Nightingale

by Fiona McIntosh

  As daring as she had sounded to her colleague, when the moment came to slip out of her clothes and underwear, she had felt a rush of clammy terror arrive. This experience was so alien, so completely opposed to all things British. And yet as unnerving as it all suddenly felt, there was also a small voice of adventure calling to her to try it. A new experience, a new awakening to a culture not her own; she wanted this and without giving herself another moment’s hesitation, Claire stepped out of the small cubicle wearing only the whisper-thin linen.

  She’d had a notion that the baths would be filled with steam but the truth was that the air was clear of vapour and simply felt moist. Her hair protested immediately, however, and began to curl unpleasantly around her ears.

  A woman, taller than her and of Rubenesque stature, glided lightly over the tiled floor that was laid in a geometric pattern of pale green, blushing pink and white marble with striations of grey. Her long untied hair had clearly once been coal-black but was now feathered with silver at her foreline. Large, smoke-black eyes regarded her with intense interest and held Claire’s gaze away from her large, bared breasts, which to Claire’s initial glance, were surely full enough to make any man feel weak. She was certain her own covered pair appeared as inconsequential mounds by comparison and she had to fight the inclination to adjust her pestemal even higher. The wooden clogs she balanced on felt strange and she was sure she was going to topple over and embarrass herself.

  ‘You are Claire, no?’

  ‘Yes,’ she strangled out, glad once again for the single common bond of English. ‘Thank you for having me. I feel as though I’ve entered a whole new world of curious discovery.’

  The woman gave a lazy, throaty laugh, rich with amusement and generosity. ‘My name is Kashifa. I am one of Rifki’s sisters.’

  ‘How many of you are there? He didn’t mention.’

  An eyebrow lifted slightly with practised speed. ‘He has six of us. Like my daughter, I’m the only one of our peers to speak English fluently.’

  ‘Six sisters? He must have been spoilt.’

  ‘He was my mother’s little prince. We’re all proud of him.’ She kissed Claire on both cheeks and as she did so, Claire felt the touch of Kashifa’s warm, smoothly skinned body against her own. It felt oddly comforting.

  ‘You are very welcome among us. Rifki speaks highly of you.’

  Claire blushed. ‘I barely know him.’

  Something in her companion’s gaze denied her statement. ‘You know him,’ she said, touching her heart, and Claire blinked, unsure of how to understand the comment. Kashifa looked unaware of Claire’s discomfort.

  ‘You and Amina really do have such good language skills – I’m embarrassed at how useless I am.’

  Kashifa nodded once. ‘Thank you. I am the sister closest to Rifki. He taught me from quite young,’ she said. ‘I think it is important to understand the world around us even though we must stay in our homes. The world is changing. I don’t know what my daughters will face.’ She sighed and smiled at the cacophony of women’s voices echoing off the hard surfaces. ‘Hammam is the only place we can gather and gossip.’ She lifted an eyebrow again in a suggestion of wickedness and Claire laughed. ‘Come and meet my grandson and the reason for all this fuss.’

  She took Claire’s hand and led her through the main public bathing space to where more than three dozen women, in all shapes and sizes and ages, were excitedly chatting.

  ‘Are you thirsty?’ Kashifa wondered.

  ‘A little.’ Claire shrugged and watched her companion move expertly on the wooden pattens to a small pool where bottles cooled. She returned with two earthen beakers with a clear, lightly fizzing liquid. ‘This is gazoz.’

  Claire looked back at her quizzically.

  ‘It is how you say um, slightly . . .?’ Kashifa began.

  ‘Effervescent?’ Claire offered and Kashifa looked back at her with a frown to make Claire laugh. ‘Um . . . bubbly,’ she tried again. ‘Fizzy?’

  ‘Ah yes, fizzy, I have heard this word and it describes gazoz well.’

  ‘In England we call this soda water.’

  ‘Each region produces its own gazoz, so the flavours depending on where you are in my country are unique.’

