Two Empresses

by Brandy Purdy

  Kuvetti, as always, followed silently several steps behind me.

  Selim’s eyes lit up at the sight of me. His hands reached out to touch me, then hesitated and fell down at his sides.

  “This is the first time I have seen your face unveiled since the night you first wore this.” His fingers shyly caressed a pink taffeta flounce.

  “I have changed much since then,” I said.

  “You are even more beautiful now!” he breathed, and then he lowered his eyes and blushed.

  He said that he had a gift for me. He led me back out into the corridor and down another where I had never been before.

  “This is for you, all for you,” he said as he stopped before a certain door and handed a gilded key to me.

  Opening that door and crossing that threshold was like entering another world—a vanished world that no longer existed for me as anything but a memory and, sometimes, a dream. With walls papered in apple green and white stripes painted with delicate pink rosebuds, a carpet abloom with pink roses, sofas and armchairs and footstools upholstered in pink-and-white-striped silk, their gilded woodwork carved with elaborate bouquets of roses held by cherubs, rosewood cabinets and tables, gilt-framed mirrors crowned with cupids, a great golden harp in one corner, and a white harpsichord painted with pink roses and golden flourishes in another, this might have been Marie Antoinette’s very own sitting room. Vases of Sèvres porcelain, painted and filled with pink roses, sat on the rose marble mantel, flanked by porcelain shepherdesses. There was even a porcelain clock painted with delicate pink rosebuds. A sideboard was filled with silver and crystal; I hadn’t eaten with a spoon or a fork or clasped the delicate stem of a wineglass between my fingers since I sailed away from Paris. Paintings by Fragonard adorned the walls. A lady in peach, swung high in a swing, exuberantly kicked off one shoe, exposing her plump thighs above her white stocking tops, and lovers met in leafy bowers, secluded vestibules, or the privacy of bedrooms with rumpled white sheets thrown wide and inviting, like the sheets of the pink four-poster bed I glimpsed through another door.

  I stood dazed in the center of it all with Selim at my side, smiling expectantly at me, tentatively holding, and shyly caressing, my hand. Tears pooled in my eyes. He had done all this for me, and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, and he was clearly expecting joy and gratitude.... Though I would always love and cherish the memory of France, this wasn’t me anymore; it wasn’t who I wanted to be. Aimee Dubucq de Rivery was dead and Nakshidil stood in her stead, inhabiting her skin, doing things that long-lost convent schoolgirl would have blushed at, and maybe even fainted, if she had ever even dared to imagine them.

  At last Selim broke the silence. “I can’t let you go back to France, but I can bring France to you, Aimee,” he said.

  “Don’t call me that!” I cried.

  “Why not?” He frowned. “It is your name.”

  I shook my head. “Not anymore.”

  He didn’t, he couldn’t, understand. I wanted to help bring Turkey out of the darkness into the light, to bring the best of France to my adopted land, but I didn’t want to go backward, only forward. My future was here, with Mahmoud, in Turkey, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “Thank you . . . for all this, for going to such trouble for me,” was all I could really say. I hoped it was enough.

  His hand was at my waist, tentative and shy. His lips timidly moved in quest of mine.

  “Selim . . . no . . .” I pulled away.

  “But Aimee, I love you!” he cried. Now the tears were in his eyes.

  “Nakshidil,” I corrected firmly. “I no longer answer to any other name; Aimee died a long time ago, and where she ended, Nakshidil began.”

  “As you will.” Selim reached for me again.

  “No!” I stepped back from him. “Your harem is full of beautiful women—”

  “But they are not you! I don’t want any of them! Only you!” Selim clasped my waist, this time making a manly show of strength, determined to draw me close against his chest, and for his mouth to smother mine with kisses.

  I turned my face away, denying him my mouth, as I struggled free.

  “You mustn’t say such things again to me; if you do, I will have no choice but to go to the Old Palace and join the others who belonged to Abdul Hamid.”

  As I spun around, hurrying toward the door, one of my panniers knocked over a vase, scattering pink roses and porcelain all over the carpet. As I ran out the door I stumbled and almost fell over Kuvetti.

  “Come!” I cried as I righted myself, brushed the tears from my eyes, and started off at a clumsy trot. The dress was so heavy, and I was afraid I would end by turning my ankle; my heels felt like they were walking on stilts, making an embarrassingly loud tap-tapping as my pink shoes carried me swiftly back down the Golden Path, all the way back to the harem.

  I asked Lâle to help me. Together, we got me out of that clumsy, confining dress and took all the feathers and roses out of my hair. I snatched up the pair of silk trousers nearest to hand and stepped into them, pulled a caftan over my head, and fastened on a veil.

  Hugging huge, bulging pink armfuls, Lâle and I went out into the courtyard and lit a bonfire of French vanity.

  I felt a sense of relief, contentment and peace, as I watched it all burn. Through the rising smoke, I happened to glance up, and I saw Selim watching from a window. His hands were pressed flat against the gold-latticed glass. There was such a look of pain upon his face that I had to turn away. Maybe I only imagined or felt them, but I was certain I saw tears pouring from his eyes, dripping down from beneath the gold frames of his spectacles.

  When there was nothing left but odds and ends of whalebone and steel sitting in piles of ashes, I went to the baths. It was late and there were none about but a few bath attendants. I sat naked on a blue marble slab and took the opium pastille I had begged from Lâle. Since that first terrible experience I usually shied away from opium and hashish as well, but tonight I felt the need of it. I sat and soaked in the dreamy, steamy atmosphere, letting Hatice, an attendant I favored, work her soothing fingers through my hair and ladle perfumed water over me. When she took me to the couch to massage me, I encouraged her to do much more and make love to me. It was just one more way of running away from Selim and the naked desire and need I saw all too often in his eyes.

  CHAPTER 39

  While the Turkish people rallied around their enthusiastic, eager young sultan and his bright, bold dreams, their eyes shining with hope every time they caught sight of him riding by in his gold-curtained litter or astride his black horse with its bejeweled saddle, the Janissaries despised him more every year. In black of night they tore down what he built, defiled his new schools, and gathered great piles of his newly translated books and set them afire. They ran amok in the Great Bazaar, and overturned booths and baskets and smashed jars in the spice market, and killed wantonly and randomly. A merchant who pleaded with them to spare his wares had his eyes gouged out so he would not have to witness his property’s destruction. A boy who meant only to be helpful by picking up pomegranates that spilled from a stall the Janissaries had smashed had his hand cut off for stealing. And outside the palace kitchens they beat their kettles, relentlessly sounding their discontent, and a warning, to Selim. It reminded me of the voodoo drums that used to shatter the quiet of the peaceful island nights. And every morning, without fail, we were certain to find another loyal supporter of our wonderful modern dream slain, his body dangling from a tree or his severed head set where we would be sure to stumble over it.

  At the same time, the Russians were menacing our borders. The Janissaries with their fierce waist-length black moustachios and sabers were no match against the might and majesty, and modern guns, of the Russian army. They quite easily wrested the Crimea away from us.

  While the Janissaries retired to their barracks to lick their wounds and bang their kettledrums, Selim sat on the floor, like a little boy playing with toy soldiers, thoughtfully maneuvering h
is little model men and rearranging their lines to win phantom victories. He was dreaming of the day when the Nizam-Djedid, his New Army, would march forth, a wholly modern army, cavalry, infantry, and artillery, each man loyal to the backbone, incorrupt and ready to die if need be for Turkey and the Sultan.

  The Directory in France had fallen; an ambitious little Corsican general, Napoleon Bonaparte, a real man risen from the ranks of the people, an unparalleled military genius who dreamed of conquering the world, and had already carved great slices out of Italy and Austria, ruled now as the First Consul. After a lengthy silence, he at last responded to Selim’s request for assistance by sending us General Sebastiani and a corps of French engineers and naval officers.

  I had a feeling that this Bonaparte was not a man to be trusted. I sensed that he, a ruthless conqueror, had set his sights on Turkey. Sending Sebastiani was a veiled gesture, to outward appearances a response to a request for foreign aid, a maneuver calculated to forge friendly ties between Turkey and France, but actually a reconnaissance mission. If Bonaparte made our army, he would know it inside out, including, when the time came, where the weak links were and how to break them.

  Sebastiani was in Constantinople as Napoleon’s eyes and ears, friend now, foe when the time was ripe. But, since he was here, we might as well make use of him, I reasoned. We had a need and he could fulfill it. He could make Selim’s dream Nizam-Djedid march into reality. We would deal with Bonaparte later.

  Selim said I had grown harsh and cold. I was suspicious and wary of my own countrymen who had most generously come to help us. He thought me too mistrustful while I thought him too trusting.

  “I am by birth a Creole, not a Corsican,” I said, “but I have been reborn a Turk.”

  * * *

  For my thirtieth birthday, Selim, recalling my tales of the Montgolfier brothers and their marvelous hot-air balloons, arranged a special treat for me. A green-and-white-striped balloon was waiting for us in the verdant fields of Dolma Bagtché. Selim lifted me into the straw basket and up we went, soaring high above the golden domes of the city. Beneath us, the people craned their necks, waved, and cheered as they ran along, following our progress as best they could; some even took to the sea in little boats to get a better view of us.

  It was wondrous to behold from so high above—the French officers drilling and putting the Nizam-Djedid through its paces, the new cannon foundry, the shipyards bustling with men the size of ants swarming over our new ships, the engineers and workmen reinforcing our fortifications and directing the placement of guns.

  High above the golden spires, Selim took me in his arms again. His fingers lowered my veil, baring my face fully to his, as his lips found mine. This time I didn’t resist; I let him kiss me. I didn’t want to spoil it for him. And I knew things were less likely to go too far in a balloon flying high above the city, crowded into the straw basket with the balloon’s pilot pretending not to see or hear us, than if Selim and I were alone together in a private room in the palace.

  For me, that kiss was a conciliatory gesture.

  For Selim, it was another dream come true.

  “Aimee, I love you!” he whispered as he shuddered in breathless urgency against the curve of my neck.

  His brown eyes were like a wounded puppy’s when I didn’t tell him that I loved him back. But I couldn’t say what my heart didn’t feel.

  When we returned to solid ground, at sunset every mosque in Constantinople was crowded with men giving thanks for Sultan Selim’s safe descent from the heavens.

  Back in the harem, I tried to find every excuse not to be alone with Selim. The forlorn look in his eyes whenever we met in the company of others told me that he knew.

  Why won’t you love me? his eyes beseeched me every time.

  But I couldn’t answer.

  * * *

  Sebastiani worked wonders. Already the Nizam-Djedid was something to be proud of. Selim delighted in every parade, mock battle, and inspection and dreamed of the day when they would vanquish the Janissaries. But others were watching too, and with much less enthusiasm.

  Senieperver and the Janissaries concocted a bold scheme to ally themselves with the British, bartering favorable terms for when Mustafa became sultan. By the time we learned of their plans, the British fleet, resentful of our alliance with their archenemy Bonaparte, was already sailing in our direction. We had to act fast. Sooner than we thought, the mettle of the new Turkish army was about to be tested.

  Selim’s strength wavered in the face of grim reality; we were outnumbered, we should surrender now, he said, while we could still do it peacefully, before the smoke and heat and bloodshed of battle, and get the best terms possible from the British. But Sebastiani and I held firm. A show of strength can make a difference even when you are weak and outnumbered. The Nizam-Djedid would stand; Constantinople would not fall. We would not consider any other possibility.

  Sebastiani rode out amongst the people and stirred them up into such a patriotic fervor that they rose up to defend their city. Nobles and commoners alike wheeled cannons through the streets and ranged themselves along the walls. People collected stones that we could use in lieu of cannonballs if we ran out, and anyone who had anything they could use as a weapon came out, ready to fight and, if need be, die with us.

  I stood cloaked and veiled between Selim and Sebastiani atop the Galata Tower and watched the English ships round Prinkipo Island. Time seemed to drag unbearably. We waited tensely for the first shot to be fired. Then, a miracle happened—God had given me so many!—a mighty wind rose up. The British ships were battered and scattered and left so shaken and disorganized that General Duckworth made the decision to turn back and sail for home. We had won without a single shot being fired or a single life lost.

  * * *

  In the French sitting room Selim had made for me, we celebrated with General Sebastiani and his wife, Fanny, a sweet dark-haired young woman with lively brown eyes, who was swollen great in expectation of their first child. She didn’t have to say anything. I could tell she was very excited about becoming a mother.

  Sebastiani brought a bottle of champagne, and though Selim as a devout Muslim shunned it, he was happy to see the rest of us toasting our victory. I even let Mahmoud beg a sip from my glass and he fell instantly in love with the bubbly golden wine.

  It was an interesting experience to meet a Frenchwoman again. Fanny and I were fascinated by each other’s clothes. The fashions in France had changed dramatically. Gone were the days of hoop skirts and panniers, and powdered towers of outlandishly decorated hair. Dresses now harkened back to ancient Rome and Greece, flowing down naturally over the body in straight, simple lines with just a hint of a train trailing behind, but eschewing a woman’s natural waist to clasp just beneath her breasts with a jeweled belt or simple sash. Right after the Revolution there had been a craze for short shorn hair, the coiffure à la Victime, but now women were growing their hair long again, twisting it up in loose buns with little kiss curls or wisps framing their faces, or, for more formal occasions, intricate arrangements of braids ornamented with ropes of pearls, jeweled bands, or diadems.

  We laughingly decided that one day, after Fanny’s baby was born and she had regained her figure, we would trade. I would put on her clothes and she would put on mine. She had never worn trousers and thought my short embroidered vest and blouse with gauzy puffed sleeves, jeweled pillbox hat trailing veils, and curly-toed slippers would be a novel experience. She even talked of having her portrait painted in such attire so she could show all her friends back in France.

  She was curious to see more of the harem and our customs and I agreed, when she was recovered from her confinement, to take her on a tour. The mischief-maker in me remembered my first reaction to the baths, with all the naked, lolling odalisques, and the rituals I had taken for personal assaults upon my modesty, and wondered what Fanny would make of it all.

  “I promise you many interesting stories to tell your friends,” I assure
d her.

  Sebastiani also interested me. Though he had helped us greatly and was being hailed by the people as the Hero of Constantinople, I knew his first loyalty was to Napoleon, so I could never quite trust him, yet I found myself nonetheless attracted. He had charm, strength, and brilliance, and those fine qualities combined with his lean but muscular physique encased in tight breeches and a coat smothered in gold soutache, a full head of gold cupid curls, and gilt-flecked amber eyes . . . well, it really was no wonder that he was known to cause women back in France to erupt in drawing room riots. He was both soulful and sensual, an almost irresistible combination in either a woman or a man. Fidelity was not a fixture in most French marriages, but he seemed genuinely devoted to his darling Fanny.

  * * *

  To please Selim, I tried to occasionally spend a little time in the French sitting room, so he would not think I was unappreciative of his gift. I was always careful to choose a time when I knew he would be elsewhere and unlikely to seek me out, hoping to be alone with me. I would sit alone and read, embroider, or else just think, though I found the sofa and chairs terribly uncomfortable now that my body had become accustomed to the Turkish habit of lolling on soft cushions and divans.

  I was sitting there one afternoon when General Sebastiani came in to leave a book he had promised to Selim. They had become such good friends that Selim had generously given him the run of the palace; he was welcome anytime, to converse, dine, enjoy the baths, and make use of Selim’s extensive library of French books. They even rode horseback and practiced archery together, so it was not exactly a surprise to see Sebastiani walk into the sitting room, appearing completely relaxed as though he were entering a room in his own home. I had been told that they often sat and talked together in this room; that would explain why Sebastiani was bringing the book here.