Paris studying the Koran.”
The lie was so brazen that all three of us burst out laughing. Then he asked for permission to introduce us to his grandson, Selim.
“He’s opened a barber’s shop in Istanbul, with three apprentices, one of whom is very talented. The Westerners are his main customers. He was reluctant to follow me, but I told him it was a privilege to circumcise the grandson of Iskander Pasha. Selim! Selim!”
A young man who could not have been more than twenty-five years of age entered the room and bowed stiffly in our direction. My mother motioned that he should sit down and he took a seat without any trace of awkwardness. My first impression was favourable. He had an intelligent face. He was clean-shaven and dressed in Western clothes and did not look at the ground in fake humility when I spoke to him. Unlike Hasan, he spoke with a soft, reassuring voice.
“Orhan Bey is nearly ten years old and I realise you must be worried about the ceremony, hanim effendi , but it will be safe and painless. The thought of it frightens him and that is what will make him scream, not the actual circumcision. Have you determined the day?”
“In three days’ time. Are you sure you can be away from Istanbul that long?”
He smiled. “I told them I would be away for a week, hanim effendi .”
My mother indicated with a slight nod that the two men could leave. As he was walking away, Hasan remembered that he had not yet offered his condolences on my father’s affliction.
“I am off now to pay my respects to Iskander Pasha. It will be the first time that I will do the talking and he will have to listen. Perhaps the shock will be such that Allah will return his tongue to him.”
After they had left I asked
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