“He is finally allowing young Hasan to be circumcised,” Seyhan said. He when uttered in the harem was always the sultan. “He mentioned it in bed last night.”
“Don’t be smug,” Nigar Hatun snapped. “I doubt he said it to a pretty nitwit like you.”
“Well, no,” Seyhan admitted. “He told the Kapi Agha to inform the boy. But I was right beside him when he said it.”
“It is long overdue,” stately Bülbül Hatun pronounced. “My Ahmet had his done at eight years old.”
“And my Selim at seven, in the same ceremony,” Ayşe Hatun said. “The festival went on for weeks. None of your sons were even born.”
“My Korkut was,” Nigar said, “and he was circumcised the very next year, with just as great a festival. He said he had never seen the janissaries put on a better display of archery.”
“I do not approve of his allowing the boy to live,” Ayşe said. “Selim says, ‘A carpet is large enough to accommodate two Sufis, but the world is not large enough for two kings.’”
“Then he had better look to himself,” Bülbül said, unusually heated, “and remember that Şehzade Ahmet is the eldest.”
“And Şehzade Korkut the most able,” Nigar added, “because he does not waste his time writing Persian poetry.”
The younger hatuns giggled at this until Ayşe’s glare silenced them.
“He writes poetry himself,” she said, “and is proud to have one son who shares his gift.”
“What was that about?” Rachel asked Kira Chana as they made their way home with their depleted stores. “Are Muslim boys not circumcised soon after birth, like Jewish boys?”
“On the contrary,” the kira said. “It is their coming of age ceremony. A boy cannot pray at the mosque with the men until he has been circumcised. The royal circumcision festivals involve hundreds of performers, military displays, lavish feasts, and a degree of spectacle that you cannot imagine.”
“He would not put on so great a show for Prince Hasan only.” Rachel laughed. “He. I am beginning to sound like them. I mean the sultan, of course.”
“Of course not. As many as a dozen younger princes may participate. But hundreds of others will undergo the ritual as well, mostly boys of six to ten. It is a great honor to be invited to share a royal circumcision.”
“I wonder,” Rachel said, “why the sultan is allowing Hasan the privilege of manhood now, after denying it for so long.”
“It is because his father is dead,” the kira said. “Cem had many supporters in the West. Indeed, the Knights of Rhodes and then the pope held him poised like a sword over the sultan’s head. Hasan has no allies, either here or in Christendom. He is no longer a threat.”
“How did Cem die?” Rachel asked.
“He supported the king of France’s invasion of Italy,” the kira said, “or, more likely, Charles took him along as a useful pawn. He died on the march.”
“I cannot fathom how bloodthirsty these people are,” Rachel said, “killing their relatives without a second thought to secure the throne. Bayezid must be more softhearted than most, as he kept Cem alive and then Hasan too.”
“He killed his viziers fast enough,” the kira said, “when they supported his brother. After Cem escaped to Rhodes, he could not touch him. And one could argue that drawing Hasan’s claws as he did was more cruel than killing him outright. But let us talk no more of this—at least, not in the street.”
That night, as Rachel sat embroidering a silk shawl as a wedding gift for Susanna by the light of a guttering oil lamp, Hutia came up and knelt before her. He laid a gentle hand over hers, stilling the needle.
“Rachel, we must talk.”
Rachel’s heart thumped wildly. Her stomach fluttered. Raising her head, she saw that they were alone. She had been too absorbed in her work to hear the others leave the room. Was he going to tell her that he must take a Muslim wife? Would he ask her to convert? Would he take her refusal for granted and say that all was over between them?
“I am here. It is you who have been avoiding me.” She could not meet his eyes but kept hers lowered to their joined hands. She felt his hand tighten over hers. “If you are going to tell me that we cannot marry, please do it quickly.”
“No, nanichi, never!” He grasped both her hands and held them to his lips. She felt his warm breath on her fingers as he said, “Rachel, you are my beloved. I will never have another. I did not wish to sway you. I thought you wanted me to stay away while you thought it over. I am asking much of you, I know. I am still tempted to use any argument to persuade you. But you would never forgive me did you not come to me wholehearted. You would not be my Rachel if you did not choose me of your own free will.”
Rachel’s breath caught on a sob that turned into tears of laughter.
“I thought you did not want me. Men!”
Somehow her arms were around his neck, and he was pulling her close with his lips soft upon hers. He unclasped one of her hands and held it to his breast.
“Can you feel my heart pound? It is loud as the drums of Juracán, so fiercely do I want you. I would make you my wife this minute if I could, and all the rabbis and imams and fathers in the world could not stop me.”
Rachel drew back, though she allowed him to go on kissing the inside of her arm. It felt remarkably pleasant.
“Then what is stopping you?” she asked.
He let her go then and straightened his back, though he still knelt before her.
“Your knees must be killing you,” she said. “There is a stool behind you.”
He laughed at that.
“Oh, Rachel, you are so practical, and I love you so.” He drew the stool toward him and sat, still facing her, his face growing grave.
“What is it, Hutia? It is unbearable when I see doubt in your eyes. If you do not tell me, I cannot help you overcome it.”
