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No Intention of Surrendering
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 211-226
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Summary
Hello Ester (Noon, Day 6)
I fell asleep, right there on the bergère. I was knocked out, probably because of the pill I took, and was only eventually awoken by the ringing of the phone. I had no idea what time it was when I woke up. Was it past three? I hurriedly picked up the receiver. It was Ömer from reception.
‘Hello sir. Reşit Bey wanted me to remind you that you were going to meet him at three in the lobby.’
‘What time is it now?’ I asked anxiously.
‘It's still eleven, sir’.
It was a relief to hear it. I let out a deep breath, thanked him and put the receiver back down. I'd only slept for half an hour but after the fitful sleep I'd had last night, which was probably the cause of my earlier headache, I finally felt a little refreshed and revived. I went to the bathroom and washed my face, and then took out the clothes I'd be wearing for the meeting and lay them out on the bed. I was dying for a cup of coffee but did not want to trudge all the way downstairs to get one so I called to have one sent up. I then went out onto the balcony.
The rain hadn't started but there was a stiff breeze in the air whisking away the black clouds that had been hovering overhead earlier this morning. The morning sun, late to rise, was now shimmering pleasantly over the city's rooftops. Whether it was this glorious sunlight or my excitement at the prospect of seeing Cezmi again or the fact that my headache had disappeared I can't say but there was no trace of the morning's gloom and despair. I looked out in the direction of some noises in the distance; renovations were being carried out on the Tepebaşı Theatre. Seeing the theatre like that took me back… To 1906, the year I graduated from the Imperial High School and the year you came to Istanbul. I picked you up from Sirkeci Station that day, or rather, that evening and we went to the theatre, to a visiting French theatre company's production of Cyrano de Bergerac.
When the Wolf Dies in the Forest
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 449-464
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Good Evening, Ester (Evening, Day 10)
Although darkness had descended over the city, it was still scorching hot, with no wind to provide some relief. It was more like summer, rather than blessed autumn. I thought the Taksim Gardens would perhaps have a few breezes but even there not a single leaf fluttered. I sat at a table in the terrace bar overlooking the sea. At least that way I would be facing some open space and could perhaps get some air. Mehmed Esad had yet to arrive but he would soon be there. The other tables were only now beginning to fill up. Although the smartly-dressed gentlemen and their respectable lady companions had yet to arrive, the young and extravagant playboys and the heavily made-up girls out for a bit of fun and who could smell the money in the young lads’ pockets were already out in force and had taken their places at the tables. The flirtatious glances, the coquettish covering of the mouths with expensive handkerchiefs to hide their giggles, the seductive swinging of the head, the flicking of the hair and the eventual merging of the tables were all precludes to a night that would end in the fire of love. The orchestra, from Hungary apparently, had already begun playing Hungarian and Romanian folk songs. When the burly waiter came trundling along, I ordered some Üzüm Kızı rakı, which has just come out this year, salad, a plate of white cheese and a plate of cranberry beans. Mehmed arrived and planted himself down on the table before my order arrived.
‘Sorry, old chap’, he said breathlessly. ‘Had a customer at the shop. Real talkative fellow. Wouldn't shut up’.
‘Not to worry. I've only just got here myself ‘. With a jerk of my head, I gestured to the kitchen. ‘I ordered a rakı. Is that okay or would you like something else?’
‘Rakı's fine’. He took off his fez and placed it on the table. ‘Actually, a nice, cold beer would go down a treat in weather like this but beer makes you feel bloated.’ He wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief. ‘This is really crummy weather, eh? I walked here from the shop and now I'm caked in sweat.’
The Ancient Wound
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 67-82
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Good Morning, Ester (Morning, Day 3)
The strange thing is I woke up quite early today, even though it was nearly midnight when I finally went to sleep last night. What's more, I had weird dreams the whole night. In one, I was on a boat with Resneli Niyazi going to France. We were supposed to be going there to shoot an English general but it turned out the person we were really going to shoot was our own Enver Paşa and it was not actually Niyazi Bey I was with but our movement's own intrepid marksman, Yakup Cemil, somebody with whom I have never really got on, to tell the truth. But that was the dream, anyway, and that is when I woke up. Not in a film of cold sweat but with an inexplicable sense of delight, despite the bizarreness of my nocturnal visions. I used to feel the same joy during my high school years when getting on the train at Sirkeci that would take me to Salonika and straight to you. It was surprising, as it had been some time since I had felt such happiness. After relentless despondency, one begins to fear hope, but life, even if one does not lift a finger, has a way of filling a man's heart with joy.
