The Stone Woman by Tariq Ali Page A

stop Petrossian in the middle of a story and ask with an innocent expression, “But Petrossian, is this not the same Memed who had his own mother’s brother boiled alive in oil and then fed his entrails to the dogs simply because the unfortunate man had been unable to control his wind in the Sultan’s presence?”
    Remarks of this sort were designed partially to make us laugh, which we did, and partially to challenge and irritate the story-teller. Petrossian remained impassive in the face of every provocation, neither irritated nor amused, his expression unmarked by the tiniest smile or the trace of a frown. What annoyed him was losing our attention and, at those moments, he began to resemble a shepherd whose crook has been stolen and whose sheep are straying all over the hills. Instead of ignoring Salman’s jokes, Petrossian ended up taking them very seriously and he defended every imagined atrocity dreamed up by my brother to blacken the name of the Sultans.
    Only once did Petrossian lose his control and laugh. Salman had interrupted him in full flow and asked for his views on an important matter.
    “This concerns Sultan Selim the Sot. Do you think the stories they tell of him are true, Petrossian? They say that he drank so much that he became incapable of performing his main function as a man. This angered him greatly, because the more alcohol he consumed the more it inflamed his desire. He became desperate for the little thing between his legs to rise and commence its work, but, alas, Allah had willed otherwise. They say that when he summoned a wife to his chamber, he used to be hoisted upwards by silken cords and while he was held thus by the eunuchs, young boys with delicate hands would fondle him between the legs so that he felt some sensation while a healthy, blindfolded janissary was brought in naked. The loyal soldier would proceed to impregnate the delighted princess with tightly shut eyes; she who lay below the floating Sultan, expecting the worst, was delighted by the vigour of the surprise. And all this time, Allah’s representative on earth, in a drunken stupor, would see the happiness on the face of his wife and hear her delighted squeals. So, or so they say, everyone was satisfied. Could this possibly be true? If it is so then the line of descent that our Sultans claim from Osman himself would have been decisively broken. Answer me, Petrossian!”
    Petrossian had not been able to keep a straight face during this story. He had cast away his caution and laughed a great deal, much to the delight of Salman, who had never before tasted such a sweet victory. After this we became very attached to Petrossian, realising that his reserve was largely a mask.
    “The devil himself must communicate these stories to you, Salman Pasha. I have no knowledge of them.”
    Looking at him now, I could tell from the old man’s gestures and facial expressions that Constantinople had been taken. Sultan Memed had restricted the looting and was receiving the heads of the Christian churches. The adventure was over. Little Orhan was beginning to fidget. It was time to rescue him.
    “Was that all true?” he asked as we walked away.
    I nodded.
    “Would my father say it was true?”
    “I don’t know, Orhan. I don’t know. Are you missing him?”
    He shrugged his shoulders and turned away so I could not see his face. He knew that Dmitri and I were no longer close. A child can sense these things much more than parents ever realise. My son knew we were no longer happy. And yet, in this house, far away from our cramped quarters in Konya, my anger had been pushed aside. I was in a more generous mood. I did not feel the need to punish Dmitri any longer. I did not even wish him dead. I just never wanted to be with him again. The thought of being in his arms again was so nauseous that it cramped the lower half of my stomach.
    Orhan had walked away on his own. Slowly he was beginning to discover the house and the mysteries of its