“It is not doubt, sweetheart,” he said, “not of my love for you.”
“Or mine for you, I hope.”
“I have already asked so much of you. And now I ask more.”
“Not that I convert!”
“I would never ask that. I understand the price you have paid to remain Jewish, and I honor your choice.”
“Do you wish me to live in seclusion after all? Or to accept that you may take a second wife?”
“Never. Of course not.”
“Then I cannot imagine what you might wish to ask me that would be so terrible,” she said.
He smiled at that but remained silent.
“Hutia?”
“Do you remember why they named me Hutia?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “When you were little, you were quick like the hutia in the forests of Quisqueya. And furry.”
“I was not furry!”
“Very well, not furry.” She reached out and ruffled his hair, which was still thick and smooth.
“Would you say,” he asked, “that I still resemble a small animal in any way?”
She considered it, regarding his well-made body from head to toe. She shook her head, her gaze returning to his face. His eyes were pools of blackness flickering with fire.
“The imam has suggested that I take a new name, a Turkish name. Would you hate it?”
“It would depend on the name,” she said. “Do you have one in mind?”
“I do,” he said, “in fact, two names: the personal name by which all would call me and a new name for our family, ours and our children’s.”
“Don’t stop now,” she said. “What are they?”
“My personal name would no longer be Hutia, but Ümīt. It means hope.”
“Ümīt. Ümīt,” Rachel said, testing it on her tongue. “Hope. It is a good name. I like it.”
“Truly, sweetheart?” Hutia cried. “You do not mind? You will be able to call me by it and hold Ümīt in your heart as you have Hutia?”
Smiling, Rachel cupped his face in her hands and drew him forward so she could kiss his lips.
“I l
ove you, Ümīt,” she said. “You must have faith in me as well as hope. Now tell me our new family name.”
“Gezgin,” he said. “Is it all right?”
“That word I know,” she said. “It means wanderer. It is appropriate for both of us, though I hope it does not mean we will be forever homeless.”
“You are my home, and I am yours,” he said. “And I hope that Istanbul will truly become our home, ours and our children’s. I hope we will not be wanderers any more. Gezgin also means voyager or one who is well traveled.”
“Not our destiny,” she said, “but our history. It is certainly apt. You and I, along with Diego, have probably traveled farther than anyone else in the world. Now are we through with surprises for this evening?”
“I have one more piece of news to tell you,” he said. “I do not think you will mind. If it hurts anyone, it will be me, not you.”
“Of course I mind if you will be hurt!” she said. “Who could possibly wish to hurt you? I will not let them!”
“My brave Rachel!” Hutia—Ümīt—smiled. “It is not like that. I have been invited to take part in the royal circumcision ceremony. It is a great honor and will make a good start to having influence at the palace, in case we find we need it to keep the Mendoza Gezgin family safe and prosperous.”
“The MendozaGezgin family,” Rachel repeated. “I like the sound of that. So we will both have some influence at the palace. But Hutia, I mean Ümīt, we must go cautiously. Influence at court is a dangerous path to tread.”
“So far,” Ümīt said, “I have done no more than play cereed with the janissaries. But I promise to be careful.”
“Good,” she said. “Ümīt, tell me, how did it come about that you were invited to share the princes’ circumcision? Was it Hasan who put your name forward?”
“Yes, it was his idea. The young princes liked it, though. They are mad for cereed, and I am becoming skilled enough to make an impression. It was they who proposed me to the Kapi Agha, who is the chief organizer. Why?”
“If the princes did not mention Hasan to the Kapi Agha, it will be all right. Hasan is being allowed to reach manhood, but he is not in a strong position. It would be unwise, perhaps even unsafe, for your name to be too closely associated with his.”
“Where do you learn such things, my love?” Ümīt asked. “You sound like a courtier!”
“In the seraglio,” Rachel said, “and I am deadly serious. Ottoman politics are not a game of batey! In Quisqueya, the caciques respected the bounds of the game and accepted rulings based on it. It is different here. The path to power in the palace is strewn with blood and silken bowstrings. I am learning that influence is neither easily won nor easily kept, and there are few whom you can trust. Before, I would have advised you to speak to the rabbis and tax farmers, even the physicians, Jewish courtiers who have experience in treading this maze. Now, you must find your own mentors and test their trustworthiness well before you confide in them. Your kadi sounds like a decent man. Perhaps you can seek his counsel, but carefully, carefully!”
“My wise darling,” Ümīt said, kissing her, “in Quisqueya you would be a cacique already. Here, you will make a formidable kira. I will heed your words, I promise. In any event, it seems that our life as the Gezgins of Istanbul will not be dull!”
Chapter 35: Diego
Amir and I quickly fell into the habit of meeting frequently at the hammam. I came to enjoy his companionship greatly once we knew each other better. I found I could talk more freely with him than with anyone I knew except Hutia, as if the differences between us opened up my full awareness of the man I was, shaped by my experience as well as my heritage. Before long, he honored me by inviting me to visit his home.
“Please tell me what to expect,” I said. “I do not want to be rude out of ignorance or commit any social errors that would offend your wife.”
Amir laughed.