  ‘How lovely,’ Claire said and sipped. ‘This is delicious. Slightly fruity, is it?’

  Kashifa laughed. ‘Then it’s not local to Istanbul.’

  They walked on and Claire noticed that some women reclined on the various divans and lazily listened with an air of superiority, as though detached from the general activity. Kashifa led her to a quieter, more private area that could be screened off.

  ‘I decided to treat my daughter to her own special washing chamber, where she can receive her guests and gifts,’ Kashifa explained.

  She saw a woman resembling Kashifa, whom Claire aged at possibly nineteen, clutching a tiny suckling infant. She wasn’t ready for how her body instinctively responded to this most natural act, which Claire in all of her nursing days had not witnessed. She felt it first like a single pound of a door in her chest before her nipples stiffened and a curious glow suffused her as she became aware of her carefully guarded expression relaxing . . . melting, in fact, at the gentle sounds of the happy baby.

  ‘He is beautiful,’ she said tenderly, deeply touched by the sight of the naked, gurgling infant. ‘Will you tell your daughter congratulations from me?’ She offered the tiny coin that she’d unwrapped and held in her hand since arriving.

  Rifki’s niece beamed, thanking her traditionally in Turkish.

  ‘Rica ederim,’ Claire replied.

  Kashifa laughed. ‘Not bad. We like very much that you try.’

  ‘That’s almost all I have. My Arabic has a few more words.’

  ‘Ah . . . you have spent time there?’

  She nodded. ‘A little, during the war.’

  ‘We lost the only boy in the family we had to that war . . . until now.’

  ‘Açar is why I’m in Istanbul.’

  Her friend nodded. ‘Rifki told me you travelled from London to keep a promise to my nephew. We admire you and wish to give you a family thank you. Come, let us begin your education into the hammam. Here is a copper basin for you. It needs to be filled from the central fountain but the water is very hot; be warned.’

  ‘I’m sorry I make so much noise as I walk.’

  ‘Your takunyas look large for you. Here, try mine.’ She slipped off hers and Claire, not wishing to offend, obliged. ‘Those look better.’

  Claire took a couple of steps and grinned. ‘Much. I have control of my feet again.’

  Kashifa stepped into her new clogs and expertly glided on, making half the clatter that Claire had.

  They came to a narrow canal that had been cut into the floor to carry away the dirty water.

  ‘Claire, I think you will be amused by our custom but you may wish to follow me and spit three times into this used water.’

  ‘Did you say spit?’

  Kashifa gave her smoky laugh again. She nodded and, still chuckling, added: ‘And you must say “destur bismillah” each time you spit.’

  ‘For good luck with bathing?’ she asked, confused.

  This brought a louder laugh from her host. ‘No, my girl, we are warding off the evil spirits in the dirty water where they inhabit. This incantation is being polite to them. If we acknowledge them, then we are respecting their presence even though our words are about banishment.’

  ‘I see.’ She didn’t fully understand but it was a harmless enough ritual and so she followed Kashifa’s lead and made a soft ‘tisoo, tisoo’ sound, feigning spitting into the channel of water, and said the rote words three times. Claire felt ridiculous but she was keen to be respectful of not just the spirits but also the kindness of her hosts.

  ‘Now we can cross.’ Kashifa beamed. ‘We are safe from their touch.’

