Black Amber

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “You have kept silent because you know he would send you home at once? Is this not so?” Sylvana prompted.

  “I don’t know what he would do,” Tracy said. “I have a job to finish here. When it’s done, I’ll tell him. Just before I go home.”

  “Do you truly think I will permit such a thing?” Sylvana asked. “You are a foolish young girl. Mr. Radburn has begun to paint again. This portrait may be his salvation. I will not have him upset by such an occurrence. Tomorrow I will arrange for your passage home by plane. You will leave on the day after. I make myself clear?”

  Tracy took a long slow breath. “I’ve offered to move into Istanbul. There’s no reason why I need to stay in this house if you want my room.”

  Sylvana made an impatient movement with one hand, breaking her outward pose of calm. The samovar at her elbow reproduced the movement in miniature in its smooth copper surface, adding a baleful interpretation.

  “As I say, you will be on the plane day after tomorrow,” Sylvana told her. “If you are not, I will explain the truth to Mr. Radburn myself and see that he sends you home. I think he will not be pleased with what I tell him.”

  The trembling of inner anxiety was about to possess her utterly, Tracy knew. All the cards were in Sylvana’s hands and her bluff was being called. She made one last effort.

  “What if I tell him myself, Mrs. Erim?”

  “That is as you please,” Sylvana said. “In that case, I will of course add my own comments. Perhaps it will be pleasanter if you leave as you have come—saying nothing. The disturbance, the—the trouble to you will be less.”

  Tracy made up her mind and started toward the door. “Never mind. I’ll ask Mr. Radburn myself. I’ll tell him you want me to leave at once. Perhaps he won’t need to remain in this house to finish the book. It’s surely possible for him to move elsewhere and get the work done. Since this painting is not going well, he may prefer a change.”

  Nursel gasped softly. Sylvana did not speak until Tracy reached the door.

  “For a few more days then,” she said in a choked voice. “A few days only. After that you will leave. It is not necessary to speak to Mr. Radburn of this now.”

  Tracy went quietly from the room. She had won another reprieve, but at some cost to herself. Inwardly she was shaking. She did not welcome Nursel’s company when the Turkish girl came after her in a rush.

  “That woman!” Nursel cried softly. “It is she who should be sent from this house. No one else. But, please—it is better if you do as she wishes. It is better if you go away soon.”

  “Why should I?” Tracy demanded. “Why do you want me to go home? Why are you on Sylvana’s side?”

  Nursel’s answer came indignantly. “I am not on that woman’s side. Never! But I think it can be that you are walking into trouble. I think you are not enough afraid of how Mr. Radburn may—may change you. There are matters which I understand and you do not. If you go now, perhaps all may be well. If you stay—then you must rely on fate and hope for the best.”

  Now that she was away from Sylvana, Tracy’s sense of rising panic had died a little. “I will not go,” she said.

  Nursel gave up with a shrug. “But now you will tell Mr. Radburn the truth?”

  “I don’t know,” Tracy said. “I don’t know when I’ll tell him. From now on I’ll just have to play it by ear.”

  The expression puzzled Nursel, but Tracy did not stay to explain. She could no longer hide her distress and confusion and she fled Nursel’s company, hurrying downstairs and along the passage to the yali.

  Miles was in his study cleaning brushes when she burst in upon him. He looked at her without pleasure.

  “What now?”

  “Mrs. Erim wants to send me home immediately,” Tracy told him, sounding more than a little excited. “Everyone wants me to go home, including Nursel!”

  Miles scowled at her. “Perhaps they’re right. Certainly you’re a disrupting influence for all of us. No—don’t put your thumbs in your belt and turn in your toes like a pigeon. I like quiet, gentle women. And you are what Hornwright sends me!”

  She could only regard him in outrage. On top of everything else, this was too much. She was on the verge of blurting out the whole truth when Miles tossed down his brushes impatiently.

  “Stop looking as though you were about to explode. We’ve both had enough for today. Go put on your coat and tie something over your head. Hurry back and we’ll go out to tea. You need a change and so do I.”

