The Stone Woman by Tariq Ali Page B

his second wife. This, too, did not bother me a great deal. I remember saying to my mother: “Here, at least, there is no danger of any affliction.” I was told I would have to convert to the faith of my husband and acquire a new name. This change of identity was the only thing that amused me at the time. It would not be Sara who would enter Iskander Pasha’s bed, but Hatije. I was named after the first wife of the Prophet Memed, peace be upon him.
    I was married in the house in Istanbul. There were no festivities since I was only the third wife. The first, as you know, had died giving birth to Salman. This was also convenient since I was not in the mood for any celebrations. Iskander Pasha was very kind and, mercifully, he soon departed for Paris with Petrossian and Hasan Baba, but not me. This, too, suited me greatly. Naturally, before his departure he had entered my bed and convinced me that he was a man. I did not particularly enjoy the experience, Nilofer. It did not even comfort me. The wounds created by Suleman’s betrayal were still bleeding. You were born eight and a half months later.’
    Something in my mother’s tone had told me that this was not the end of her story. An unusually complacent smile had crossed her face when she mentioned my birth.
    “Sara!” I said to her sharply. “You promised the whole truth.”
    “Can’t you guess?”
    I shook my head.
    “You were the proof that my parents were wrong. Suleman’s cowardice was totally unjustified. That made me really angry. My sadness began to disappear. He was a traitor. My love began to drain away and I was filled with contempt for him. You were the healthiest and most beautiful child I had ever seen.”
    “What are you saying, Mother? You’re sick! You’re mad! This is just your imagination. You wanted it to be so, but it is not so. Iskander Pasha is my father!”
    I began to cry. She hugged me, but I pushed her away. My first reaction was disgust. I felt my whole life had been taken away from me. I sat there and stared at her. When I spoke, it was in a whisper.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes, my child. If I had not been pregnant, I would never have married Iskander Pasha. If I had told my parents they would have attempted to get rid of you. Never forget your grandfather’s profession. He had some experience in removing unwanted infants.”
    “But why didn’t you tell Suleman?”
    “I only discovered my condition the week after he left. I would have told him the next day, but he had gone.”
    “How can you be sure?”
    She went to a cupboard and brought out a box I had never seen before. It contained a photograph of both of them. They looked so happy. My mother covered Suleman’s nose and lips. The eyes were exactly the same as mine.
    “You never told your parents?”
    She shook her head.
    “Why?”
    “They would have been very upset. They were fond of Suleman. I was their only child and I did not wish them to feel that, with the best of motives, they had wrecked my life.”
    “And you never told him?”
    “No. When he wrote to me, you were already eight years old. His letter was brief, its tone distant and cold. It had been designed as a cruel farewell. It informed me of three important developments in his life. He was a successful painter. He was happily married. He had three children. How could I ever hope to compete with such bliss? The effect of his message was to kill off all my dreams. I wished then that the boat that had taken him to New York had encountered a storm and I wished that all the passengers in it had survived except him. He should have fallen off the edge and never been recovered. I would rather he had died. It would have stopped him writing these stupid letters.
    “I had thought that one day, before death claimed either of us, I would visit him in New York. I wanted so much to see him again, Nilofer. Just once. After his letter I felt futile and betrayed. But there was one consolation he could never take away from