by Zia Wesley
After a long lunch with an enormous amount of food, the remainder of the afternoon was filled by music, singing and dance classes. In the music class, each girl chose one musical instrument to learn and master. Since the harpsichord did not exist in Turkey, Aimée chose the harp.
When I am queen, she fantasized, I shall have a harpsichord brought to me from Paris.
As girls became proficient musicians, they were organized into eight-piece orchestras to accompany dancers. These orchestras performed regularly inside the harem for the Sultan, and occasionally for his guests, playing behind pierced, decorative screens allowing them to be heard without being seen. Aimée was surprised to learn that no foreign music of any type had ever been played within the palace walls—another oversight she planned to remedy when she was able. She quickly picked up the traditional dances that would eventually be performed solely for the Sultan, finding familiarity in the strange, sensual movements.
All of the girls practiced the art of embroidery by embellishing their own clothing with brightly colored flowers, birds and geometric designs. Instructions on grace, poise and personal hygiene went on throughout the day. During meals, teachers corrected girls who sat slumped on their cushions or adopted unpleasant postures.
“Grace is an art that must be practiced until it becomes part of your nature, until you are no longer aware of it and have simply become graceful,” the teacher explained.
The teachers never raised voices, made threats of damnation or cracked willow branches across hands. Everything was taught gently, quietly and languidly so that learning itself became pleasurable.
The only private classes were those teaching the art of sexual technique. These were tailored to an individual’s needs. Aimée’s would not begin until she became familiar and more comfortable with the basic theories. However, group classes on the theoretical art of love took place nightly, following the evening meal. These focused on careful indoctrination to the student’s purpose of pleasuring the Sultan. It was the same premise that pervaded everything they learned, continual reminders of their true purpose. By the time they entered the harem, their singular devotion would be focused.
Throughout the day the teacher asked, “Why has Allah placed you here?”
To which the girls replied, “To serve our lord and master.”
“How will you serve him?” she asked.
“With beauty and pleasure,” they replied.
It was a litany of devotion recited by novices dedicating themselves to one lord. Once again, the similarity between the harem and the convent was not lost on Aimée.
She also discovered that admission into the harem did not automatically mean she would meet the Sultan. That decision belonged to the Circassian Kadine, who might recommend her to the Sultan. Without her support, a girl could languish unnoticed in the harem for years—or forever. Gossip circulated constantly about others who had left the school months before and still had not met the Sultan. Baba had been right. In order to rise in the ranks of odalisques, Aimée needed to make the Kizlar Agasi her ally. Only he could introduce her to the Circassian Kadine. Without the eunuch’s support, the Circassian Kadine might never even know about her.
Fortunately, the Kizlar Agasi seemed to have his own agenda for Aimée. At the end of her first day, he met with her privately in the Vekil Usta’s quarters before dinner.
“I am told that the girls are accepting you quite warmly,” he said, speaking slowly so that she would understand.
“Yes, sir. They are very kind,” she said.
“You have much to learn here and must do so quickly. Do you understand?” he asked.
“I must learn,” she replied.
“Quickly,” he added.
“Fast?” she asked.
“Yes. The Sultan is old and grows weak. He has only one son and heir. Do you understand?”
He had spoken too quickly for her to grasp the entire meaning. “Forgive me, sir, I understood ‘the Sultan is old’—and the rest?”
“Needs sons,” he said pantomiming rocking a baby.
“Oh, children.” she said.
“Boy children,” he said, indicating the male organ.
“A son?” she said.
The eunuch nodded. It was too complicated to try to explain that during the nine years of Sultan Abdul Hamid’s reign he had sired only one boy who lived—Mustapha, now a violent and ill-tempered eight-year old. The other royal sons had all met untimely deaths, most likely at the hands of Mustapha’s mother, Nuket Seza. She was a shrewish harpy with one goal, to become Mother of the Sultan, the most powerful woman in the empire. Only then could she order the deaths of her detractors, who numbered in the thousands.
The Sultan despised both mother and son, and the thought of the misfit Mustapha one day inheriting his throne was more than he could bear. In fact, it was one of the reasons why he had become so discouraged and uninterested in everything of late. He was almost seventy years old, and the more he felt his mortality, the more he feared his legacy would disappoint rather than enlighten. Also, the prospect of leaving only one appropriate heir was abhorrent to him. How disastrous might it be if his nephew Selim should die, leaving Mustapha to rule? It tore at the very core of his good heart. His failure to provide multiple heirs was a constant source of grief that made the ruler feel impotent and depressed. The more depressed he felt, the less he desired the company of women and if he could not bed women, neither could he produce heirs. It had become a vicious cycle he was helpless to break.
The Kizlar Agasi also wished for multiple heirs, since he and Nuket Seza did not share the same political aspirations. After the Sultan’s death, should Mustapha ascend the throne instead of Selim, the Kizlar Agasi would no doubt be “retired” from his position, and most likely put to death. He had seen the reason for Nuket Seza’s viciousness early on, and become the one she blamed for the Sultan’s turning against her. Thus, finding a woman able to sire more sons might very well save his own life.