I took a bath first, then got dressed and went downstairs to breakfast. Even bumping into the swarm of tourists that had arrived on the Orient Express yesterday could not dampen my spirits. With his usual swiftness and foresight, Ihsan, the hotel restaurant's head waiter, had the corner table set aside for me, granting me some reprieve from that group of noisy tourists. I may have put on some weight of late but this morning I was ravenous and I feasted on a sumptuous breakfast of eggs, honey and milk. As I was chewing on the last bite, the fat man that was fumbling around outside my door yesterday evening entered the dining area. He was looking for an empty table, and when he saw me, he was startled but quickly pulled himself together and bowed his head lightly in acknowledgement. I accepted his greeting and even smiled in response, but when Ihsan approached my table, I had to ask.
Becoming the Hunted
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 95-110
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Good Evening, Ester (Night, Day 3)
I hope I have not caused you any anxiety in writing to you like this. I am much better now. Mehmed Esad's visit caught me unawares, that is all. Or rather, the manner in which the State Security apparatus decided to contact me caught me unaware. Although I still do not know why they contacted me, at least now I have regained some semblance of my old serenity. And stepping outside for some fresh air was also a good idea; taking a stroll through this ancient city's old, worldly streets, browsing Pera's gleaming shops and stores and losing myself amongst throngs of people out to enjoy themselves did me the world of good. The more I walked, the more my woes seemed to vanish. The damp breeze coming in from the sea blew away the gloom that seemed to have stuck fast to the corridors of my mind. Which writer was it that said it was when he was walking that his stories came to him? Of course, my situation is not fictional like his; indeed, my situation may still prove fatal. But it is still possible that somebody may have conjured up such a scenario whilst walking.
So yes, this time I went for a long walk. From Pera Palace all the way to Pangaltı… Not a brisk walk but more of an amble, where with each step I reflected upon my predicament, imagining, speculating and envisaging what may lay in store for me. And at the end of this two-hour stroll, I came to a decision as a result of my ruminations, and the decision was that I should wait. Just wait, without any action on my part. Just wait, today and tomorrow. Because I am the prey. The target. What's more, I have already surrendered. I have handed myself over to my trackers, without resisting, without any attempt to flee. The men stalking me most probably sensed this decision and decided to leave me in peace as nobody followed me this evening. Not the three men from yesterday nor any others were on my tail, which made Mehmed Esad's tale all the more plausible. Once he'd made contact with me, he'd called his snoops off… End of story.
Wishing for Help from the Dead
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 375-390
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Hello Ester (Noon, Day 9)
Mehmed Esad has not given up, and nor will he. Of course, I am not surprised, as no CUP man, regardless of whether he is an old hand or a rookie, gives up easily. When I went down for lunch, Ömer came running up to me to give me the news that Mehmed Esad had come while I had been ensconced in my room. He had made his way to the elevator without even bothering to ask anybody but was stopped by Ömer, who spotted him and told him I was not in my room and that I would not be back until the evening. Actually, I had not instructed him to say anything of the sort but it was hard not to admire his initiative.
‘I don't think you would have liked it, sir’, Ömer said when he saw me at lunch. ‘I can't say I've taken much of a shine to that gentleman myself. He strikes me as, how should I say it, a little arrogant. A rather conceited fellow, if you ask me. When he realised he would not be allowed upstairs, he left you a note. But he also said, ‘I've left him this note but I'm telling you too. Make sure he knows. I shall be waiting for Şehsuvar Bey this evening.’ Yes, sir, those were his exact words. It's not my place to say but it would perhaps be wise if one were to keep one's distance from this gentleman.’
Indeed it wasn't his place to say so but I did not want to hurt his feelings so I thanked him, took the envelope he was holding out for me and sent him on his way. This is what the note inside said:
‘Şehsuvar, where have you been? I'm not joking, we really need to meet, and urgently. There is some serious business going on and you are involved. The meeting we were supposed to have yesterday I've moved forward to today. I shall be expecting you this evening. Regards, Mehmed Esad.’
So we had now moved on from insistence to veiled threats. What could these incidents and events involving me possibly be? Cezmi's murder? Of course not.
Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 627-628
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Interest in historical novels has been increasing of late. A new novel detailing the last twenty years of the life and activities of the Committee for Union and Progress now lines the shelves of our bookstores. The novel is entitled ‘Farwell, My Beautiful Homeland’ and has finally been published by Yeni Asır (‘New Century’) Publishing. It was written by Şehsuvar Sami, who put a gun to the side of his head on the 2nd of November and ended his own life. In the foreword to the French edition published by Gallimard in 1931, the renowned French poetess Ester Dauphin wrote the following:
We are all going to die. Everybody will, eventually. Sometimes all that is left behind are memories scattered by the wind; sometimes it is unforgettable works of art. The book you are currently holding in your hands was written by a man I once dearly loved. His was a wild and unsettled life dedicated to a grand love, a remarkable ideal and a lost country. I do not know if his was the right way to live but I can say it was a life lived honestly and truthfully. All that is left of that life are these words and these lines… These are the last heartrending and harrowing remains of that life.
(translated by Rakesh Jobanputra)
Ignoble Alliances
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 495-516
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Good Evening, Ester (Evening, Day 11)
I wasn't wrong, Ester. I had been right to worry. I'd sensed it all along. Nothing ever goes this smoothly. I had a feeling something would go wrong eventually. But I must confess, even I had not been expecting this much. A huge surprise, a thrill, a hope reborn… Yes, someone tonight made my nightmare come true. I'm talking about the nightmare I keep having, the one that takes place in the theatre. There I go again, losing my train of thought. I need to calm down. Calm down and relate everything that happened to me this evening one by one.
I'd eaten dinner in the hotel. I'd come down a little late, I think because I can no longer stand people. By this time, only three tables in the restaurant were occupied. I found a table in a quiet corner of the restaurant and ate my fill. A pleasant breeze was drifting in from the half-open window next to me. After dinner, I decided on taking a stroll, to get some fresh air, stretch my legs and enjoy the rather delightful autumn evening. I did not plan on going too far, just past the American Consulate, up to the 6th Municipality Headquarters and from there on to the square by the tramway tunnel, and perhaps stop to have a nice cup of coffee in one of the cafés there… That was the plan but alas, it was not to be.
Initially, when I stepped outside, I noticed nothing unusual but as I was walking past the Kroker Hotel, I had this awful feeling that I was being watched so I stopped and pretended to examine the displays in the windows of the Kroker Hotel before turning around to see if I was being followed. There was nobody there. Just a car in front of the Pera Palace with its headlights on, which was quite normal as dozens of cars stopped by the hotel entrance every day. In short, there was nothing on the street that could be considered suspicious. Perhaps it was because of my bad memories of the Kroker Hotel that I felt I was being followed, of the effect of those seven unspeakable days I spent in its bloody, mouldy basement.
A Malevolent Rain
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 565-582
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Good Morning, Ester (Morning, Day 13)
I woke up in a terrible state this morning. I had a strange feeling in my mouth, a painful pressure on my palate, most probably from grinding my teeth while I slept. I'd had so many dreams… So many colours, sounds and silhouettes… So many streets, squares and faces… A random, fragmented sequence of events… I couldn't remember any of them. I was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and so fed up that I could barely drag myself out of bed. If I could have just stayed under that warm blanket, just stayed in the room and let nobody touch me without the need to be protected from anybody, well away from all kinds of trouble… They were all hopeless fantasies, of course. I knew they were not going to leave me in peace and so, resigned to my fate, I dragged myself out of bed.
The breakfast lounge was quieter than usual. For the sake of conversation, I asked the waiter what was going on.
‘What's happened, Ihsan? The hotel looks like it has been emptied out.’
‘The Orient Express passengers have left, Şehsuvar Bey’, he replied gravely. ‘But they'll be back soon’. He didn't seem to mind, despite the seeming seriousness of his tone. He had a quick glance around and then said, ‘At least this way we'll have a little breathing space.’ He then realised his remark could be misconstrued and so hastily added, ‘I don't mean you, of course. You're one of us, sir.’ He glanced down at the half loaf of bread still on my table and the cheese that was just sitting there. ‘You've hardly eaten a thing. How about I get the chef to make you a lovely omelette, sir? And some freshly squeezed orange juice to go with it perhaps?’
Any other day and I would have gladly accepted his generous offer but this morning I really wasn't in the mood.
‘Thanks, but I think a coffee will be enough. And a glass of water to go with it. Cold water, though. I think I overdid the rakı again last night.’
