Yashim smiled. “I don’t have the answer, my friend. At least, not yet.”
“But you have an idea?”
Yashim nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Yes, I do have an idea.”
Compston gave a huge snort and rolled sideways off his chair, onto the floor.
He sat up blearily, rubbing his head.
“I–I wasn’t asleep,” he mumbled automatically.
95
The valide leans forward. Some things, she says to herself, do not change: they must not. I did not believe it, when I was young. I fought the old women: I scandalized them. But I see it clearly now: this is my role.
She watches for a deviation. She can remember her last visit; she compares it with this.
Now he drinks the pure water from the cup, and now he dips his bread in a plate of salt, to show his brotherhood.
The watermen cross their arms flat against their chests.
They bow to the new recruit. There are spots of color on his cheeks.
The sou naziry, the chief of the watermen’s guild, raises his hands. “Water is life.”
“Water is life,” the new recruit answers in a firm voice.
“It is the blessing of the spirit.”
“And the spirit is with God,” he answers.
“Be He blessed, the Merciful, the Creator.”
“And may His blessings fall upon us, as the rain.”
The sou naziry steps forward and places his hands on the other man’s shoulders. He kisses him three times.
The valide almost smiles: it reminds her of gentlemen on Martinique.
She glances around, to share her smile with Yashim.
But Yashim isn’t there.
96
The valide frowned. Minutes had gone by. Prayers concluded, the watermen were beginning to file out into the courtyard through the great doors, under the watchful eye of the sou naziry. In a few moments he would come and present his salaams to the purdah screen. It was really too much! Where was Yashim?
She looked around, just in time to see him emerge from a tiny doorway between two of the great pilasters of the old church. The screen, she observed with relief, concealed him from the watermen. He was brushing his knees, which were covered in old lime, and the hem of his cloak seemed to be wet.
He gave her the blandest of smiles and bowed.
The valide frowned. “Where have you been, scelerat!” she hissed.
Yashim put out his hands. “I saw a door, I went through…I have never been here before.”
The shadow of the sou naziry fell across the screen.
“Valide! Your fragrant presence here this day brings much honor upon us. It shall be known that the company of the sou yolci was not forgotten, by your grace.”
The valide’s face softened at a stroke. “You are most kind, naziry. I do not forget that of all the treasures of Istanbul, that which you guard is the most precious to the people.”
“Valide, you speak the truth. Is it not written that of all living things water is the vital principle?”
“It is written,” the valide replied. Yashim repressed a smile: he doubted, in his heart, whether the valide really knew. “I have a servant, naziry.”
“Yes, Valide?” The sou naziry sounded faintly puzzled.
“Yashim, he is called. A lala. He is an honest man, and desires to talk with you.” She waved Yashim forward, and her bangles clinked.
Yashim stepped out from behind the screen and bowed. The naziry gave a curt nod and then raised his hands.
“You will forgive me, Valide. I have no time for the lala now,” he said. “For two days, I must inspect the bents. On my return…”
He bowed before the screen. The valide made no sound.
97
Yashim placed the vegetables in his basket and took the money from his purse.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah-and no offense, efendi! But this coin’s light-look, five piastres more, and there’s the deal.” The brother hopped from foot to foot, one hand outstretched, glancing up and down the road. “I’m coming, hanum! Five piastres, efendi.”
Yashim felt a surge of irritation as he counted out the tiny coins.
When he got back to the apartment he was not surprised to find Amelie on the divan, reading a book.
“I hoped you’d come back,” she said.
“You prepared the stove.”
“If you needed it…”
“Yes. I’ll make pilaf,” he said. “Don’t move. Just read your book.”
He stripped two onions from their hulls, chopped them fine, and dropped them with a handful of pine nuts into a pan of olive oil, which he set on the coals. He crushed two cloves of garlic and brushed off their skins with the knife, then chopped them roughly and added them to the onion with the flat of the blade. He drizzled two handfuls of rice from the crock into the pan and stirred it when the rice began to stick. After a few minutes the rice was becoming clear, so he pulled the pan from the coals and looked into the stockpot, which was starting to steam. He let it rise to the boil.
