my mother how we should break the news to Orhan. To my astonishment, she informed me that she had already done so and that the boy had been greatly relieved.
“He tells me that he was teased at school for being different. He says he will bear the pain like a man.”
“How else could he bear it, Mother?”
And so it happened that Orhan was dressed in a beautifully embroidered silk robe and as the maidservants sang next door, Selim the barber snipped off the offending skin. Orhan did not scream or cry. He smiled. My father, who had insisted on being present, applauded and presented Orhan with a purse, pregnant with gold coins. It had been given to him on the day of his circumcision. The Baron and Uncle Memed entered the room and kissed Orhan. My mother had gone to the kitchen herself and supervised the making of ure. Orhan had not yet tasted this sweet.
“What is it made of?” he asked my mother after he had tasted the first morsel she presented to him in a silver ladle.
“They say that this was first made when Noah realised there was not enough food left in the Ark. He instructed the women to put everything in a pot for one last big meal. In the big pot went wheat and raisins and apricots and dates and figs and dried beans and the mixture was boiled for many hours, until it looked like this. Now will you stand up, Orhan, and come with me so that we can distribute the ure to the servants.”
“Before I do that, can I offer some to Selim?”
“Of course,” I shouted with relief. “He must be the first.”
SIX
Iskander Pasha asks his visitors to explain the decline of the Empire; the Baron points to a flaw in the Circle of Equity; Salman’s deep-rooted cynicism
F ATHER’S HEALTH WAS IMPROVING daily. He could now walk on his own and, as my mother confided to me, he was an active lover once again, all the more passionate for having lived through a period of denial. His face, too, was much improved. The paleness had evaporated and the sun had restored his colour. He was reading a great deal, mainly French novels. He loved Balzac and Stendhal, but hated Zola. He would write in his notebook that Zola was a scoundrel and an anarchist, but his written words never became an adequate substitute for speech. If he could speak he would have cursed Zola in language he was too embarrassed to put down on paper. He knew that his powers of speech had deserted him for ever and this was something he found difficult to accept.
But he became more and more assertive, more and more as he used to be when we gathered in his room for our stories. He was now determined to prevent a discussion of family history. He wanted to encourage more elevated talk. One evening he inscribed a question in bold capitals on his book and Petrossian held it up before us in turn. It read: CAN ANY OF YOU EXPLAIN WHY WE DECLINE SO RAPIDLY? IF RUSSIAN TSAR AND AUSTRIAN EMPEROR ARE STILL SO POWERFUL, WHY NOT OUR SULTAN?
Everyone was present. Memed and the Baron looked at each other wearily. Salman gave a sly smile. Zeynep kissed Iskander Pasha’s hands and took her leave. Halil, alone, showed any sign of interest.
“We failed to renew ourselves, Ata. And this is the price we have to pay. We allowed the clergy too much power in determining the future of this state. Istanbul could have been the capital of invention and modernity like Cordoba and Baghdad in the old days, but these wretched beards that established the laws of our state were frightened of losing their monopoly of power and knowledge. I forget the name of the fool who told the Sultan that if the palace relaxed its control, our religion would be finished. At the beginning of the sixteenth century, every major city in the West had its own printing press, while Sultan Selim threatened any person who showed even the slightest interest in it with death.”
Iskander Pasha was waving his hands to interrupt his son. Halil paused while I read my father’s note.
“The fear wasn’t totally
“He tells me that he was teased at school for being different. He says he will bear the pain like a man.”
“How else could he bear it, Mother?”
And so it happened that Orhan was dressed in a beautifully embroidered silk robe and as the maidservants sang next door, Selim the barber snipped off the offending skin. Orhan did not scream or cry. He smiled. My father, who had insisted on being present, applauded and presented Orhan with a purse, pregnant with gold coins. It had been given to him on the day of his circumcision. The Baron and Uncle Memed entered the room and kissed Orhan. My mother had gone to the kitchen herself and supervised the making of ure. Orhan had not yet tasted this sweet.
“What is it made of?” he asked my mother after he had tasted the first morsel she presented to him in a silver ladle.
“They say that this was first made when Noah realised there was not enough food left in the Ark. He instructed the women to put everything in a pot for one last big meal. In the big pot went wheat and raisins and apricots and dates and figs and dried beans and the mixture was boiled for many hours, until it looked like this. Now will you stand up, Orhan, and come with me so that we can distribute the ure to the servants.”
“Before I do that, can I offer some to Selim?”
“Of course,” I shouted with relief. “He must be the first.”
SIX
Iskander Pasha asks his visitors to explain the decline of the Empire; the Baron points to a flaw in the Circle of Equity; Salman’s deep-rooted cynicism
F ATHER’S HEALTH WAS IMPROVING daily. He could now walk on his own and, as my mother confided to me, he was an active lover once again, all the more passionate for having lived through a period of denial. His face, too, was much improved. The paleness had evaporated and the sun had restored his colour. He was reading a great deal, mainly French novels. He loved Balzac and Stendhal, but hated Zola. He would write in his notebook that Zola was a scoundrel and an anarchist, but his written words never became an adequate substitute for speech. If he could speak he would have cursed Zola in language he was too embarrassed to put down on paper. He knew that his powers of speech had deserted him for ever and this was something he found difficult to accept.
But he became more and more assertive, more and more as he used to be when we gathered in his room for our stories. He was now determined to prevent a discussion of family history. He wanted to encourage more elevated talk. One evening he inscribed a question in bold capitals on his book and Petrossian held it up before us in turn. It read: CAN ANY OF YOU EXPLAIN WHY WE DECLINE SO RAPIDLY? IF RUSSIAN TSAR AND AUSTRIAN EMPEROR ARE STILL SO POWERFUL, WHY NOT OUR SULTAN?
Everyone was present. Memed and the Baron looked at each other wearily. Salman gave a sly smile. Zeynep kissed Iskander Pasha’s hands and took her leave. Halil, alone, showed any sign of interest.
“We failed to renew ourselves, Ata. And this is the price we have to pay. We allowed the clergy too much power in determining the future of this state. Istanbul could have been the capital of invention and modernity like Cordoba and Baghdad in the old days, but these wretched beards that established the laws of our state were frightened of losing their monopoly of power and knowledge. I forget the name of the fool who told the Sultan that if the palace relaxed its control, our religion would be finished. At the beginning of the sixteenth century, every major city in the West had its own printing press, while Sultan Selim threatened any person who showed even the slightest interest in it with death.”
Iskander Pasha was waving his hands to interrupt his son. Halil paused while I read my father’s note.
“The fear wasn’t totally
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