On the day the palace was seized, hundreds of animals, terrified by the sounds of guns and cannons, broke free and fanned out through the city. The sultan’s famous horses galloped away, and even Mennan, who was famous for dragging his wounded owner off the battlefield with his teeth, had been seen grazing in the wilderness. Zebras, people called them “donkeys in pajamas,” roamed calmly through the streets, but the strangest sight was a giraffe crossing the Galata Bridge.

  Astounding requests—Baby snake—A compassionate commander—Forbidden names—Star-shaped noodles

  Pine water

  One brick

  My parrot

  My cat

  A piece of iron ten centimeters long and two centimeters wide

  Whatever clothes belonging to me and my family that remain in Yıldız Palace

  Black beard dye

  Furniture for the house

  Carpentry tools from my workshop at the palace

  A dozen bottles of Atkinson cologne

  This list of requests, which he presented in person to the commander, aroused a sense of pity because it was clear that, however much wealth and power he’d once had, the man was mentally ill. Major Ali Fethi looked at the list in surprise, then managed to ask, “Are you certain?” When the man nodded his head and said, “Yes, yes,” the commander couldn’t think of any response. He tried to avoid direct contact with the former sultan, because each time he met him he was left with a deep sense of uneasiness. Besides, he wasn’t sure how to behave toward the man, how to address him. He was a former sultan, but now he was a prisoner, an exile, a shadow of a man under house arrest with his distraught family, and all of them had suddenly become his responsibility.

  Ali Fethi Bey was a compassionate man; he now had the person he’d seen as the empire’s greatest problem, who’d darkened his life for years, against whom he’d whispered on many nights and whose death he had wished for, but for some reason he couldn’t feel any hatred toward this old man. When he’d approached the sultan’s room, he’d seen through the half-open door that he was praying on his prayer rug; he waited until the sultan was finished and then entered. He was wearing a cardigan over the underwear he’d probably slept in, his long beard now had patches of gray, and the faraway look in his eyes showed he hadn’t recovered from the blow he’d received and probably never would.

  After looking the commander over for some time, the sultan said, “You’re a good man, officer, I know people. You give me confidence in these disastrous times. This is why I ask you for God’s sake to tell the truth. Are our lives in danger?”

  When Ali Fethi Bey said, “Of course not, sir, you and your family are under the protection of the army,” the sultan wasn’t satisfied, and a shadow of doubt fell across his face.

  “How can I be confident?” he asked. “Two days ago I was the sultan of all these lands, I was the father of all these peoples, I was the caliph of all Muslims. Look at me now.”

  Ali Fethi Bey wanted to say, Then you should have behaved like a real father, you shouldn’t have let your pashas rob the people blind. You shouldn’t have had the grand vizier strangled, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so and suppressed his rising anger.

  Now the deposed sultan insisted on a guarantee. “I would like the army to inform me in writing that I am under its protection.”

  “I will pass your request to the highest authority.”

  As he was leaving the house, it occurred to him that he was not showing the sultan the same respect he would have in the old days. Even though he criticized him internally, he addressed him as “Your Majesty” and “my sultan,” stood at attention, and did not look at him when he spoke. However, he should have spoken to the sultan as if he were in awe, as if he were addressing the shadow of God on earth. There was a whole list of flattering, obsequious titles he should have used, and he should have referred to himself as “your servant” and “the dust beneath your feet.” But the commander couldn’t bring himself to speak this way. He could not behave like a flunky. He was determined to show the respect that was due, but in a cold and distant manner. But the sultan stood to greet him like a caring father, and insisted he sit in the armchair across from him. The commander sat, but according to palace etiquette he should have waited until the sultan asked him three times. He couldn’t be rude as other soldiers might, his nature prevented this. He’d heard some of the officers in the garden refer to the sultan’s three-year-old son as a baby snake and say, “The baby snake will be a snake one day,” and this had upset him.

  The man had so many titles: Sultan, His Excellency, the Great Khan, emperor, the Caliph of the Earth, the Commander of the Believers, the Father of the Kurds, but now he was called Stingy Hamid, the Red Sultan, the owl of Yıldız, the Tyrant, the Demon, and now the “dethroned monarch.” It had long been forbidden to use the word “dethroned,” or indeed any word that vaguely resembled it.

  It had also been forbidden to mention the names of Abdülhamid’s brothers, Murad and Reşad. Those names had once been common but they’d been forgotten in the darkness of the past thirty-three years; no one gave those names to their children, and anyone who’d been given those names had changed them. In 1904, when the Muradiye Mosque in Bursa was reopened after repairs, the newspapers referred it as “the mosque honoring the father of Mehmed the Conqueror” in order to avoid using the name Muradiye. Foreign leaders who had been assassinated were reported to have died of natural causes, the French president was reported to have died of a heart attack, the Austrian emperor of shortness of breath, and the American president of a carbuncle. When the King and Queen of Serbia were assassinated, they were reported to have died of indigestion. Anyone who had the name Murad changed it to Mirad, and anyone who had the name Reşad changed it to Neşed.

