Farewell: A Mansion in Occupied Istanbul (Turkish Literature) Read Online Free PDF Page A

stepped into her room and spread her prayer rug on the floor. Then, a towel draped over her arm, she headed for the ground floor hamam to perform her ritual ablutions.
    Ahmet Re ş at sat at the foot of Kemal’s bed and laid the back of his hand on his nephew’s neck, his forehead. Kemal’s fever had broken. His forehead and upper lip were beaded with sweat.
    It had been thirty years since Ahmet Re ş at had first caressed those pink cheeks with his fingertips, terrified he would wake the sleeping baby. Kemal’s late mother had brought him into this world, then traveled on to the next well before the customary forty days of confinement following childbirth had ended. It was a fate repeatedly visited upon Ottoman Turk families: the women died of massive blood loss or infection; the men died on the battlefield: the infants were surrendered to the care of aunts and uncles. Kemal’s father had been martyred in the Greco-Turkish War before he’d had the chance to see his newborn son. Re ş at, himself an orphan, had still been a young man when he took full responsibility for his nephew. He’d considered Kemal his son, and arranged that the boy be looked after by his great aunt, Saraylıhanım, and educated by the most reputable tutors in Istanbul. He had done his best to raise Kemal but had utterly failed to exert any influence on him.
    At the touch of the hand now resting on his forehead, Kemal’s eyes fluttered open.
    “Uncle,” he murmured.
    “How are you feeling? They tell me you couldn’t sleep last night.”
    “I was feverish. But I vaguely recall Mehpare trying to lower my temperature with cold compresses.”
    “Should I call a doctor?”
    “I don’t want you to. I’m fine now, uncle.”
    Re ş at Bey reached for the glass of milk and honey resting on the window sill. “Try to take a sip or two; it’ll soothe your chest.”
    “Later, Uncle. Don’t worry, Mehpare will definitely make me drink it.”
    “That poor girl’s been an attentive nurse. Your aunt brought her up so well.”
    “Eh. When I became too much for her, she found someone else to enslave, that’s all,” said Kemal, with a weak chuckle.
    “You’ve been too much for me too. Kemal. Look at the condition you’re in. Why didn’t you listen to us?”
    “My condition is nothing compared to what’s happened to the motherland. I still have nightmares about that damned General d’Esperey, trotting to the French Embassy on horseback, triumphant, like a commander of the Roman Legion. And on a white horse, no less! The insolence of it! Alluding to Mehmet the Conqueror’s entrance into Constantinople! As if to say, you took this city on a white horse, and on a white horse I’m taking it back . . .”
    “Come on. Try to think of happier things. You’ll give yourself nightmares.”
    “Better to have died in Sarıkamı ş than to witness that terrible day.”
    Ahmet Re ş at squirmed in exasperation.
    “Just be grateful you’re still alive,” he managed.
    “They say Mara ş has taken up arms against the French. Is it true?”
    “Yes. We’ve received reports.”
    “That’s wonderful, Uncle!”
    “Kemal! Even after the armistice was signed, some of the pashas refused to surrender their arms, and the commander in Mecca fought on for another two months. And to what end? None! On the contrary, the more we oppose them the tighter they clamp down.”
    “This time might be different. Anatolia has begun organizing. If resistance builds in the hinterlands, Istanbul will spring into action too.”
    “And then? I fear what the English will do to us.”
    “So you’ve started to think like the Sultan too? Disappointing.”
    “What you need to understand is that the Sultan is no worse than most of his predecessors. Ill-starred, that’s all. This invasion came to pass during his reign. He’s doing all he can to protect a throne that has endured for six hundred years.”
    “And what about us? Is he protecting his subjects?”
    “That