No Choice But to Fight
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 317-332
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Hello Ester (Evening, Day 8)
All my fears have come true, one by one. I wasn't wrong. There is somebody out there trying to drag me into a bloody plot. And somebody close to me, too. Someone who smiled at me and shook my hand and looked ready to help but who in actual fact was digging my grave. It was this afternoon that I finally grasped this terrible truth, when I walked into Cezmi's house and saw his lifeless body lying in a pool of blood. That's right, this afternoon…
I left the hotel late in the afternoon. Of course, before setting off, I looked around for anything usual and I kept my eyes open for any strange activity after I'd got into the carriage but there was nobody following me. That did not, of course, mean I could relax. When we arrived at his street in Langa Bostanları, I did not get out in front of his house. I paid the driver at the end of the street and then began walking back to the house once he had disappeared. If anybody had been following me, it would have been impossible for me not to notice on that dim, sunless one-way street. But there was still nobody there.
The garden gate was not closed but I didn't attach too much significance to it. Maybe Cezmi Bey had left it open. I walked beneath the fruit trees up to the front of his house. Silence reigned in the garden. Save for the faint chirping of some sparrows, there was not a sound to be heard. When I neared the house, I noticed that the divan we had sat on out front two days ago was unoccupied. Knowing he would not be one to sit inside on such a stiflingly hot day, I looked around but the old warhorse was nowhere to be seen. I called out to him but there was no answer so I walked over to the veranda and called out to him again. ‘Major Cezmi… Mister Cezmi, sir… Are you there?’ Not a sound. Seeing as the garden gate had been left open, perhaps he'd gone out and was signalling to me that he would be back soon?
The Walking Dead
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 347-360
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Good Night, Ester (Midnight, Day 8)
A storm whips up the desert and flings the sands over us. It is incredible to behold; in front of our very eyes, one sand dune is swept away, only for another to be almost instantly created in its place. The wind is so strong that we have to lie face down on the ground and hold on to each other in order not to be lifted up and swept away. There are three of us – Fuad, Basri Bey and I. Yes, I know Basri Bey is dead but I still do not find it odd having him there next to us, and neither does Fuad, who is clinging on to my arm with his right hand. We are lying still on the ground, the wind howling in our ears, the grains of sand thrashing around us, striking our hair and our heads like hot sparks.
‘Memories!’ I shout above the din. ‘Think of happy moments from your lives, happy memories, and hold on to them! Hold on to your most precious memories!’
Fuad does not respond but Basri Bey begins to say something.
‘I remember an oasis’, he mumbles. ‘Like a piece of paradise that has fallen to earth…’
He is only mumbling, yes, but I can hear him clearly, as though the storm is not there, as though its winds are not trying to turn us inside out and fling us into oblivion.
‘I'm exhausted’, he goes on, losing himself in his story. ‘As though I have been on the road for days and have not closed my eyes for days. My whole body rattles with every step the camel takes, and is swinging like a pendulum. It's hot. So hot, if I reach out, I'll be able to touch the sun. That is when the oasis appears in front of us…’
I listen to Basri Bey and feel his words come to life. Not even that, I become Basri Bey myself. There is no more Şehsuvar Sami; I am just the sum of what my beloved commandant sees, hears and feels. I am the one swinging like a pendulum on a camel, I am the one losing my mind in the suffocating heat.
Glossary
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 629-630
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Resign, Your Excellency!
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 391-408
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Hello Ester (Early Evening, Day 9)
The sun was still up when I entered the shop in the Avrupa Pasajı arcade. The light reflecting off the glass ceiling of this arcade, an equal in beauty of which one could find only in a European city, had lost its lustre but was still strong enough to keep the darkness away and the gas lamps unlit. Finding the only carpet shop in the arcade was not hard. Inside was seated a dark – very dark – gentleman with a pockmarked face, probably the man that had come to the hotel the other day to bring that message. When I greeted him and walked in, his dark, bloodshot eyes bored into me.
‘I'm looking for Mehmed Bey’, I said casually. ‘Mehmed Esad. Is he around?’
He just stared at me and then raised a finger. I didn't know what he was trying to say so I asked him again.
‘Mehmed Esad… Is he around?’
Again, there was no reaction or response, except for the waving of the finger. I was beginning to think I had come to the wrong place when my friend's voice came through from the upper floors.
‘Şehsuvar… Is that you? Come upstairs.’