Amelie had been watching him.
“Max never liked to cook,” she said. “He didn’t have a sense of taste. Perhaps, you know, that’s why he never liked to kiss.”
Yashim put the rice back on the heat and ladled out some stock.
“It certainly explains something,” he muttered. When she asked what he meant, he told her about the dolma he’d given her husband.
Amelie laughed. “You chose the wrong Frenchman.”
The rice was drying out. Yashim put a few more ladlefuls of stock into the pan and stirred it in.
“I think he was a Swiss,” he said carefully.
Amelie was silent for a while. Yashim added salt, pepper, and a pinch of cinnamon to the rice, and covered it with a domed lid. “Did he tell you about his time in Greece?” he asked.
“Oh yes. He saw the Parthenon, and Epidaurus in the Peloponnese. He said there was so much more waiting to be unearthed-and thank God Napoleon had invaded Egypt, not Greece!”
“But he had a war there, all the same,” Yashim said. “If he went in the twenties.”
“He never told me much about that,” Amelie said.
“What about Byron? Did he mention Missilonghi?”
“Was that where Byron died? No. Max never said anything about that.”
“So he never said anything about Dr. Millingen-or Dr. Meyer?” Yashim trimmed the stems of four baby artichokes and set them to steam over the stock. He glanced around.
Amelie was holding her head in her hand, as if deep in thought.
“Millingen?” She looked up quickly, in time for Yashim to notice a pink flush fading from her cheeks. “The sultan’s physician?”
Yashim stood with the knife in one hand, the disk of the choke in the other.
“I-” She gave a little laugh. “I met him, just yesterday. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
“Extraordinary,” Yashim agreed mildly, turning to the chopping block again.
“I didn’t want to tell you-I thought you’d be angry with me.”
Yashim began to slice the choke carefully.
“I was stuck here with nothing to do, so I decided to go and have a look at Aya Sofia. I’m afraid I got a little carried away, and I forgot that Christians are not welcome in a mosque.”
“That depends on the mosque,” Yashim said. “But Aya Sofia-no. An unbeliever-and a woman alone. At least-you were alone?”
“It was thoughtless of me. I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t offended you.”
Yashim looked down at the chopping board. “No,” he said. “What happened?”
“They chased me out. It was frightening-I wasn’t sure what they would do to me. Then a carriage pulled up and I tumbled in.”
“I see. And Dr. Millingen?”
“It was his carriage. He brought me back here.”
Yashim pursed his lips gently, sunk in thought.
“You came straight on here, from Aya Sofia?”
“Yes. He
was perfectly gentlemanly, very stiff and English. He was in a hurry. I thought you would be angry-and then you weren’t here. And when you did come back, you were half dead, and, well, you know the rest. I forgot the whole thing until now.”
Yashim picked up the board and swept the slices of artichoke into the pan with his fingers. He had a prickling sensation in the back of his head.
He stirred the rice slowly.
Something here, he knew, was wrong-and it wasn’t his pilaf. There was something about Amelie that was odd as well, beyond her hesitation or her blushes.
She was wearing a pair of little pointed slippers.
98
Palewski reached out from under the bedclothes to take the tea. “Thank you, Marta.”
“Wrong,” Yashim said, settling himself at the foot of the bed. Palewski opened his eyes.
“Good God, it’s you! Really, Yashim, you may as well have a bed here until the wretched Lefevre woman’s gone.”
“Too late.” Yashim pulled a folded paper from his cloak. “I found this note under my door this morning.”