  “I don’t want any tea!” Tracy cried indignantly. Tea—at a moment like this!

  He pushed her toward the door without gentleness. “Well, I do. Now hurry up. And don’t come back here looking like a bomb about to go off.”

  Again she fled, this time to her room. She was furiously angry with Miles Radburn. Which, at least, was strengthening. Indignation would help her to stand up to him. The time had come to tell him the truth and she must face the fact and go through with it. She repaired her lipstick and tied a scarf over her head with overly emphatic movements. Except for the flush in her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes, she was once more in control of her emotions. It had been ridiculous of course to let Sylvana upset her. Partly her reaction had been the fault of that samovar with its queerly malevolent reflection. Once she had seen the image, it haunted and disturbed her, though she did not know why.

  Miles was waiting when she returned to the study. He had put on a jacket and a cap and he appeared eager to be outdoors and away from the yali.

  Downstairs Ahmet hovered near the landing, watching as the boatman helped Tracy into a boat smaller than the caique. She was aware of the old man’s watchfulness as Miles started the motor and they set off from shore. When she looked back she saw him standing there, as if observing their direction.

  There were no larger craft going by at the moment, and their course was clear to the opposite shore toward which Miles turned the prow of the little boat. They moved at a slight diagonal, and Tracy sat on the wooden cross seat in the stern and lifted her face to the wind.

  Beneath them the water flowed still and dark. At the moment the surface seemed deceptively unruffled, hardly appearing to move as the little boat slapped its way across the strait, leaving a churning white froth behind. The cool, clear air was reviving to breathe and carried with it none of the dust of Istanbul. Nor any hint of roses or Parma violet. Tracy felt calmer now and in better control of herself.

  Their crossing attracted two young boys, who came down to the stone embankment on the opposite shore. The boat nosed in among fishing craft, and Miles accepted the help of the boys in landing. It was more difficult here to climb from small boat to embankment, but Tracy managed it with a minimum of scrambling and the help of Miles’s strong grasp.

  They stood on the edge of a road down which motor traffic traveled in a fairly steady stream. Across the road an open-air space filled with small tables and chairs climbed the hill beneath tall plane trees, newly in bud. Though the sun had sent a veneer of warmth across the area, most of the tables stood empty.

  “It’s mild enough for tea outdoors,” Miles said. “Let’s go up there away from the road.”

  He found a table toward the rear of the terraced hillside, and they sat in wooden chairs that teetered a little on uneven ground. A waiter came for their order and Miles gave it in Turkish.

  At a table nearby a man sat lost in contemplation as he smoked his narghile, and Tracy watched him draw smoke through bubbling water and long coils.

  “Like the Caterpillar,” she said dreamily.

  “That’s better,” Miles approved. “You’re cheering up. What is worrying you? What does it matter if Sylvana scolds? You’re involved in nothing but the job you’re doing for me. And that’s not a life or death matter. For you, at any rate. I’ll give Hornwright a good report, if that’s what concerns you. Even if Sylvana wants you gone, it’s not terribly important.”

  This was the least of what was worrying her, but she could not s
ay so. The time for decision was upon her, yet she could make no decision. She could only bask in the sun and watch the hypnotic bubbling of the narghile, and listen to Miles’s voice.

  In the summertime, he told her, particularly on weekends, this place would be filled most of the time. There were many of these tea spots along the Bosporus to which Istanbul people liked to drive. This was one of the most popular. But now they were here ahead of the season and could have it almost to themselves.

  Before long the waiter brought a small samovar to their table and a plate of simit—round, braided rolls, sprinkled with sesame seed. Tracy filled the teapot from the spout and placed it on the rack to steep, as she had seen Sylvana do. She broke a piece of roll and the breeze blew sesame seed about. Out on the water a tug-drawn string of barges moved upstream in leisurely fashion, leaving a creamy wake behind. Across the strait, some distance below the yali, rose the towers and walls of Anadolu Hisar, the opposite fortress. The scene was disarmingly peaceful and without any sense of tension.

