by the fact that the Empire has been irreparably decadent for three hundred years. I’m aware of this fact as well, but Salman takes it personally.”
My instincts rejected such reasoning. I recognised Salman’s impatience with the rituals of Istanbul life. He was deeply frustrated and wanted change, but, at best, this could only be a partial reason. I could not believe that my brother, once so mischievous and full of fun, had become so deeply affected by a sense of hopelessness in relation to history. Our family had always made history. How could we now let it crush us? There had to be another reason for Salman’s sadness and I was determined to discover its roots.
THREE
The Baron reads an extract from the Qabus Nama on “Romantic Passion”; the unfinished story of Enver the Albanian; Sabiha and the Circassian maid who thought the only way of escape was to fly
“Y OUR OTTOMAN EMPIRE IS like a drunken prostitute, lying with her legs wide open, neither knowing nor caring who will take her next. Do I exaggerate, Memed?”
The Baron and Uncle Memed were on their second bottle of champagne.
“As usual Baron, you express lofty thoughts with great clarity,” replied Memed, “but I do wonder sometimes whether the great master Hegel might have been a bit disappointed in you. According to your contemporaries, you showed great promise as a student in Berlin ...”
The Baron’s interruption took the form of laughter, which resembled the staccato burst of gun-fire: ha-ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha and a final ha. This was not the sort of laughter which starts as a smile and develops at a slow rhythm. His laughter was part of his verbal armoury, deployed to humiliate, crush, interrupt or divert any opposition.
“Whenever I visit this family, I’m lost to the real world, Memed. The real world, as I’ve often told you, is the world of ants. The only way human beings can survive in this world is to become like ants. It is our future. It beckons us, but you resist. You pretend that your home is the real world and in this fashion you keep the monsters at bay, but for how long, Memed? For how long? Your Empire is so bankrupt that you can no longer even afford to buy time as you have done for nearly three hundred years.”
My uncle remained silent for a while. He replied in a soft voice. “What your philosophers call progress, my dear Baron, has created an inner drought in human beings. They show a callow disregard for each other. Look at France, a country we both love, not to mention England. There is no solidarity between human beings. No belief in common except to survive and get rich, no matter what the cost. Perhaps this is the way of the world. This is where we will all end up one day. Not you and me, of course. We will have died long before that day, and who can say we will not have died happy? Why shouldn’t we seek pleasure in each other’s company. Why shouldn’t I enjoy my life, this house, my family...”
The Baron roared with laughter, but this time it was real.
“Why do you laugh?”
“I just recalled the Qabus Nama. When I was translating it into German I found it incredibly dull and commonplace, not worthy of even the slightest attention. I remember thinking: if this is the moral code for the Sultan and his princes, it is hardly surprising that they degenerated so rapidly. Even feeble heads filled with imperial vapours could safely ignore this nonsense. There was, however, one arresting passage. It was headed ‘Romantic Passion’ and I recited it so often to my wayward uncles and cousins that I never forgot the words. I was reminded of it when you spoke of those who are interested only in getting rich. Listen now, old Memed, to the wisdom of the Qabus Nama : ‘For your part resist falling in love and guard against becoming a lover, for a lover’s life is beset with unhappiness, particularly when he is without means. The penniless lover can never achieve his aim, more particularly when he is
My instincts rejected such reasoning. I recognised Salman’s impatience with the rituals of Istanbul life. He was deeply frustrated and wanted change, but, at best, this could only be a partial reason. I could not believe that my brother, once so mischievous and full of fun, had become so deeply affected by a sense of hopelessness in relation to history. Our family had always made history. How could we now let it crush us? There had to be another reason for Salman’s sadness and I was determined to discover its roots.
THREE
The Baron reads an extract from the Qabus Nama on “Romantic Passion”; the unfinished story of Enver the Albanian; Sabiha and the Circassian maid who thought the only way of escape was to fly
“Y OUR OTTOMAN EMPIRE IS like a drunken prostitute, lying with her legs wide open, neither knowing nor caring who will take her next. Do I exaggerate, Memed?”
The Baron and Uncle Memed were on their second bottle of champagne.
“As usual Baron, you express lofty thoughts with great clarity,” replied Memed, “but I do wonder sometimes whether the great master Hegel might have been a bit disappointed in you. According to your contemporaries, you showed great promise as a student in Berlin ...”
The Baron’s interruption took the form of laughter, which resembled the staccato burst of gun-fire: ha-ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha and a final ha. This was not the sort of laughter which starts as a smile and develops at a slow rhythm. His laughter was part of his verbal armoury, deployed to humiliate, crush, interrupt or divert any opposition.
“Whenever I visit this family, I’m lost to the real world, Memed. The real world, as I’ve often told you, is the world of ants. The only way human beings can survive in this world is to become like ants. It is our future. It beckons us, but you resist. You pretend that your home is the real world and in this fashion you keep the monsters at bay, but for how long, Memed? For how long? Your Empire is so bankrupt that you can no longer even afford to buy time as you have done for nearly three hundred years.”
My uncle remained silent for a while. He replied in a soft voice. “What your philosophers call progress, my dear Baron, has created an inner drought in human beings. They show a callow disregard for each other. Look at France, a country we both love, not to mention England. There is no solidarity between human beings. No belief in common except to survive and get rich, no matter what the cost. Perhaps this is the way of the world. This is where we will all end up one day. Not you and me, of course. We will have died long before that day, and who can say we will not have died happy? Why shouldn’t we seek pleasure in each other’s company. Why shouldn’t I enjoy my life, this house, my family...”
The Baron roared with laughter, but this time it was real.
“Why do you laugh?”
“I just recalled the Qabus Nama. When I was translating it into German I found it incredibly dull and commonplace, not worthy of even the slightest attention. I remember thinking: if this is the moral code for the Sultan and his princes, it is hardly surprising that they degenerated so rapidly. Even feeble heads filled with imperial vapours could safely ignore this nonsense. There was, however, one arresting passage. It was headed ‘Romantic Passion’ and I recited it so often to my wayward uncles and cousins that I never forgot the words. I was reminded of it when you spoke of those who are interested only in getting rich. Listen now, old Memed, to the wisdom of the Qabus Nama : ‘For your part resist falling in love and guard against becoming a lover, for a lover’s life is beset with unhappiness, particularly when he is without means. The penniless lover can never achieve his aim, more particularly when he is
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