“I understand,” she said, although understanding the words did not explain why the Sultan needed her to bear him a son when he already had five hundred wives. Were they all barren? She did not know that the Sultan had become so despondent he had not summoned a woman to his bed for almost a year. However, she found it extremely interesting that the Kizlar Agasi’s hopes for her to produce a royal heir seemed so certain.
He rose to leave. “I will mark your progress daily. Oh yes, and your new name is Nakshidil. It means ‘embroidered on the heart.’”
Again, he had spoken too quickly for her to understand, so she asked, “Your name?”
“No, no,” he said pointing to her and saying slowly, “Your name... Nakshidil.”
“My name?” she asked, her voice rising in surprise.
“Yes. Nakshidil,” he affirmed.
She regained her composure and tried to repeat the difficult pronunciation asking “Naksadal?”
“No, Nak-she-dil,” he said slowly.
“Nak-she-dil,” she repeated.
“Yes, very good. It means ‘write on the heart,’” and he pantomimed the words “write” and “heart,” thinking that she would understand the word “write” more easily than “embroider.”
“Write on the heart?” she asked.
“Yes, good. Study more Turkish,” he said, and left her.
Now she understood why Perestu had said that her name was not real. “Nakshidil,” Aimée repeated to herself, then ran from the room to find Perestu, who was lying on her divan playing with a small doll.
“Perestu,” she said excitedly, sitting next to the girl and taking her hands, “my name is Nakshidil.”
“Nakshidil?” the young girl asked. “What means?”
“Write on the heart,” she replied proudly.
Perestu’s eyebrows knit together in concentration, and then she smiled. “I do not hear this name before. Must be old name. Good name, Namay,” and they both giggled. “Good name, Nakshidil,” she corrected.
&nb
sp; The Vekil Usta called the girls to dinner, and if Aimée thought that lunch had been excessive, the ten courses she would consume over the next two hours would make it look light. Like other meals, it was served as the girls reclined on divans or cushions, leaning on their left elbows so they could eat with their right hands.
The first course of plump little pastries filled with seasoned meat called borek was eaten while the girls gossiped about what had transpired throughout the day. The second course of leg of mutton, browned in butter and roasted, was sliced into thick pieces so tender they melted in Aimée’s mouth almost without chewing. It came with a compote of musk-flavored, stewed fruits that she ate separately to savor its heady perfume that remained in her mouth long after she swallowed. It was so delicious she licked her lips in delight and made little sounds of ecstasy in her throat as she ate, not realizing she was doing so until Perestu shot her a warning glance.
A cold drink, unlike anything Aimée had ever tasted, was served to clear the palate and cool the mouth.
“What is this?” she asked a nearby teacher, who smiled knowingly and replied, “Pomegranate serbet, sugared water and pomegranate juice that has been cooled with snow brought from Mount Olympus, very far away.”
She quickly discovered that serbets were a favorite of the girls and the harem women. They were rarely found anywhere else in Turkey because of the ice required to make them.
The next course was a tiny quail, stuffed with figs and pistachio nuts and browned to a crisp. As the bird was cut open Aimée leaned forward to inhale the fragrant aroma of the escaping steam and purred, “Mmmmmm,” in response. She did not think that she could eat any more, until she broke off one little leg and took a bite. The crispy skin surrounded succulent meat flavored with fig, and she managed to eat more than half of the little bird and all of the stuffing. This delightful dish was followed by a refreshing cup of cool yogurt mixed with crushed mint and honey, a dish she had tasted for the first time at Baba’s. She would have happily ended her meal at that point, but the next dish turned out to be one of her favorites, couscous with raisins and almonds, followed by another icy serbet of sweetened lime. She drank the serbet slowly to savor its flavor and make it last as long as possible.
Perestu, whose little stomach was stuffed, rolled onto her back to rest and was quickly corrected by a teacher. She rolled back onto her side and propped her head up in the palm of her left hand. “Where you come from?” she asked Aimée.
Aimée thought for a moment, and then chose the answer that she believed would be most easily understood. “From Al Djazāir.”
“I know this place,” Perestu answered proudly. “How you get gold hair and blue eyes?”
“I think from my father but I never knew him. He died right after I was born.”
“Lot of gold hair girls in Al Djazāir?”
“Oh, no. Well, I do not think so. I was born far away on a small island—Martinique.”
“Far away?” she asked.
“Yes, very far,” Aimée answered, feeling a twinge of sadness. Before it could find its way deeper inside her, Perestu asked another question.
“Your mother bring you here to Sultan?”
“Oh, no. My mother died long ago.”
“My mother sell me to feed brothers,” Perestu said without any rancor. “Boys more good and can work. Girls not so good.” She shrugged her shoulders indifferently.
Aimée was shocked to hear such harsh philosophy from such a young child. She had never thought herself to be of less value than a male, but perhaps Perestu was right. She would have to ponder this later. “How many brothers?” she asked.