  As she bit into her roll Tracy thought again of the fact that today was her brithday.

  “My birthday cake,” she said, holding up the bit of simit. “Today I’m twenty-three.”

  Miles bowed his head gravely. “Congratulations. I’m glad we came out to celebrate.”

  There might be a way to make him understand, she thought, crumbling the roll in her fingers. There might be a way to tell him. She began almost as if she were talking to herself.

  “There’s something I remember that occurred on my twelfth birthday. A new one always reminds me. I’ve never forgotten because it was an unhappy day, with the sort of things happening that can never be erased.”

  Miles had relaxed since coming across the water, as if he had left strain behind him at the yali.

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  She hesitated, seeking the right words. If she told her story well, this might be the way to reveal that she was Anabel’s sister.

  11

  Tracy began in a light, uncertain voice that grew stronger as she went on and was caught up by the thread of her own memories.

  “My parents seldom let me have a party. My father was a doctor, and he did a lot of writing as well. Medical articles. He was a very serious, busy man. He had his office in our house and he didn’t like noisy children around. But this time my older sister prevailed on my mother, so the occasion was special. It was to be my day, with everyone coming to see me, bringing me presents. I suppose it went to my head a little. I had a new dress. Mother said I looked very nice, and the other mothers who came said so too. The spotlight was all mine, and I felt practically giddy with conceit and excitement.

  “Then my seventeen-year-old sister came home from her dancing school lesson—and everything changed. She didn’t intend what happened. She was only being herself. But from the minute she came into the room the party started to be hers. She could charm people of any age and she loved to do it. She loved to be loved and to amuse and please. So she sang for us a bit and she danced. And in a little while no one remembered about me, because how could anyone remember with her in the same room?”

  Miles was listening more attentively than she would have expected.

  “So your nose was out of joint?” he said.

  Tracy nodded. “I was terribly jealous. I loved my sister and admired her and looked up to her. But I couldn’t be like her and sometimes I was green with envy. When I turned green enough that day, I slipped away from the party and went to my father’s office. I knew nobody would miss me, and that made everything worse.”

  As she told him what happened next, it was almost as if she lived the scene again. She forgot the Bosporus and the man with the narghile. She nearly forgot Miles himself. Only one part of her remained vigilant, watchful, lest she mention Anabel’s name before it was time.

  It had been after visiting hours when she left the party and went into her father’s office. He was working in deep concentration over papers on his desk. In his preoccupation he hardly noticed as she came into the room. She curled up in a corner armchair where he sometimes let her sit and read, if she didn’t disturb him by talking. She had done no reading that day. She began to cry very softly to herself, wallowing in self-pity and disappointment because she was of no consequence at he own birthday party, and people always forgot about her when her sister was there. Through the walls of the room and down the hall, party sounds filtered and the sound of her sister’s singing.

  Tracy had not thought consciously at the time of why she had come to her father’s office, but the reason was there, as she understood later. Dad was her sister’s stepfather. Her sister’s real father was dead. Dad was the only person who never succumbed to her sisters’ charms and her coaxing ways. Perhaps there was envy in him too—envy of another man’s child. Especially since Tracy’s mother always melted with love for her first daughter and was reluctant to heed his criticism. As Tracy very well knew, she compared her younger daughter with the older a dozen times or more a day, and always to Tracy’s disadvantage. Now, by coming into her father’s presence, Tracy left the magic circle and reached a haven where her sister’s charm exerted no effect.

  Unfortunately, she had been a little whimpery in her weeping and after a while her father noticed. He glanced around at her impatiently and told her to blow her nose. If she was to stay, she’d have to stop sniveling. He did not ask why she was crying, or show any interest in the cause. He was busy and her presence annoyed him.

  She had managed to be silent after that, not even blowing her nose very loudly. A strange thought had come into her mind. A mature and rather bitter thought for a girl of twelve. She had realized quite clearly in that moment that the only reason she liked her father at all was because he did not like her sister. It was a strange sort of thing to hold in common with him, and she did not feel very proud of herself because of it.