There was a wooden staircase behind the handmade curtains. As I walked up, I was hit by the heavy, musty smell of rugs and carpets. When I reached the upper floor, Mehmed Esad was standing there waiting for me.
‘Finally! You've finally made it to our little store, my brother. We were about to close the file on you for good.’
I wasn't really paying much attention but I shook his outstretched hand and asked, ‘Who's the surly fellow downstairs? Doesn't he speak Turkish? He didn't even have the decency to answer me when I asked after you.’
He glanced at the stairs and then back at me.
‘You mean Ruşeym? Sorry about that, old chap, but the poor fellow can't speak. He was a member of a pro-Ottoman tribe out in Egypt. The English cut his tongue out. We came back together from the Suez. He worked as a courier for me during the war. He's such a good man and so loyal and what have you that I couldn't let him go so I brought him here with me.’
The Essence of the State
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 83-94
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Hello Ester (Early Evening, Day 3)
After being interrupted by the telephone, I was able to return to my writing. I truly am in the strangest situation with the men that have been sent to snoop on me. What they want to do before hauling me in is break me and break my spirit. That way, they will be able to mould me the way they like and turn me into whatever they want. I now realise that in underestimating the new regime's network of spies and informers, I have made one elementary mistake: I forgot that the essence of the state is continuity. The men who are on my trail are part of a centuries-old Ottoman policing tradition, the ways of the zaptiah, and they have inherited all its traits too – its cruelty, its cunning, its savagery and its guile.
But let me not keep you in suspense too long. This afternoon when I answered the phone, I heard a familiar voice say, ‘Mister Şehsuvar, a friend of yours is waiting for you in the Domed Lounge.’ I recognised the voice immediately – it belonged to Ömer, the young lad at reception.
‘You mean Mister Reşit?’ I asked, thinking he was referring to the manager.
‘Erm, no’, he said uneasily. ‘Another gentleman’.
‘Who? Did he give you a name?’
‘If you'll just hold on a second, I have written it down here somewhere. Ah yes, here it is. Captain… Captain Basri.’
The hairs on my neck stood on end. Captain Basri, just like Reşit's father Yusuf, had died fourteen years ago in Tripoli. That's right, in my arms, in an almost paradisiacal oasis in the middle of the desert… Somebody was clearly playing a nasty game but the question was who? Who else could it be but the men following me. Even if I went down, there was a chance that there would be nobody there. I was tempted to just stay put in my room and pretend the phone had never rung… But then I had a better idea.
‘Is he still there?’ I asked. ‘Because I have a favour to ask. Could you go and have a look for me and see if he is still there?’
Are You Going to Be a Killer?
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 5-10
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Hello Ester (Afternoon, Day 1)
Your voice echoed through the room this afternoon. Are you going to be a killer? It wasn't a dream. I swear it wasn't a dream. Your voice was so close to me and so clear, it was as though you were standing next to me. You were shouting at me, your voice full of fury and anxiety.
‘Tell me, Şehsuvar, are you going to be a killer?’
Your voice was so real I could almost feel your sweet breath on me. I momentarily succumbed to a futile hope and scanned the room, this hotel room in which I am probably spending the last days of my life. Of course, you were not there, but such is the power of hope I still got up and looked for you in the bathroom. I even opened the door and looked up and down the hallway. You were not there, nor could you have been. Those words I heard you had uttered a long time ago, before our bodies were this jaded, before our souls were this battered, at a time when our hearts were still full of hope…
It was the end of summer. We were in that garden crowned by purple grapes hanging down from the vines, by the stone pond whose fish had long since died. Your face seemed paler amongst the yellowing leaves. Your gaze bored furiously into mine. Actually, I had already guessed that I would not be going to Paris with you. News had already probably reached you of my joining the movement. Even if you hadn't heard about it, you sensed it.
The moment I told you I was joining the Committee of Union and Progress, you could not hold back your anger and erupted.
‘So are you going to be a killer?’
It was the first time I had seen you so livid, and so desperate and helpless too. I tried to console you but you would not listen. And you were right not to, because I had lied. The truth is I had long since been a member of the Committee.
Yes, I feel ashamed now telling you like this; that was something else I had withheld from you. It was a year earlier, in the summer of 1907, when you were in Paris writing me those letters peppered with lines by Baudelaire.