“You will not meet my wives. There are two of them, Fatma and Salime. They do not leave the harem. They will prepare mint tea for us, and the maidservant, veiled, of course, will serve it. Fatma’s mint tea is the most delicious I have ever tasted, and if we are lucky, Salime will have made fresh pastries. I am a very happy man, with two such wives.”
“Do they get along?” I blurted out the thought that was uppermost in my mind. “Forgive me! Now you will not believe I care about being polite.”
“Do not distress yourself,” he said. “It is the first question the dhimmi have, whether or not they are bold enough to ask it. Fatma and Salime love and depend upon each other. They are close in age, and I am careful not to favor one above the other, so they have no cause to be jealous. Domestic harmony is the greatest gift that women can give a man. I set a good example by not setting the children of either wife against the other’s, and they follow suit.”
“According to my sister, the women of the sultan’s harem would benefit by your example.” I could feel my face turn red. “I am sorry, Amir! The steam of the hammam has relaxed my tongue to the point of indiscretion. I meant no disrespect.”
Amir grinned.
“I enjoy your Western directness,” he said. “Nor do I forget that I owe you and Rachel my life.”
I looked forward to the visit, and I was not disappointed. Amir’s hospitality was faultless. We sat on thickly piled carpets strewn lavishly with cushions and drank mint tea that was indeed rich and sweet and almost as thick as honey. The pungency of the mint expanded my nostrils and cleared my head as if without it I had never breathed fully. Amir’s sons, three small boys, bowed solemnly when introduced and then proceeded to laugh and whoop as they darted in and out through the beaded curtains between the room where we sat and the interior of the harem. Four little girls, all eyes and giggles, peeked at me through the curtains, not abashed by Amir’s scolding, delivered in indulgent tones, or their mothers’ sharper threats.
“I would like to show you my pigeons,” Amir said, when we had drunk our fill and smoked relaxing poppy in a bubbling water pipe. “They are on the roof.”
We emerged from the dimly lit interior of the house to a flat roof bathed in dazzling sunlight. Around us stretched the roofs of Istanbul. A cage in one corner of the roof was crowded with pigeons in constant motion, rustling their feathers and emitting a symphony of gurgling chirrs, throaty trills, and melodic coos. When Amir released a catch, the door of the cage swung open. The pigeons jostled each other as they crowded toward it. A whirling flood of feathers resolved itself into an airborne river of pigeons that wheeled in unison, circling the rooftop. The birds spiraled outward to swirl around the dome of a nearby mosque and its slim minaret.
Amir held out his arm and emitted a piercing whistle. In response, the pigeons tightened their spiral, returning to circle the still point of his slim form and outstretched hand. Circling tighter and tighter, they wheeled once around the roof and dropped to the ground. In a moment, they were pecking at the grain Amir poured from a sack stored in a great urn beside the cage as composedly as if they had never taken flight.
“Magnificent, are they not?” Amir said.
Holding the sack at arm’s length inside the cage, he shook out a generous portion of grain and coaxed the pigeons in after it with a persuasive mixture of whistles and coos.
“Impressive,” I said. “You seem to have mastered the language too.”
“We have an understanding, my birds and I,” he said. “Would it surprise you to learn that they communicate over distance as well?”
Picking up a pigeon, he held out its leg so I could see the band around it, to which a small tube was attached.
“Messenger pigeons!” I exclaimed. “I have heard of them but never seen one.”
“Yes.” He produced a scrap of parchment and showed me a thin line of writing on it in the flowing Arabic script. He then rolled it into a minuscule scroll, which he inserted into the tube on the pigeon’s leg. “They know home, you see. Every pigeon that I breed knows that this rooftop is its home. Wherever they ar
e released, they will brave foul weather and extraordinary difficulties to find their way back here.”
“And when you send them out? How do they know where to go?”
“Each one was carried by ship or caravan to the place where it was first released. That place becomes their second home. For some it is al-Andalus, my lost Granada. For some, it is Gibraltar, for others, the cities of the Maghreb: Tunis, Algiers, Fez, and Meknes.”
“How do you know which pigeon to send where?”
“They are marked. See the dots on the band? They form a code that only I and those I trust can read.”
“What happens when you are far from home?”
“As when I met you in the waters of the Mediterranean? I carry a cage of pigeons to sea with me. Fatma and Salime come up here to seek messages. When they find one, they send word to the imam, who sends someone to read it to them.”
I forbore to comment that the process would be simpler did he but teach his wives to read. As I watched, he tossed the pigeon into the air. It took wing immediately, circling once, then heading west toward the sun, which had become a glowing orange ball as the day waned. A cool breeze blew its soft breath across my skin.
“May I ask to whom that pigeon bears a greeting?”
Amir’s grin bared teeth as white as his turban.
“My grandfather in Tunis. I told him to expect me within the next few months.”
“You are going on a journey?”
“Domestic harmony can pall,” he said, “when one is accustomed to danger and uncertainty. I have a new commission from the Sultan. I am to be his eyes and ears in the coastal regions and on the seas beyond his borders. He craves intelligence of the sultanates of the Maghreb and what lies beyond them along the western flank of Africa.”
Journey of Strangers Page 23