  After a time even her silence irritated him, and he flung down his papers and turned around. “Out with it!” he said. “What’s the matter that you aren’t back at your own party where all that uproar is going on?”

  She gulped once or twice before answering. Then she blurted out the truth. “My sister’s there. It’s turned into her party. They don’t want me any more.”

  “I should think not,” he said, “if you behave like this—creeping away like a little coward. Come along and I’ll get rid of your sister for you. Then you can be belle of the ball again. And I can have peace in this room at least.”

  As he left his desk, Tracy scrambled to her feet in alarm. For some reason this was the last thing she wanted. She knew perfectly well that her father would not pat her cheek, or cuddle her, or tell her he liked her best. But he would prove again in another way that he did not approve of her sister. Though his intention was to reinstate Tracy, he would wreck the party completely. It would not be hers or anybody else’s when he was through with what he might say to the older girl. So she told him hurriedly that she was fine now. That she had recovered and didn’t mind any more. He did not push the matter, though he clearly thought her change of heart further evidence of weakness.

  She flew out of the room and went back to where her sister was singing her own croony version of a popular tune. Anabel sat cross-legged on the floor with her cornflower-blue skirt fluffed over her knees, and the children crowding in about her. Always they wanted to touch Anabel, to cling to her when she was near, and always it overjoyed her to make them happy. Now they swayed to the beat of the tune she was singing—a song with nonsense words that was current for the season.

  Tracy sought her mother and slipped into the warm curve of her arm. An arm that moved automatically, as a mother’s arm does, to hold any child that comes within its circle. Yet Tracy knew that all her mother’s loving pride was focused upon her older daughter. In that moment twelve-year-old Tracy had faced the truth once and for all. A truth she had been trying all her short life not to face. She had known consciously and without any doubt that she c
ould never be loved by her mother as the older daughter was loved.

  A certain pride had possessed her then and made her hold her head high. She watched her sister with that love she had always given her, however laced with envy and hurt it might be. It was at least to her credit that she had let no one know how she felt. And she had not cried again.

  The narghile bubbled softly at the nearby table, and fragrant smoke drifted toward the grownup Tracy where she sat with the man who had been Anabel’s husband. There was more to the story, but she sought a diversion to postpone the most painful part of this telling.

  “Our tea will be dreadfully strong,” she said. “I forgot about it.”

  “I like it that way,” said Miles.

  She put small spoons in the glasses so they would not break and poured the hot, strong tea. Hot water from the samovar spout diluted her own. When the brew was sweetened and lemon slices added, Tracy subsided into silence, still under the spell of the story she had not yet told fully.

  Miles raised his tea glass. “Here’s to Tracy when she was twelve! A young lady of honesty and courage. You learned rather young to accept an unpleasant truth and live with it bravely.”

  She sipped the tea. “No—I didn’t. That’s the trouble. The story isn’t done. If it was only what I’ve told you, I don’t think I’d have remembered every detail after all these years.”

  “Then you might as well tell me the rest,” he said.

  It was strange that she should find him so willing a listener. She sensed an understanding that she had not expected. He did not belittle, or discredit, or sympathize falsely, and she felt drawn to him and unexpectedly trusting.

  What had happened later had left a wound that had not healed for a long time. She began to relate the rest, keeping her voice carefully even and bare of emotion. Birthday cake and ice cream, candy and self-realization had not mixed too well in Tracy’s interior and she had gone to bed early that night, feeling queasy. Going to sleep early, she had awakened later in the night and begun to think despairingly of her disappointing day. Her sister was asleep in the next room and the house was quiet. The illuminated dial of the clock on the dresser told her that her parents must be in bed and asleep now too. In the lonely darkness in which only she was awake, she could hug to herself all the misery of her resentment against her sister and let it grow and swell almost to the bursting point, like a grotesque balloon.