Your Decision
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 19-26
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Good Evening, Ester (Evening, Day 1)
I sent my letters to you from the hotel's post office this evening, just before dusk. The main post office on the Cadde-i Kebir, the city's most central and most glamorous street, is not safe. The second I leave the hotel, they are on my trail, following me, sometimes undercover, sometimes quite openly. Almost as though they expect me to be afraid, to panic and so try to escape. But I shall not give them that pleasure. No, I shall not let the official archives write ‘Şehsuvar Sami panicked and ran’. But at the same time I do not want them to stop my letters reaching you, so I have been using the postal services in the hotel to send them.
If I could just write it all down in one go, in a single sitting. Just let it all out… Not because I am impatient but because I am worried. What I have sent you is just a small part of what I want to tell you. A prelude perhaps, maybe just the first pages of a novel… An outpouring of the last twenty years, the story of a world turned upside down, of an empire in upheaval, of lives turned inside out, of our lives… The story of an accursed war that drenched the world in blood, of shattered hopes and dreams, of torn ideals and of a love that never died. Do not be so quick to frown. I know I have no right to speak about love after everything we have been through. But please, I implore you, even if you do not believe what I write, at least wait until the last lines before you pass judgement. Please, at least grant me that one indulgence.
Instead of the stairs, I took the lift down to the postal bureau to post my letters to you. You know how machines and machinery have always fascinated me. There were three other people in the lift with me. Three French ladies. I won't lie, they looked so sophisticated and they exuded a heavenly aroma. The scene reminded me of that day we went to dinner with Ahmed Rıza Bey on the Rue des Ecoles in Paris.
Frontmatter
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp i-iv
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This Is Not Ankara
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
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- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
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- 31 October 2019, pp 465-478
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Summary
Good Morning Ester (Morning, Day 11)
Strangely enough, I woke up well this morning. It didn't feel as though I had downed so many glasses of rakı. Just as I was putting it down to the few moments I had spent sitting on the balcony and sobering up last night, I looked up at the cuckoo clock and realised it was nearly noon. Well, if you sleep till that late, of course you're going to feel good… Breakfast must have already ended in the restaurant downstairs so I called reception and ordered a cheese omelette, toast and coffee and then went into the bathroom to wash. The food arrived while I was shaving. Ihsan brought it up on a tray himself, along with the day's papers and…. What was that? A gift? A phonographic record…?
‘A gift from Reşit Bey’, he smiled. ‘A German guest forgot it in his room so we thought you should have it as you would appreciate it more than anyone.’
I thanked him and picked it up. It was Puccini's La Boheme. A love story set in Paris… The story of events in a garret, just like the story we envisaged for ourselves… A sad story, yes, harrowingly sad, but also a real love story, not one that had been cut off halfway like ours.
Ihsan placed the tray and its contents on the table and made his way out while I placed the record on the gramophone. After a few hisses and crackles, the music began. Of course I thought of you, of the grand hopes we had lost, of our younger days, of those youthful exuberances that would never be relived… When the first part of the opera ended, my appetite had vanished. Once more, I was spiralling down into my wretched misery.
I was looking for you, I was collaborating with dark, mysterious characters whom I did not know in order to find you, and yet a voice inside me was telling me that we would never meet again. If you had come to Istanbul, wouldn't you have called me? Otherwise why would someone like you even come to Istanbul? You would need a reason.
Fighting for a Lost Cause
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 535-548
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Summary
Ah, My Dearest Ester! (Early Evening, Day 12)
Once again, I went back to the hotel an unhappy man. Unhappy, disappointed and in pain… So you hadn't returned to Istanbul. Not to Istanbul or to me. And how convinced I had been that you had returned and that I would find you! They were all just empty dreams. Empty dreams and foolish optimism… I had needed to feel hope of some kind and so I had come up with a huge lie in order to create that hope. It was nothing but a flagrant case of self-deception…
After leaving Uncle Leon's office, I wandered the streets aimlessly, not knowing what to do. I just let my legs carry me wherever they felt like going. I went down to Kasımpaşa first, down to the shores of the Golden Horn and walked along the seafront, the way I used to do back in Salonika. I was distraught and wracked with pain, grief and remorse, as though we had split up that day and not years earlier. I sat down on a bench. I could hear the voices of children diving into the sea: wild, frivolous, carefree and joyous. I hated them, and I hated their joy. I got up and walked, for kilometres, but no matter how much I walked, there was no escape, no way out. I was trapped, walking around and around in a vicious circle of fire. Not one of the conditions that had made me leave home twelve days ago and move into the Pera Palace Hotel had changed. I was facing the same threats now that had been a cause for concern to me the day I moved. Life had rejected me completely. No new opportunities would be proffered now. Seeing as you had not come back, any prospects of happiness I may have once clung on to had now vanished for good. I was back in the state of mind I had been in twelve days ago, and it was only right because it was at least rooted in reality.
