The Stone Woman Read Free Page B

they were wrong.

TWO
The family begins to assemble; the Baron makes an impressive entrance; Salman’s melancholy
    I WAS LYING IN bed in a darkened room, a cold compress covering my face and forehead. I was resting to soothe a dull headache that refused to go away. That was the day Salman and Halil arrived to see our speechless father. I was not on the terrace with the rest of the family and all the servants to see them disembark from our old coach, which, flanked on each side by six cavalrymen, had transported them from Istanbul. I was later told by my mother how the sight of my father sitting motionless on a large chair had shaken both men. They had fallen to their knees on either side of him and kissed his hands. It was Halil, in his general’s uniform, who was the first to realise that silences can easily become oppressive.
    “I’m pleased you’re still alive, Ata. Heaven alone could have helped me if Allah had decided to make us orphans. This brute of a brother of mine would have ordered Petrossian to strangle me with a silken cord.”
    The thought was so ridiculous that a smile appeared on the face of the old man, a signal for the loud laughter from the entire assembly that woke me so rudely. But the headache had disappeared and I jumped out of bed, wet my face with water and ran downstairs to greet them. I arrived in time to see Halil take Orhan in his arms. He tickled the boy’s neck with his moustache and then threw him up into the air, hugging him warmly as he came down again. Then he introduced Orhan to the uncle he had never seen. Orhan looked at the new uncle with a shy smile and Salman awkwardly patted the boy on the head.
    I had not seen Salman for nearly fifteen years. He had left home when I was thirteen. I remembered him as tall and slim with thick black hair and a deep, melodious voice. I was startled when I first glimpsed his silhouette on the terrace. For a moment I thought it was Father. Salman had aged. He was not yet fifty, but his hair was grey and thin. He seemed shorter than when I last saw him. His body had grown larger, his face was over-fleshed, he walked with a slight stoop and his eyes were sad. Cruel Egypt. Why had it aged him thus? We embraced and kissed. His voice was distant.
    “And now you’re a mother, Nilofer.”
    Those were the only words he spoke to me that day. His tone had expressed surprise, as if bringing children into the world had somehow become a novelty. For some reason Salman’s tone and his remark irritated me. I’m not sure why this was so, but I remember feeling slightly angry. Perhaps because it suggested a refusal to see or treat me as a grown woman. I was still a child in his eyes. Before I could think of a suitably cutting reply, Petrossian had taken him away for a private audience with our father.
    Then it was Halil’s turn. He had never lost contact with us and made a point of communicating regularly with Orhan’s father. He had been of great help to us during bad times, making sure we were properly fed and clothed after Dmitri and most of the Greeks in Konya had been deprived of their livelihood as a punishment. I had last seen Halil when he arrived without warning on a beautiful spring afternoon in Konya. Orhan was three years old at the time, but he never forgot his uncle, or rather the moustache, which always irritated him. I looked at Halil. He was as handsome as ever and the uniform suited him. I often wondered how it had happened that the most mischievous member of my family had accepted the disciplines and routines of the army. As he embraced me, he whispered.
    “I’m glad you came. Did he tell Orhan a story?”
    I nodded.
    “Yusuf Pasha?”
    “Who else?”
    “Which version?”
    We laughed.
    As we were about to follow the rest of the family into the house, Halil noticed the rising dust on the distant track that led to our house. It had to be another carriage, but whom did it contain? Iskander Pasha was known throughout his family for his