  The word “dynamite” was forbidden, as were the words “rebellion,” “socialism,” and “nihilism.” It reached the point that a poor resident of Istanbul was exiled for life for ordering “star-shaped” noodles. The word “star” (yıldız) was forbidden because it evoked Yıldız Palace.

  Still, the commander felt sorry for the downtrodden family. He couldn’t bear seeing the children in that state, the look of fear bordering on terror on the faces of the young girls broke his heart, and he was uncomfortable with the way the sultan stood to greet him, asked after his health, pulled out his silver cigarette case to offer him a cigarette, then took the trouble to light it for him. He didn’t know how to behave or what to say. He’d been placed in a strange situation. And what if—God forbid—the order came from Istanbul to execute the emperor? He would carry out the order, of course, but when the possibility occurred to him, Ali Fethi Bey trembled and prayed that a disaster like this didn’t befall him.

  A dead princess’s soul—Parrot—Pasteur Efendi

  WHEN THE COMMANDER SHOWED this strange list to his fellow officers, they didn’t believe it at first. They tried to make sense out of the brick, the parrot, and the piece of metal.

  Someone said, “He’s being crafty, he’s trying to trick us.”

  Another said, “I think he’s going to make a bomb out of all of this.”

  “You call yourself a soldier, how could he make a bomb out of this stuff?”

  “Who knows what’s going on in that mind of his?”

  “Isn’t dye a flammable material?”

  “And the cologne?”

  “Do you think he’s lost his mind?”

  “If they came one night, took you by the arm, and threw you out of your palace—”

  “I think the whole family has gone mad. In the middle of the night we hear the unbelievers’ music coming from the caliph’s house.”

  The commander, the most coolheaded of the officers, said, “I think I’m going to have to ask him for a reasonable explanation.”

  When he went back to the mansion, the sultan was sitting in the hall in one of the large green armchairs, reading a book by the light that came through the one window that was no longer shuttered. With glasses on his famous nose and a sweater draped across his back, he looked like a retired civil servant. He glanced at the commander over his glasses, then he closed his book and stood, his body looking even more bent over than usual. Like a polite host greeting a guest, he said, “Welcome, commander.” Then he showed his book and added, “I read the Sahih al-Bukhari every day. It’s very valuable. I used to have tens of thousands of them printed and distributed to mosques. I’m glad I had a copy with me. Welcome, what can I do for you?”

  His voice was strong, soft, and persuasive. He smiled when the commander asked about the list. “So the list seemed strange to you,” he said. “You’re right. That’s because you don’t know my customs. Let me explain. Please, sit down.” He gestured to the chair across from him. As soon as the commander sat down, the sultan took out his silver cigarette case and offered him a cigarette. He took the cigarette without thinking, as if in a dream, but when the sultan took out his lighter, he stood. He tried to take the lighter and ended up holding the sultan’s hand. His hand was warm. He had a cloth wrapped around his neck, and he guessed the man was ill. The sultan took the list and both of them sat.

  “This tobacco is very special,” he said. “It’s difficult to find.” Then he laughed. “How strange life can be, commander,” he said. “Do you know where this rare tobacco comes from? From Alatini Efendi, the owner of this mansion. He was the owner of the largest tobacco company in the Thessaloniki area, and every year he’d deliver this golden tobacco he’d had cut especially for me and write a letter declaring his loyalty to me…Now about the list. I rub pine water on my face every morning. I’ve been doing this for years and I’m accustomed to it. It tightens the skin and erases the signs of aging.”

  The commander couldn’t help opening his eyes wide in amazement. Was the sultan that vain? It was said that Abdülhamid, like other Ottoman sultans, never appeared in public without makeup, but the commander had never given this much credence. It seemed it was true after all.

  “I see that you’re surprised,” said the sultan. “But you should try it, you’ll see the benefits. All your wrinkles are erased in a week. I recommend your wife try it as well. As for the brick, I always keep a brick at the head of my bed. When I wake in the morning I rub my hands on the brick as a dry ablution before going to the bathroom to perform my ablutions with water. So I don’t get out of bed without performing an ablution. Sometimes they wake me in the middle of the night for important affairs of state. I immediately rub my hands on the brick and then attend to the matter at hand. No one is going to be consulting me about affairs of state any more, but still, I’d like to have it.”

  The commander knew that the sultan was very religious, but he’d never seen or heard of anyone performing dry ablutions with a brick. This man had some strange habits.

  “The parrot,” continued the sultan, “is my companion, he’s been with me for years. I’ve grown accustomed to him and can’t live without him. You wouldn’t believe how smart that bird is. I experienced an unfortunate incident in my youth, my six-year-old daughter was playing with a candle and her taffeta skirt caught fire, she wasn’t able to call out, but the parrot flew around shouting fire, fire, and this brought people running.”

  The commander said, “Now I understand why you value the parrot so much. He saved your daughter’s life.”