Palewski opened it. Mon cher Monsieur Yashim. Few words can express my gratitude to you. To lose a beloved husband, to find oneself cast adrift in a foreign land, to realize that all one’s highest hopes and fondest dreams are gone irretrievably: these are blows that strike to the depths of a woman’s soul. Without you, cher monsieur, I should have sunk beneath them before now. Your kindness and hospitality gave me the energy to meet such adversity-perhaps, even a sense of hope. But now, I feel, that energy is spent; I feel weary and, but for you, alone. I intend to present myself without further delay to the French ambassador-who will, if he is kind as I believe him to be, ensure my safe return to France. I shall remember you with affection, and wish that you will sometimes think of me, your very humble and obedient friend, Amelie Lefevre.
“A very proper expression of sentiment, Yashim,” Palewski said warmly. “‘Blows that strike to the depths of a woman’s soul.’ Dear me. You’re probably sorry she’s gone. I think I am.”
Yashim wrung his hands. His lips still burned where she had kissed him.
“The embassy was my first suggestion. I must have made her feel unwelcome. She was my guest.”
Palewski looked at him intently. “My dear fellow, this won’t do. Is Marta awake?”
“She made the tea.”
“I was afraid it might be too early.” He flung back the coverlet and went to the door.
“Marta!”
Yashim heard Marta hurrying up the stairs.
“Marta, my dear. Our friend Yashim is feeling a little out of sorts and wants a capital breakfast to set him up. Coffee, eggs, bread. Can we manage? There’s a blueberry jam that’s just arrived from the village, we’ll have some of that. Cheese, olives. What else? Perhaps some of the-ah-diplomatic sausage, too. Lay it out in the salon, will you? Looks like a lovely day, we can eat at the window. Bit of fruit? Thank you, Marta, you’re splendid.”
He turned to his friend and rubbed his hands vigorously. “No more misery, Yashim. The girl’s gone-Lefevre’s girl, I mean-and she’s done the best thing. Can’t have her moping around in a foreign city with no one to talk to but you. France, that’s the place for her. Just let me pull on a few things, and I’ll be down in a moment.”
Yashim was having coffee in the sitting room when Palewski rejoined him.
“She doesn’t know that her husband was Meyer,” Yashim said. “But yesterday she met Millingen.”
He told Palewski what Amelie had said.
“And she was holding something back?” Palewski frowned. “I don’t get it, Yash.”
Yashim sighed. “Neither do I,” he admitted.
99
Supported by a sturdy slave girl on either arm, the valide descended from the litter in the great hall of the sultan’s palace at Besiktas. At the foot of the steps she graciously inclined her head to acknowledge the attendance of the sultan’s highest household officer, the chief Black Eunuch.
He stood at the head of a party of ladies, all dressed in the latest French fashion, ranged with their parasols for a stroll through the palace gardens; many of them craned their heads to see the valide better. She smiled at them, nodding.
“Ibrahim Aga,” she said. “Mesdames.”
The sultan’s concubines returned a murmured greeting. The chief Black Eunuch bowed deeply. “Valide.”
“I see you are filling out, Ibrahim. It’s most becoming.”
Ibrahim Aga smiled uncertainly. “Thank you, Valide. May I present the ladies?”
He escorted her down the line. The girls curtseyed, modestly lowering their eyes until the valide had passed. Now and then she put up a pale hand to straighten a lace jabot or to pinch a cheek, and for every girl she had a flattering word or two. “What lovely hair! Very pretty. A little less rouge, mademoiselle, perhaps. Your smile is charming,” and so on. The ladies blushed and smiled.
At the end she turned to the kislar aga. “They are a credit to you, Ibrahim. They dress well, and seem altogether charming. I am delighted to see them taking advantage of the garden. We did not always have such a luxury in my day.”
“Yes, Valide. We walk out every morning.”
The valide nodded and sighed.
“They need exercise, Ibrahim. Take me to the governess.”