  She knew she was being watched but a rare sense of freedom had overcome her. Claire could swear she had stepped out of her b
ody and was watching herself from the other side of the room. She could feel the warmth of the floor through her toes as she followed Kashifa into the main bathing chamber where it all became quieter and she was reminded momentarily of a chapel. Its peaceful sounds, soft voices and splashing of water gave her a sense of worship, the reassuring sound of its trickle made her feel secure, important to the continuation of life. The drier heat of the large, atrium-like main bathing chamber boosted the fragrance of jasmine and sandalwood that she was able to pick out immediately on entering. She imagined gazing at her reflection as she walked to the spout and it was true her flesh stood out as paler than her companions but it was young, unblemished and clung firmly to her skeleton, which moved straight-backed. Her belly was still taut, unlike the majority of the women beginning their ablutions, and she knew none of the dimpling of their buttocks or flabbiness of their thighs appeared on her. She still lived in the realm of youth and her breasts, though small, had a pleasing rounded shape, she decided, now that she considered so many others on display. She could see the individual bones of her rib cage delineated through the all-too-thin covering of her skin and it made her realise just how badly she had been taking care of herself after the war, for she lacked the enviable fecund appearance of the younger, exotic women around her. The temperature in this chamber was perfect – neither cold nor overly warm – and she no longer had an excuse. Claire found the courage to cast away the linen that covered her; she was a foreigner in a foreign land.

  She knew they all noticed her still-emaciated frame, testimony to the deprivations of the Western Front and her arduous hours spent over broken men with no regard for her own nourishment or sustenance. The memory made her think of Jamie and a surge of sadness gripped her.

  ‘Claire,’ Kashifa said, covering her hand. ‘Are you not —’

  ‘I am well,’ she replied with a reassuring smile. ‘Sorry, I became lost in a memory.’

  Kashifa nodded. ‘You have seen many things, I think. The hammam is a place for relaxation . . . to forget those memories and to ruthlessly gossip.’

  Claire laughed. ‘Is that why you come here?’

  ‘Of course, otherwise I am surrounded by the walls of my house. Hammam is the escape.’

  ‘What does your husband think of your escape?’

  ‘My husband is dead.’ She didn’t say it with any severity in her voice, or with any sort of admonition. Claire was glad that Kashifa required no answer either and continued as though in conversation. ‘He died in the war, along with so many of the husbands, brothers and sons of the women in this room. It is why the birth of Arin is so important. He is the beginning. He is pure, is not a part of the war, or a remnant of it. He was conceived in peace and in love. And he brings new life to our family, which has known too much death.’

  ‘Then I feel privileged to share this with all of you.’

  ‘It’s a pity you cannot share our gossip.’

  ‘Is there a common theme?’ Her friend frowned as though she didn’t understand. ‘I mean, what is everyone mainly gossiping about?’

  ‘Each other,’ Kashifa quickly replied, and they both laughed. ‘But mainly the suitability of the young women.’

  It was Claire’s turn to frown. ‘Suitability?’

  ‘One of the important reasons for a girl on the verge of womanhood to be seen at the hammam – and especially a woman who has bled – is to catch the eye of the mothers with sons.’

  Claire opened her mouth in surprise.

  ‘Yes,’ Kashifa continued. ‘How else can you show that you are a good choice? This is why you will see a lot of the youngsters strutting around making sure their fine bodies are shown off to their best.’

  Claire nodded to where a woman reclined, looking uninterested in everything around her. ‘I’ll bet that’s a mother of a son.’

  Kashifa’s eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘Oh, yes. Two of her sons are now available so all these mothers of daughters will be desperately trying to engage her in conversation because the family is wealthy.’

  Claire shook her head with soft awe, delighted by this education. ‘The truth is, Kashifa, it’s no different in our culture. We’ve just got our clothes on when it’s happening!’

  They both chuckled in easy companionship. ‘Sons are currency in our culture,’ Kashifa continued. ‘It’s why Rifki was so precious to my parents, why Açar’s loss was devastating to our family and why my new grandson is the most valuable gift from the heavens I could wish for.’

  ‘Do you as a woman ever feel bitter that sons are revered while daughters have far less status?’

  Her companion cast a shrewd smile. ‘That’s only on the outside, Claire. Women have plenty of power; they just have to be clever about where and when it is at its height, and how best to wield that power. A man is a simple creature – she must rely on her subtlety to get the most out of her life and her man.’

  Claire sighed. ‘You are so knowledgeable.’

  ‘I grew up among a harem of many women and female servants so I had to learn fast how to get what I want. Now I have daughters and so I must teach them how to achieve their desires in the home and how to retain their power.’ She gestured with her chin. ‘You see that girl over there?’

  Claire followed Kashifa’s line of sight. ‘Yes.’ The youngster looked well developed; she guessed maybe fifteen, even sixteen.

  ‘That conversation between her mother and the other woman will undoubtedly result in marriage. The girl is thirteen and she is mature in body and undeniably beautiful so she has her own special form of currency that her mother can wield.’

  ‘Married,’ Claire repeated, incredulous. ‘At thirteen?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Perfect age. She can start bearing children from fourteen summers and keep bearing them for years if they choose.’

  ‘How old is the boy?’

  ‘Fifteen, I think.’

  Claire made a soft whistling sound.

  ‘Rifki was married at fifteen, his bride fourteen. I married my lovely husband at that age and he had just turned sixteen. It’s our way. It was your way too once.’

  Claire was shown towards the small marble cubicles where she followed suit, lay her pestemal down and let warm water flow over her from the spout, as hot as she could bear, as bid by Kashifa. It felt deliciously indulgent and she was reminded of how precious water had been during the war at Gallipoli, how parched the men had been. She banished these unhelpful memories and let her mind wander into a blank space where there were only the soft murmurings of others, the scent of rose, jasmine and perfumed oils of sandalwood, rosemary and agar, and the refreshing sound of water. The truth is that Claire had never felt more alive. The afternoon’s soft light filtered through the intriguing circular holes punched into the domed ceiling and it felt to her as though heaven was leaking into this place where cleanliness was being worshipped.

  Her host returned. ‘Come, Claire; now it’s time.’

  ‘For what?’ Claire reached for the corner of her thin towel to dab her perspiring face.

  Kashifa gave another low gust of amusement. ‘Your bath. You are our special guest. Your natir awaits.’ She gestured to an older, paunchy woman dressed only in a pestemal around her waist, who bowed once. ‘She is your bathing attendant.’

  Claire followed them into another room, much hotter and more humid, where she copied Rifki’s sister in lying down on a large, raised marble slab which was punctured with small holes that warm water bubbled through freely.

  ‘You’ll feel like you can’t breathe once your natir starts pouring water over you.’

  The water pouring began.

  ‘I can’t,’ she spluttered.

  Kashifa laughed. ‘Just relax and let your body get used to it.’ She spoke in rapid Turkish to the two female attendants. ‘I asked your natir to go gently on you. Very rich women bring their own slaves to wash and massage them. But I have hired this woman for you and I know her to be very good.’

  A moment later the natir began oilin
g Claire. It was deep – painful at times – but she trusted Kashifa, who whispered encouraging words.

  ‘You will feel loose and like you are walking on air later,’ she chuckled. ‘You’ll thank me for it.’

  At this moment, however, it felt as though the natir’s fingers were claws with a pincer-like action that could get into any muscle she pleased with shocking accuracy. Claire groaned a complaint and at the sound of women’s laughter she realised she had an audience and decided it was simply easier to close her eyes and bear up as her patients so often had. Later she was led to a more private nook in the chamber where a sharp blade appeared in the hand of the attendant and Claire, feeling stultified momentarily, allowed her hands to be raised and for the razor to glide swiftly and expertly over her underarms, then legs. The woman gestured between her legs and Claire, her eyes widening in fright, shook her head. The woman bowed again and gestured back to the central marble slab.

  ‘Claire?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, relieved to hear Kashifa’s call.

  ‘You’ll enjoy the rest.’

  At first her limbs were stiff with inner tension and her self-consciousness of being soaped up by her attendant. But she gave herself over to the experience and soon became lost in the rhythmic washing and the intriguing way that the woman was able to manipulate her over the marble, spinning her without using much strength, but instead the slipperiness of the suds and the water bubbling from beneath. The soap was perfumed with a heady mix of floral and woody bouquets while the mint content added a refreshing note and felt as though it cooled her in this suddenly intense heat.