A new system of belief. This was what it was. In order to follow it, he had to give himself over to it completely. Like any new convert he had to forget everything he had believed before, to leave behind that weaker, questioning part that would in the end have destroyed him.
He had horrified himself with thoughts of how his family would react, if they knew what he had done. Now he saw that such fears were irrelevant. Ordinary people like his mother, his sister, could never be expected to understand. He had been involved in something that defied comprehension; something much larger than all of them.
Some in the camp had peculiar obsessions. There was an officer who had never played a musical instrument before but became fixated by the idea of making himself a lute. Somehow he even infected a couple of their British captors with his dream. They brought materials for him: a file, plywood, glue. He worked tirelessly in a corner of the sleeping block, which became known as the ‘Egyptian Lunatic Asylum’. His hands became a map of welts and cuts; he had only a penknife to work with. No one really thought the thing would be completed, but perhaps that was no bad thing if it kept him occupied.
Even when – despite all the odds – it was finished, he spent several weeks refining the thing. Smoothing edges, tightening strings, fashioning a plectrum, adding a gergi. Now all were interested, invested in the fate of the lute.
Finally, he had to accept that there was no way in which it could be bettered. His work was done. All celebrated the triumph with him. They gathered about, and asked him to play for them. But he could not play – he was just the maker. A captain who could took over and regaled them with songs from their homeland. The lute maker retreated into a corner with the rest of them and sang along too, with a smile of deepest contentment upon his face.
Within a week, he was dead from dysentery. It was bad luck, some said. At least he had managed to finish his little project. But they all knew the truth of it, really. He had lost his purpose.
What was his purpose?
His was this new system of belief. It had its own language; comprised of words such as necessary, and righteous. Phrases such as: the future of the nation state, the Turkish people. He was not alone. Such phrases were murmured in the camp refectory as the unchanging daily slop was spooned onto their plates, or in the communal washrooms as men rinsed their wasted bodies. These were slogans of pride at a time when dignity had otherwise been lost. For some, as for him, it was a new creed. For others it might have been little more than a mechanism of survival. You lived here either in a state of fervent belief and hope, or you despaired and died. It was as simple as that.
Sometimes, still, in moments of weakness, doubts would creep in. There was perhaps some small part of him that obstinately refused to be convinced. That reminded him, for example, of the Armenian children in his class: of his favourite pupil; that clever, naughty boy who had always had an answer for everything. He would wonder what had become of them, of their families. But he learned to stifle this part. It would endanger the whole construction: if he let it it would destroy it and, in the process, it would destroy him.
This thing had forged him into someone new. It had been terrible, but in the same way that fire is terrible and yet is used to temper metal, to separate the ore from the baser bedrock, to strengthen and refine.
He understood that now.
Nur
At times this city seems more beautiful than she has ever seen it. Perhaps it is the season; still hot, but the sun of autumn has a maturity and resonance that it lacks at other times of the year. All colour is more vivid beneath it. The sky of late afternoon is so intensely blue it seems almost violet, and the light kindles intimations of gold in old stone. The Bosphorus basks in it, too, performing sedate transformations: from the pale, whitish mauve of early morning, through the deep navy of noon, the evening silver.
The city has revealed itself as a turncoat; it does not care for them, for all they have lost. It will endure after those who live within it now perish. It has continued its existence in tranquility, feeding contentedly from the wellspring of time – even as marauding armies have arrived at its gates ready to waste and conquer, even as fire has rained from the sky. Perhaps this has always been the unspoken agreement between the city and its inhabitants. They are birds resting upon an ancient bough. If the wind blows too hard for them to keep their footing it … well, it cannot be blamed on the tree, can it?
When she arrives at the old house she sees several white-robed figures, two playing a game of chess, the others making suggestions; a couple stand a little way off, smoking pipes.
They are enjoying the shade thrown by the elegant umbrella pine that she used to climb as a child. She can still recall the rough texture of the bark against her bare shins and feet, the perfume of the sap discovered later in sticky clumps in the hair, between fingers and toes. At the sight of them, within her, that familiar kindling of useless fury.
When they catch sight of her, all talk stops. She would like to believe it is because they have felt the hot touch of her anger. She knows the truth is that she is a spectacle, a curiosity. As she makes her way to the door she feels their eyes upon her: an intruder in their sanctuary. Then one
