“There’s no such thing as kismet. It’s just an expression, a superstitious belief, the resource of those too lazy to struggle to make something of themselves.”
“That’s rather uncharitable, isn’t it? Think of all the people out there”-she waves a hand toward the dark city-“who try their best, but still lead miserable lives.”
“Yes, that’s true. But I think many people don’t try as hard as they might. I mean, the thought of being completely responsible for one’s own future is exhausting to contemplate. It’s an enormous responsibility, some might say a burden, to place on the ordinary man.”
Sybil turns to him in surprise.
“So you think people are simply too lazy to better their lives, or incapable of taking the responsibility?”
“I suppose it does sound rather mean-spirited, when you put it that way.”
“I think that people can be relied upon to do their best with what they’re given. A poor man, with only a shilling in his pocket, will nonetheless spend it to clothe and feed his children.”
“Or buy rounds for his friends.”
“That’s terribly cynical.” Sybil’s voice has risen.
“I suppose it’s true,” he agrees, attempting to smooth the tension between them, “that I’ve been blessed with a wealthy, well-placed family, a house, an education, so it’s easier for me to be progressive.” He spits out the final word, surprising even himself. When did I become so cynical? he wonders.
“Do you think it’s Islam that is holding people back?”
“Kismet has nothing to do with Islam. It’s simply a superstition, like the evil eye.”
“People need religion, don’t they?” Sybil asks thoughtfully. “How else could they bear up under all the misery and hardship?”
“Religion is the scaffolding within which we build our lives. It falls away when we no longer need its support.”
“What a curious definition of religion. What is religion without belief, without faith? Isn’t faith necessary?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he answers wearily. “Religion seems to me nothing more than a set of empty rituals and linguistic niceties that mean nothing more than what they say.”
“Everything means more,” Sybil counters adamantly. “What you describe isn’t a life, it’s a shell of a life. What is progress, then, when nothing means anything?”
“Progress means to act rationally, on the basis of known facts, not according to one’s kismet or the mumblings of a hodja.”
“Surely it also means to lead a morally correct life. To give your shilling to your children, instead of drinking it away, as you yourself said.”
“Yes, of course. Civilization doesn’t mean everything is acceptable. On the contrary. There are standards that everyone can learn.”
“And where do they learn moral standards? In church, in the mosque.”
“From parents. And in schools that can correct for the parents’ shortcomings. Proper schools that teach science and the arts, the truly great moral triumphs of the modern age, not the niggling do’s and don’t’s of the prayer books.”
“Niggling? My God, those do’s and don’t’s are civilization. They’re a moral compass. Without them, people are empty vessels, no matter how clever and rational they might envision themselves to be.”
Kamil does not like heated arguments, but respects Sybil for holding her ground. He is tired, his investigation finding no foothold.
“I should go, Sybil Hanoum.” He sees the sadness in her face and feels ashamed that he was the cause of it. He doesn’t move.
“Yes.” She seems at a loss for words. They remain on the balcony, leaning on the wrought-iron railing. Looking out at the dark shapes of trees and buildings, Kamil reflects on how many colors there actually are in what is carelessly called black.
Finally, she says, “I do agree that religion isn’t the only way to learn moral behavior. And it is true that religion is often used unscrupulously to manipulate people and to encourage and justify uncivilized behavior. We’ve had enough of that in England, with our various kings and wars and injustices. But it would be so sad to lose”-she tilts her chin and looks up at him-“those ‘little niceties.’”
“Yes, perhaps you’re right.” He is intrigued by the discussion and finds himself oddly at peace. She is standing by his left elbow, turned to face him. Their hands on the rail are almost touching. I could stand here forever, he thinks. He looks at her closely in the light spilling from the room behind them. Large, guileless eyes in an earnest face, plump neck, the pearl nestling in the indentation at its base, a faint lilac scent. Her hair is coiled loosely at the back of her head, tendrils escaping around her forehead and ears. He senses pressure behind the cloth stretched across her bosom, a will to expand toward him. As he looks, he sees Sybil’s cheeks warm. The pearl stands out like a full moon against her flushed skin. Gerdanlouk, he thinks. An evocative Turkish word, with Arabic roots. It means jewelry, but only jewelry adorning a woman between her lower neck and the top of her breasts. Gerdanlouk. He looks away.
Kamil lingers on the balcony, looking out toward the darker space beyond the trees, hoping the chill, bracing air will cleanse his mind of distractions. The distant pinpoint lights above the mosques waver and wink in the wind, marking the end of Ramadan. A new season, he thinks, a new moon. People cleansed by a month of fasting. Maybe that’s a good thing, to be able to start over every year, fresh as a newborn. Free of sin and vices, the Christians would say. For Muslims, who have no concept of sin, reform means to readjust one’s behavior so that it is impeccable in the eyes of others. It’s never too late for that. What others don’t see, well, that’s another story.
He turns abruptly and enters the room. A moment later, Sybil follows him. Neither looks at the other’s face in the appalling light.
Early the following morning, Kamil rides to his sister Feride’s house. One morning every week, he visits his sister and her twin daughters, Alev and Yasemin-aptly named Flame and Jasmine, the one restless and inquisitive, the other amiably tranquil. They breakfast together. Sometimes they are joined by Kamil’s father, Alp Pasha, who lives in a separate wing of Feride’s mansion. Kamil avoids coming at times when he would encounter his brother-in-law at home. He does not like Huseyin Bey, a distant cousin and a minor member of the imperial family. To Kamil’s mind, his brother-in-law is a palace loyalist, but more crucially, an opinionated and self-centered man.
Kamil senses that, despite her large house filled with servants and children and a constant round of visiting, his sister is lonely. For Feride, social life is a desperate, well-oiled mechanism.
Commotion alienates the heart, he muses. It’s easier to be at peace when the world has retreated to an observable distance. But he knows Feride doesn’t understand this and wouldn’t believe him if he tried to explain it to her. As a girl, she desperately wanted to go on social outings and visits, yet when she returned, he remembers her face as wistful and bewildered. She rarely brought friends to the villa. He thought at the time that she was ashamed of living in such an unfashionable house, but now thinks she was lonely even then. The difference between them is that he relishes his solitude, while Feride fights it with continual activity. He spears a piece of melon from his plate and chews slowly, watching Alev try to squirm out of her mother’s grip as Feride reties the satin bow at the back of her dress and then tells her to sit at the table next to her sister.
His father sits at the head of the table, gaunt and bowed over his untouched food. His lips and fingers are stained brown. Kamil can see the naked scalp through his father’s thinning hair, a sight that pierces him with regret. Kamil tries to get his father to look up, so that he can see his eyes. Regret gives way to anger. Alp Pasha does not look up or respond to his son’s attempts to draw him out. Alev and Yasemin also are unusually silent, their eyes drawn inexorably to the shadowy figure hunched beside them. Feride continues chatting amiably, as if she were in full command of her audience.