The ladies bobbed politely as she began climbing the stairs. How very trivial they looked, the valide reflected, in their French gowns and corsets, their shawls and silk pumps: no more consequential than a tray of Belgian chocolates. A manufactory: yes. In her day, at Topkapi, how she and the others had prided themselves on their style-the way they wore color, the arrangement of their hair, the artful collage of shawls and pelisses, silks and furs. Then they had paraded like a pride of she-tigers, jewels ablaze, loose-limbed and glorying in their fine skin and perfect teeth! Not like these girls, these fashion plates, these trained canaries in their cage.
It was such a shame!
She paused at the top of the wide stairs, leaning on the rail. How very dead this palace was, how still. The French paintings hung unexamined on the stairs, like the epitaphs of soldiers who had died and were not remembered. Empty, straight-backed English chairs were ranged against the walls.
At the top of the stairs the chief governess was waiting to make her obeisance. Tall and plump, wearing traditional harem dress, she carried a long staff tipped in silver; a bunch of keys at her belt clanked softly as she bowed. At her signal, several girls stepped forward to help the valide out of her satin coat and conducted her to a sunlit room overlooking the sparkling water of the Bosphorus. She felt the breeze on her face. Sinking onto a gilded sofa she let the girls gently arrange her hair and smooth the creases in the folds of her robes. One girl plumped the pillows at the valide’s back; another fetched a stool for her feet.
“May we humbly offer a cooling sherbet, Valide Sultan?” The governess indicated a tray.
The valide settled back against the cushions and sighed. Always the same tender rituals, the same half-concealed glances of affection and respect: she should have made her visit sooner.
She took a sip of sherbet and returned the glass. Then she glanced at the governess and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
The imperial governess stepped up and took her place at the valide’s side, standing motionless with folded arms and lowered eyes. The sultan’s first wife, mother of the crown prince and the future Valide Sultan, glided into the room like a swan. With an elegant bow, she approached her imperial mother-in-law and took the hem of her robe in one hand. In a signal of respect and obedience, she made a motion of touching the hem with her lips and putting it to her forehead.
“How is Mecid, our imperial grandson, daughter?”
“He is praying for your good health, Valide.”
The remaining three Kadinefendis entered softly to greet their mother-in-law, one by one bowing and bringing her hem to their lips. They moved with graceful calm, silent and unhurried, and stoo
d back to attention. The valide spoke to them kindly, and they blushed and smiled. Looking at their beautiful faces, their pretty smiles, she felt a lump rising to her throat.
Two girls helped her to her feet. The Kadinefendis bowed demurely, and the valide put her hand on the aga’s arm.
“ Allons,” she said. She felt her heart fluttering in her breast.
Doors opened silently at the approach of the odd couple, the Black Eunuch with the tiny white woman hanging from his arm, taking slow, careful steps across the polished parquet. At monotonous intervals, the valide looked down through thickly curtained windows onto the Bosphorus below-a scene of activity that was at once vigorous, silenced, and remote. At last the valide entered the sultan’s bedroom.
The shutters were half drawn against the glare of the sun, and for a few moments the valide paused on the threshold, peering around. She moved slowly across to the bed. The aga fetched a chair, and as she sat down she groped on the counterpane for her son’s hand.
She found it, bony and cold: for a moment her heart skipped a beat, but then she felt the faint returning squeeze of his fingers, and saw the pillows twitch as he turned his head.
For a long time neither of them said a word.
“My little lion,” the valide said softly at long last, and with her other hand she bent forward and traced her fingers across his brow, to brush aside a lock of hair.
“Mother.”
She squeezed his hand. “Courage, always,” she whispered. It should never be like this, she thought; the old bring no comfort to the dying.
A mother cannot bury her own son.
The sultan’s eyes slid away from hers. “He does not come.”
The valide said nothing. The crown prince was young and yet afraid of death.
The sultan shifted slightly under the bedclothes. “There is much that he cannot understand, Valide.”
He breathed with difficulty, and speaking was a struggle, but he spoke for several minutes, still holding his mother’s hand, unburdening his mind.
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