cousins in different parts of our Empire. It was a way of instructing him in the geography of our world and its cities. These were tales of happiness and adventures, designed to make him feel at ease with the world inhabited by his family.
Orhan’s father never spoke of our great Empire. In this way he avoided both denigration and praise. The vices and glories of the Ottomans were not a subject very close to Dmitri’s heart. His own people had fought to free themselves from our rule only a few dozen years ago. Dmitri, not surprisingly, was on their side, though as a school teacher he had to keep his opinions to himself. Even at home we rarely discussed these matters. In fact, if I’m honest with myself, I would have to admit that ever since our marriage we rarely spoke of anything important. There were occasions when I deliberately provoked him. He would lose his temper with me, curse the day he had fallen in love with an Ottoman. Remarks of this nature only made me laugh, which was unfortunate since it only served to prolong his irritation. He found it difficult to believe that both my brothers were more critical than he of the Sultans and their Court, but then, as Dmitri never failed to point out, they had nothing to fear.
Dmitri is a good man. Of this I’m sure. And yet there are times when goodness becomes a bit wearisome. After my daughter was born I began to wonder whether I had made a mistake. Had I really loved him, or was it my father’s opposition that had closed my mind to any other alternative? The value of defying Iskander Pasha had long since depreciated, leaving me alone to confront my daily existence. I was tired of Dmitri. Tired of his jokes. Tired of his bad poetry. Tired of his resentments. Tired of seeing him wear the same style of clothes every single day and, what made all this doubly bad, I had tired of his body. It no longer gave me pleasure. There was nothing left. My life became a burden. I felt stifled.
He felt my growing indifference. It was difficult to hide my feelings all the time. His pride was hurt. Inside his head he must have begun to hate me. Sometimes I caught a look on his face that gave him away, but he restrained his anger. He was fearful that one day I might take the children and return to my father’s house. That must be why he suffered my alienation in complete silence and this made everything worse. He never allowed it to affect outward appearances and this only succeeded in enraging me further. I would have thought more of him if he had lost his reserve and hurled abuse at my face or shouted at me, but he remained silent. Most important of all, he never neglected his children. This was the big difference with our household. Here and in Istanbul the men in our family had nothing to do with children or their needs. It was the women, aided as always by an army of servants. We had only one serving-maid in Konya. Yes, just one!
Dmitri used to put Orhan to bed with stories of the ancient Greek gods and goddesses. And Orhan always wanted to be Hermes. Never Zeus or Neptune or Apollo or Mars or Cupid, but Hermes. He liked the thought of a god who was a messenger and he sometimes flew from his father to me with imagined messages. What Orhan and I really appreciated when Dmitri spoke of the old gods was that they were like human beings. They fought over each other. They had favourites on earth. They competed for the affections of Zeus. It was all very real.
Old Petrossian’s tales of Ottoman heroes could have been like that, but the old man had learnt his craft in the school of slaves. I have no idea how long Petrossian’s forefathers had worked in our household, but he and we knew that the relationship was very old. There had been Petrossians in our family for nearly a hundred and fifty years. And so Memed the Conqueror was above criticism, even of the mildest variety.
When we were young, my brother Salman used to invent stories, which cast Memed in a very ugly light. He would
Orhan’s father never spoke of our great Empire. In this way he avoided both denigration and praise. The vices and glories of the Ottomans were not a subject very close to Dmitri’s heart. His own people had fought to free themselves from our rule only a few dozen years ago. Dmitri, not surprisingly, was on their side, though as a school teacher he had to keep his opinions to himself. Even at home we rarely discussed these matters. In fact, if I’m honest with myself, I would have to admit that ever since our marriage we rarely spoke of anything important. There were occasions when I deliberately provoked him. He would lose his temper with me, curse the day he had fallen in love with an Ottoman. Remarks of this nature only made me laugh, which was unfortunate since it only served to prolong his irritation. He found it difficult to believe that both my brothers were more critical than he of the Sultans and their Court, but then, as Dmitri never failed to point out, they had nothing to fear.
Dmitri is a good man. Of this I’m sure. And yet there are times when goodness becomes a bit wearisome. After my daughter was born I began to wonder whether I had made a mistake. Had I really loved him, or was it my father’s opposition that had closed my mind to any other alternative? The value of defying Iskander Pasha had long since depreciated, leaving me alone to confront my daily existence. I was tired of Dmitri. Tired of his jokes. Tired of his bad poetry. Tired of his resentments. Tired of seeing him wear the same style of clothes every single day and, what made all this doubly bad, I had tired of his body. It no longer gave me pleasure. There was nothing left. My life became a burden. I felt stifled.
He felt my growing indifference. It was difficult to hide my feelings all the time. His pride was hurt. Inside his head he must have begun to hate me. Sometimes I caught a look on his face that gave him away, but he restrained his anger. He was fearful that one day I might take the children and return to my father’s house. That must be why he suffered my alienation in complete silence and this made everything worse. He never allowed it to affect outward appearances and this only succeeded in enraging me further. I would have thought more of him if he had lost his reserve and hurled abuse at my face or shouted at me, but he remained silent. Most important of all, he never neglected his children. This was the big difference with our household. Here and in Istanbul the men in our family had nothing to do with children or their needs. It was the women, aided as always by an army of servants. We had only one serving-maid in Konya. Yes, just one!
Dmitri used to put Orhan to bed with stories of the ancient Greek gods and goddesses. And Orhan always wanted to be Hermes. Never Zeus or Neptune or Apollo or Mars or Cupid, but Hermes. He liked the thought of a god who was a messenger and he sometimes flew from his father to me with imagined messages. What Orhan and I really appreciated when Dmitri spoke of the old gods was that they were like human beings. They fought over each other. They had favourites on earth. They competed for the affections of Zeus. It was all very real.
Old Petrossian’s tales of Ottoman heroes could have been like that, but the old man had learnt his craft in the school of slaves. I have no idea how long Petrossian’s forefathers had worked in our household, but he and we knew that the relationship was very old. There had been Petrossians in our family for nearly a hundred and fifty years. And so Memed the Conqueror was above criticism, even of the mildest variety.
When we were young, my brother Salman used to invent stories, which cast Memed in a very ugly light. He would
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