  The sultan’s face fell, his eyes moistened, and in a trembling voice he said, “No, unfortunately they were too late. Her mother tried to save her, she threw herself on her, burning her face, hands, and arms, but she didn’t succeed. Unfortunately we lost her. I wasn’t in the palace, I was out, I rushed there as soon as I got the news but…anyway, it was fate. But I still feel grateful to the parrot. If they’d paid attention to him sooner my child would have been saved.”

  They both fell silent for a time, and an air of mourning descended on them. As if the dead princess’s soul was floating above them, moving the curtains with a slight breeze. The sultan inhaled deeply on his cigarette. “Forgive me, commander,” he said, “I have distressed you. Let me tell you about my parrot’s other skills. The servants got fed up with looking after him so they decided to feed him pastry with parsley so he would die and they would be rid of him. The parrot flew to me and told me what they were going to do. I asked who, and he gave me their names. I believed him and investigated the matter, the guilty confessed; it seems they really were planning to kill this innocent animal. He would wander around the palace all day, and in the evening he would tell me what he’d heard.”

  He spoke as if he was relating something ordinary, and as the commander looked at him in astonishment, he looked down at the list and continued.

  “It’s the same with my cat. She means a lot to me. A white Angora cat. She’s very noble, she won’t eat anything unless it’s given to her with a fork, she would rather starve. If she were here…under these conditions…” (He gave the commander a look of reproach.) “Anyway, I miss her a lot.

  “I imagine you’re wondering about the piece of metal. In fact it’s quite simple. Commander, I have an advanced knowledge of science. I don’t trust doctors too much because they make mistakes. They gave one of my wives an injection of morphine, and the poor thing died. One shouldn’t believe in scientific medicine. I take precautions against disease. I have constant indigestion, so I eat little and drink senna tea. Whenever I have bronchitis, a sore throat, or pain anywhere in my body, I make a piece of metal red hot and cauterize the affected area. Here, look.”

  As he said this, the sultan pulled down the cloth around his neck to show the commander the burn marks. The commander couldn’t believe his eyes, and the sultan seemed to be enjoying his surprise.

  The sultan continued: “They were in such a rush to get us out of the palace that we weren’t able to bring our personal belongings and clothes. My daughters wash what they’re wearing in the bathroom, then sit and wait for their clothes to dry. That’s what I heard. Oh yes, there’s the beard dye, but there’s no mystery about that. I’ve been dying my beard for a long time, a white beard makes a monarch appear weak. Since we’re talking about hair and beards, let me tell you an interesting story. Once, the English and the Russians were squeezing me into a corner. I heard that Bismarck, the iron chancellor, said, ‘These two nations are treating the Ottoman Empire like the poor man in La Fontaine’s story who was caught between two mistresses.’ One of the mistresses in La Fontaine’s story pulls out the man’s black hairs and the other pulls out his white hairs, and in the end the man is bald. Strange, isn’t it? Bismarck was comparing us to this man. Since then I’ve taken care not to have any white hair. I’m half joking when I say this, commander. As for the furniture, I don’t think I need to explain; a family can’t live like this.”

  The sultan then explained how much he needed his carpentry tools.

  “I used to spend a good part of each day making furniture,” he said. “Being a monarch is a matter of luck. It’s not something you can boast about, but craftsmanship is different, it’s a matter of personal skill, and I’m proud of my carpentry. I’m a master carpenter and woodworking is the only thing that relaxes me, that and the detective novels I have read to me at night.” A strange smile spread across his face. “In fact I’m a world-class furniture maker,” he added. The commander sensed pride in the sultan’s tone, or rather an attempt to ease his broken pride.

  The sultan continued: “Atkinson cologne is an important part of my life. I’m a particular man. One bottle of cologne a day isn’t enough for me. Whenever I touch anything, a book or a document, I immediately disinfect my hands with cologne. You can’t ignore microbes, commander. At a time when no one in Paris had any faith in Pasteur Efendi, I sent him a lot of money, I gave him ten thousand francs and the Order of the Mecidiye and asked for his support. Monsieur Pasteur sent his right-hand man, Monsieur Chantimes. I had the man build a rabies hospital in Istanbul.”

  This man is such a braggart, thought the commander. He tries so hard to prove what an important person he is. We all know who he is. Anyway, most of his requests are reasonable. Especially about the personal belongings in the palace. But he had to give the man credit, the story about the parrot informant was brilliant. He’d gotten everyone in the palace to believe it was true.

  The dangers of Thessaloniki—The Girl Incident and the lynched consuls—Lament for the hanged

  NO ONE COULD SAY that Thessaloniki was a tranquil city: The nightlife was seductive, the population was cosmopolitan, there were daily newspapers in five languages, and people engaged in fiery debates. As the central authority in Istanbul grew weaker, there was increasing unrest in Greece, Montenegro, Bulgaria, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Serbia, and all signs pointed to the coming of a period of turmoil. One such incident, which took place just before Abdülhamid became sultan, was the “Girl Incident,” a tragedy that unfolded when a Bulgarian girl named Helen fell in love with a Turk. The doctor, who since his first day in Thessaloniki had taken the trouble to record everything he saw and learned about the city, had the following to say about this incident: