by Zia Wesley
“May I ask, sir, how it is that you speak French?”
“Oh, I also speak Spanish, and of course Turkish, and even a little Greek. It is necessary in my business because I deal with so many foreigners.”
“And may I ask, respectfully, what business that is?”
He smiled broadly. “Importing and exporting. I own many, many ships and someone somewhere always needs something.”
His answers appeased her curiosity and the rose petal tea’s sweet perfume lulled her back into a less fearful frame of mind.
When they were reclining comfortably, Baba began. “Marie-Marthé, how can I explain the exquisite turn of fortune in which you have been caught? Perhaps that is not the proper word.” He thought for a moment and began again. “As a result of your resplendent beauty, grace and charm, you have been chosen for an honor that is dreamt of by thousands of women and bestowed upon only very few.” He cleared his throat and took a sip of tea. “Our glorious Empire is ruled by Allah’s shadow upon earth, a ruler of the most royal blood and a descendant of Osman kings, the direct line of which has not been broken for seven hundred years. Sultan Abdul Hamid is beloved by his people and feared by his enemies. His Excellency is also, I might add, a distant cousin to myself.”
Aimée bristled at the mention of the word sultan but did not respond, waiting to hear how this powerful ruler was going to help her.
Baba continued. “The Sultan lives in the greatest palace in all the world... a palace so magnificent in its décor and size that it is unimaginable to a common citizen such as myself. But, I have been to this palace on many occasions to meet with and pay tribute to our Sultan and the Sultan before him. I can assure you that the mightiest kings of France, Spain and even Russia are paupers in comparison.”
He paused to let this sink in and sipped more rose petal tea. Then he continued.
“Marie-Marthé, you will be the rarest flower, the most unique jewel in the whole seraglio.”
Aimée heard the word seraglio and jumped to her feet. Unable to catch her breath, she barely whispered the word, “seraglio?” She stood up clutching her heart and wailed, “Seraglio? But you said you would help me!”
Baba was perplexed by her reaction. “I am helping you.”
The words, “You will be put into a seraglio,” rang in her head, and she sank to her knees in shock. She was to be a slave after all, a concubine to the Sultan. Fear gripped her, and a feeling of helplessness brought tears to her eyes. He had lied to her. Lied!
Baba reached forward and tried to hold her tiny, white hands but she withdrew them. He gazed directly into her frightened eyes and asked, “Do you not understand the meaning of what I have said?”
Trying to hold back her tears she answered, “Yes, sir. I know what a seraglio is but you led me to believe that you would help me, not sell me.”
“Sell you? My dear, I would not dream of selling you. I am giving you to the Sultan.”
“Sir, please, I beg you. Help me to return to my home and my uncle will reward you handsomely. I am betrothed.” She sobbed openly, tears running down her cheeks.
Baba rose to his feet and paced back and forth. “Betrothed!” he shouted. “You are a fool. What kind of woman spurns the chance to live in a palace like a queen? Has your beauty blinded me, and in truth you are nothing more than a common chambermaid who is ‘betrothed’? And to whom is this betrothal? Eh?”
“To Mr. Angus Braugham,” she whispered.
“Mr. Braugham? And who is this Mr. Braugham?” he demanded.
“He is the White Captain, the overseer on my Uncle’s plantation on Martinique.”
Baba threw his head back and roared with laughter. “A slave master? You are betrothed to a slave master? What kind of barbaric world do you come from?”
Aimée covered her ears against his mockery, but his words had struck their mark. She had never thought of Mr. Braugham in any light other than the dashing young man who had won her heart. She had never thought of him in the lowly position of the man in charge of her uncle’s slaves.
Baba clapped his hands twice and Ahmet appeared in the doorway. “Show our guest to her room.” He turned to Aimée. “As you remove the silks and jewels you wear tonight, ask yourself how you shall be adorned when you are the wife of the slave master,” he said, as he stormed out of the room.
Shaking all over, Aimée followed Ahmet through the halls to her room. Ignoring Zahar, who stood dutifully awaiting her return, she threw herself onto the divan face down, and sobbed into the silk pillows. The only person who could have helped her had just dashed all of her hopes. Hopelessness filled her as she cried harder, gasping for breath and searching her mind for a way out. When Zahar attempted to console her or to help her undress, she roughly pushed her away. “What can I do?” she pleaded.
But of course, Zahar could not understand. Unable to help the distraught girl, the servant retreated to her sleeping alcove and watched as Aimée lay crying.
“What can I do?” Aimée whispered repeatedly as she wept. If only Mr. Braugham were here. If only someone could help me.
She cried until she was exhausted. Then she propped herself up among the pillows and tried to calm herself by organizing her thoughts. If I am brought to the sultan, will Uncle petition the king for my release? She sniffled and pondered this for a while. Aunt Sophie has been presented at court. Perhaps she will petition the king. She absently fingered the ropes of jewels around her neck as she thought. But how will they know where I am? Perhaps they think me already dead. This thought brought on another fit of tears. I must have faith. I must have faith or I will die. She unfastened a strand of jewels from her neck and used it as a rosary. Holy Mary, Mother of God, hear my prayers.
She prayed for as long as she could stay awake and then, just as she had done each night on the pirate’s ship, cried herself to sleep. Hope and faith were her only sources of comfort and they seemed to be providing her with less and less.
Reclining on the divan in his private quarters, Baba fumed. The little knowledge he had of women did not help him understand the girl’s behavior. He knew enough to know that most women would sell their souls for a place in the sultan’s palace. Could women from other countries be so different? Her reluctance angered him because she could be so useful to his plan. By all counts, she appeared to be the piece that had been missing. He puffed thoughtfully on his hookah. Well, he would not allow her to spoil his plans. She was going to the sultan, willing or not. If he had to deliver her in chains, so be it.
Chapter 19
Soft morning light filtered through the latticed window onto the carpeted floor of Aimée’s room. She awoke with red swollen eyes, feeling helpless and sad. Her first thought was, what can I do? She noticed the pearl and ruby necklace still wound loosely around her left hand, and its delicate beauty made her feel even sadder. She remembered Baba’s words—how shall you be adorned as the wife of the slave master?—and tears filled her eyes once again. What had she been thinking? What cruel delusion had led her to believe that her uncle might ever allow marriage to a man so beneath her station? She recalled Mr. Braugham’s handsome face, his laugh that deepened his dimples, saw him gazing intently into her own eyes. She covered her eyes to make the memory go away. How tortuous would it be to deny his love? And how unhappy might her life have been as a nun after knowing its sweetness? She remembered some of the women in the convent and wondered if they had come to that life as the result of lost love.
Overcome with deep sadness, she sat up slowly and ran her fingers over the chains of gold and rubies wound around her ankles. They are so beautiful. Are these jewels to take the place of true love?
Zahar, who had been squatting patiently in the corner, approached the divan as soon as Aimée stirred. Speaking soothingly, she loosened the garments in which Aimée had slept, then left the room and returned a moment later with a tray of food and a glass of sweet mint tea.
Aimée drank the tea, but had no appetite for food.
Slowly
and gently, Zahar removed Aimée’s remaining clothes and jewelry, then slipped a linen caftan over her head.
Exhausted and despondent, Aimée followed the slave down the long hallway and into the warm room that led to the bathing pool. As soon as Zahar left the room, Aimée began to silently pray. Feeling more weary and defeated than ever before, she could not concentrate on her prayers. Her mind replayed the familiar scenarios of her predicament over and over without revealing any way out. “Dear God,” she sighed aloud. “Please show me the way.”
Fifteen minutes later, Zahar reappeared to lead her through the hidden doorway and into the pool. However, today she was not alone.
Three large, olive-skinned women sat partially submerged on the steps at the opposite end of the pool. When Aimée entered, their animated conversation abruptly stopped, only to resume at a higher and louder pitch. They immediately began moving through the water like a family of water buffalo, to get a closer look at the strange-looking foreigner. They seemed angry at the presence of an unknown intruder. As they moved closer, Aimée instinctively began to back away. They yelled at her and, getting no response, turned their focus to Zahar.
“Who is she and why is she here?” they demanded in Turkish. “What is the matter with her? Can she not speak?”
Zahar answered in Turkish, explaining that Aimée neither spoke nor understood their language.
Aimée stood frozen as the women ascended the steps and surrounded her. Their fat, naked bodies jiggled with every step, their pendulous breasts swaying heavily back and forth across their bellies, long black hair piled high on their heads, wrists and ankles encircled with gold and jewels. One even had a gold front tooth. They spoke simultaneously as they walked around her, feeling her hair and looking her over as if she were an unpleasant curio.
“Skinny little wretch.”
“Must be too poor to buy food, and who would feed her?”
“Her poor husband... she’s too skinny to bed!”
“So white, like a plucked pigeon.”
“Who would bed such a ghost?”
“Who said you could bathe in our pool?”
Zahar could neither dissuade them nor soothe Aimée’s fear, but thought it fortunate that Aimée could not understand their words. Finally, the women backed away a few feet and stood gawking, hands on their bountiful hips, asking questions in a more orderly fashion.
“When did she arrive?” the gold-toothed one asked Zahar.
“Yesterday,” Zahar replied.
“From where?”
“I do not know.”
“Why is she here?”
“I do not know the purpose of her visit.”
“Does her husband have business with our husband?”
“She has no husband here.”
“What?” they all screamed simultaneously.
“If she has no husband, where did she sleep?”
“In the guest room off the main hall.”
“What?” they screamed again in unison. “In the men’s quarters?”
“Yes.”
They all spoke at once, gesturing wildly with their hands as Aimée looked nervously from the women to Zahar.
“What is the meaning of this? To whom does she belong? What gives her the right? It is not proper. She is haram [forbidden]!”
Finally Zahar said, “She is the guest of the master. It is his wish that she reside in the men’s quarters. Do you wish to challenge his wish?”
The women fell silent. One did not question Baba Mohammed—not to his face or to anyone who may report to him. The only way to get answers was to have one of their eunuchs question Ahmet. They spat out several more disparaging comments regarding Aimée’s small physique and possible ancestry, and then waddled away towards the warm room to begin their investigation as quickly as possible.
Zahar took Aimée’s trembling hand and led her to the pool, motioning her to get in.
“You will feel better when you bathe,” she said, gently urging the girl down the steps.
Aimée glanced over her shoulder to make sure that the frightening women were gone, and then descended slowly into the pool. Though she could not understand their language, their anger and disdainful manner clearly conveyed their animosity. What could I have done to anger them so? If only I understood their tongue. If only I knew what to do. Holy Mother. She submerged her body into the water all the way to her chin and prayed.
When she stood up a few moments later, she opened her eyes and looked down through the water at her naked, hairless body. Oh, what would Mother Superior think about this? she wondered. The thought made her giggle. Instinctively, she covered her mouth with both hands and then looked around. How can I laugh at a time like this? But there was no one to see or chastise her. No one is here. Gratefully, she closed her eyes and submerged herself in the fragrant water again. There is no one to chastise me or tell me what I may or may not do. This thought was so new and foreign it took her breath away. She remembered her cousin Rose asking her why she always did as others bade. Because we must obey our elders and do as the church bids us, she always replied. Where were they now? Certainly not here. She looked around. The room was so beautifully lit and the air so seductively scented, she wished she could somehow ingest it. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Musk and attar of roses filled her with a sense of well-being and happiness. If only I could always feel like this. This was how she’d imagined she would feel in Paris—how wrong she had been. In what place might she feel like this forever? She laughed audibly. Certainly not the convent. Not in any home she had ever entered on Martinique or in Paris. This place possessed an opulence and comfort that she could not have ever imagined, and she realized with a start that this was how she wished to live.
Aimée emerged from the water. Taking a big towel from one of the baskets, she wrapped herself in it and lay down on a bed of soft cushions. There has always been someone to tell me what I must and must not do. She began to count them off on her fingers: Mother, Da Angelique, Aunt and Uncle, Father Christophe, Mother Superior, Aunt Sophie, and even Rose. Eight different people have continually told me what I must and must not do. What will it be like without them, and who will tell me what to do now? Was there another way? She pondered the radical thought. It reminded her of the notions about fate that she’d had on the ride home from Paris—so foreign and yet so familiar. Could this mean that my fate is now in my own hands? This was another extraordinary idea that had never before occurred to her. Fate had always been something that others controlled or imposed upon her. Father Christophe and her Aunt continually warned her of the consequence of her sins, hell and damnation and the loss of her soul. Even Aunt Sophie, who turned out to be correct in her admonitions regarding what she must and must not do to be accepted into society.
But I was the one who convinced Uncle to send me to France in the first place. And I was the one who insulted the Countess and sealed my fate in Paris. I was also the one who chose to visit my family on Martinique one last time. Was it I who set into motion the chain of events that brought me here? And what of Euphemia David’s prophesy? It was Rose who insisted I go, but nevertheless, I did go. Have I somehow known of my fate all along?
What if this was indeed a choice that she had made? This thought was so revolutionary she could hardly contain it. How I wish there was someone I could talk with. I must seek counsel. If only Mother Superior were here. Then she glanced around at her surroundings. Heavens no, not Mother Superior. She thought of the convent. She took in the opulent bathing pool and remembered the convent’s stark architecture and simple furnishings. She remembered the emptiness of her daily routine and the boredom and restlessness that surely would have become mainstays of her life had she remained there. She was too afraid to answer the question that now hovered in the forefront of her mind. Would I choose to go back if I could?
There was only one person for her to consult now, the only one who understood her language. If I speak openly with Baba, can I trust him? He has not h
armed me in any way. He has actually been very gracious and quite kind, although he does wish to deliver me to the Sultan. She wrapped herself more tightly in the towel. But he does not think that a bad thing. To him, it is an honor, not a punishment. He thinks like a barbarian. Perhaps I must also learn to think like a barbarian. What would such a woman do? What would I do, were I such a woman?
Despite her extremely limited choices, one seemed absolutely correct. One felt right, suited her and fit like the beautiful silks she had been given to wear. She might enter the Sultan’s prison, but she need not be a captive. All her life she had followed the dictates of others. Now, it would be she who would choose her path. She had been found wanting and undesirable in Paris, but was clearly admired here. She would use that to her advantage and choose a new life.
A door of possibility opened in her mind and by the time Zahar came to fetch her, a different young woman rose from the bed of cushions, one who was determined to be in control of her fate, who sensed that a new journey was about to begin, a journey she could never have imagined before this very moment. This new young woman wished to believe that from this day forward, despite the loss of her family, her first love and the only way of life she had ever known, it would be she who would determine her fate.
She returned to her room and pantomimed to Zahar that she wished to speak with Baba. Zahar summoned Ahmet, who arranged for Baba to meet Aimée in the quiet, interior garden that adjoined her sleeping room.
For the meeting, Aimée carefully chose a dark blue silk ensemble to offset her eyes. When she observed her image in the large, oval mirror, she deemed herself appropriately attired for what she was about to do. She also thought herself quite changed. She felt older and for the first time in her life, aware of her own power. It was a heady feeling that brought her hope.
She entered the garden before Baba arrived to arrange herself on a divan, propped up on her left elbow so that she might pluck ripe grapes from the silver platter before her with her right hand.