When I tired of walking, I went back to the hotel and back up to my room. My pen and the sheets of paper on my desk were calling out to me but I had lost the urge to write. What difference would it make were I to write?
A Betrayal of Their Own History
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 517-534
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Summary
Good Morning, Ester (Morning, Day 12)
The telephone is ringing persistently in the desert tent but nobody is answering it. There are no officers or soldiers on patrol. What is this place – are these the barren hills of Libya? The gleaming shores of Çanakkale? The lush green forests of the Balkans? The vast, endless sands of the Yemeni deserts? The phone keeps on ringing, as though it will never end, as though it is desperate to pass on some news of woe. At my wits’ end, I eventually lift the receiver. I am expecting a furious rant from an enraged commandant but what I hear instead is a more restrained and altogether more urbane voice, that of Ömer from reception.
‘Good morning, Şehsuvar Bey. I do hope I am not disturbing you. I would just like to inform you that you have a visitor.’
I realise I am in my bed in the hotel.
‘I wouldn't have disturbed you like this but he is insistent,’
Ömer went on. ‘He says you're expecting him’.
Who could it be? I hadn't been expecting anyone. What new nonsense was this? With great difficulty, I opened my tired eyes and squinted up at the clock on the wall. The time was eight thirteen. Who could it be at this ungodly hour?
‘He says he's from your hometown. He looks like a war veteran of some kind. He's got an arm missing.’
‘Cafer’, I muttered happily. ‘Çolak Cafer!’
‘That's what he says his name is, sir, yes. Cafer. I asked him to wait for you in the Domed Salon but he refuses. He's standing here now in front of me waiting for you.’
That was difference with Fuad. In the evening, he says he'll do something, and by the morning he's got it done. Whatever promises he makes, he keeps. A few minutes later, I was dressed and downstairs. He was a thin man, Cafer, one of those guys that looks so frail, you'd think a gust of wind could blow him over, and the sight of the right sleeve of his jacket swinging in the air beside him made him look even more unimposing. However, when he saw me, he gave a wolfish grin, displaying rows of uneven teeth stained black by tobacco.
A Game of Revenge
- Ahmet Ümit
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- Book:
- Farewell, My Beautiful Homeland
- Published by:
- Anthem Press
- Published online:
- 06 December 2019
- Print publication:
- 31 October 2019, pp 167-178
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Summary
Hello Ester (Noon, Day 5)
Again, I woke up just before noon. The maid has grown accustomed to this and now cleans the room whenever I'm out. Sometimes she has to wait two days before she gets a chance to come in and clean. Like the crew outside, she keeps tabs on my movement as part of her job. Although having said that, the snoops are still nowhere to be seen. The more I think about it, the more I am starting to believe what Mehmed Esad had said but I still need to meet Cezmi Bey before making up my mind. But I have my doubts about that meeting – expecting a man as timid as Reşit to take a marked man such as myself to an old CUP stalwart like Cezmi may well be a pointless exercise. I say stalwart because Cezmi has never acknowledged or accepted our defeat. The last I heard, according to what Kara Kemal told me anyhow, he was working at the Progressive Republican Party's Istanbul headquarters. That must have been around two years ago.
‘He's a funny old man, our Cezmi. Just like Enver Paşa, he cannot distinguish between his ideals and reality. He behaves more like a guardian of the republic than a member of the Progressive Republican Party. You should see the way he addresses the police and members of the gendarmerie; like he's still a major in the army and the police and gendarmerie are privates under his command. As soon as I get the chance, I'm going to have to tell him that the CUP are not in power. Otherwise if he keeps on acting up the way he is, he'll not only get himself into hot water but those around him too.’
Kara Kemal was most probably killed before he had the chance to tell the old major to quieten down, which means, in a way, that that particular duty has fallen to me. But for all I know, the Cezmi I meet may be a changed man, especially after the assassination attempt in Izmir. I mean, even a fearless old CUP gunman like Mehmed Esad is now telling me he wants to get on with the government. The world is changing, the times are changing and circumstances are changing, so it is only normal that people should change too, isn't it?