“Five boy. Two sister marry.” She shuddered and made an unpleasant face as though tasting something bitter. “I like here. Better than marry mean old man.”
Better than many things, I suppose, Aimée thought.
“How you come here?” Perestu asked.
“I came by ship... a friend,” but she could not find the words to describe her situation, so she simply said, “I am a gift.”
Perestu’s eyes widened in admiration. “A gift girl? She gift girl,” she whispered excitedly to the girls closest to them. They in turn, whispered the news to others and passed it around the room. “Oh, very lucky, Nakshidil.”
“Is it?” Aimée watched the girls’ expressions of surprise and admiration as the news quickly spread. “I had not thought of it that way.” In fact, she realized that she knew nothing about how girls came to be in the harem, assuming that everyone was in the same situation as herself.
“Not all gift girls?” she asked.
Perestu who shook her head slowly and pointed at her. “You only.”
Aimée shifted her position to make her pose a little more regal, enjoying her new elevated status. Imagine that. Baba was right again.
She would quickly learn that there were many ways to enter the harem: as a gift, to pay debts, by choice as a daughter of noble birth, sold for money, for the purpose of political alliances or through the spoils of war.
The last main course of eggplant stuffed with ground lamb and almonds arrived with another fruit compote flavored with cinnamon and cloves, both spicy and sweet. A final glass of ice-cold serbet made with fragrant flower essences followed, and Aimée closed her eyes as she drank, inhaling the floral sweetness of jasmine and orange blossoms. A broad smile spread across her face. This is surely the most delicious meal I’ve ever eaten.
Another brief respite followed before the desserts arrived. Although, Aimée had been too full to do more than taste the eggplant, she could not resist the incredible-looking sweets. Tiny cakes covered in sticky, sweet syrup, pistachio nugget, and halvah were served with the sweet, dark Turkish coffee she had already learned to crave.
She leaned towards Perestu and whispered, “If we keep eating like this we will be big as cows.”
“Just so,” Perestu replied nodding her head. “They say the Sultan like big, round woman. I too skinny... must eat more. You too,” she added.
“More?” Aimée exclaimed grasping her bulging belly and laughing. “I will burst.”
Slaves entered, carrying water pipes for the girls who wished to smoke. Aimée enjoyed the fragrance of the sweet-smelling tobacco that Baba had smoked after dinner. She never tried it herself and still found it foreign.
Theoretical instruction in the art of love followed the meal, as the girls reclined, nibbling sweets, drinking coffee and smoking. Sated and full, they struggled to keep their eyes open and to pay attention. But, the wise teachers didn’t mind if the girls appeared tired, knowing that this was the perfect time to talk about lovemaking. The opulence of the dining experience, the sensual foods and silk cushions all helped to create a sexually charged atmosphere. Focusing on this particular subject every evening after such a meal eventually became what the girls looked forward to most. By the time they graduated, they would crave the fulfillment of the acts of love. The school nurtured sensuality, and even on this first day, the trained eyes of the teachers could see Aimée’s true nature, despite her modest demeanor and obvious innocence in the ways of love.
Later that evening, as Aimée lay on her divan, she thought about the conversation with the Kizlar Agasi. He wanted her to have a son. He could not possibly know about the old woman’s prediction of more than five years ago and yet, he seemed to be placing so much hope in her. Out of all of these women, he believes I can bear the Sultan a son. It must be another sign of Fate pointing towards my true destiny. She suddenly understood that her purpose was not simply to be a queen; it was to sire a king.
Chapter 25
Realizing and accepting her true purpose made Aimée an excellent student. Her grace, poise and charm blossomed in the openly sensual society, unlike the unnatural strictures of Parisian society, for which she had shown so little aptitude. Turkish social graces were languid and flowing. They focused solely on the physical rather than the intellectual, and wit, to her great relief, played no part.
The Vekil U
sta noted the way Aimée held her head, tilted slightly to one side when she listened, giving her complete attention to every word as if she were listening to the most interesting thing she had ever heard. It made the speaker feel like the center of her universe. Her unique walk, gently undulating her hips from side to side, looked more like dancing, and her soft, throaty laugh took everyone by surprise once it was coaxed out and encouraged. Sensuality pervaded every inch of her, every sound she uttered, every gesture she made, as naturally as flowers exude scent.
Sexuality was another matter. Although fascinated by the forthright approach to sexual teachings, she struggled to escape the perspective of her past and at the end of the first week, still felt embarrassed and resistant.
Hoping to dispel this last vestige of Aimée’s personal conflict, the Vekil Usta arranged a private chat.
“You are progressing well in all matters except the sexual arts,” she began.
Aimée sat silently, biting her lower lip.
“Are you aware of the consequences of failure in this matter?” the teacher asked.
“I think so. I have heard that girls who fail become servants in the harem,” she replied quietly.
“Yes, that is true in some cases. You would not be opposed to this?” she asked.
“It would not be my first choice, but I have been unable to surrender myself to the way in which the art of love is practiced here. I do not seem able.”
The teacher thought for a moment. “Well, I think you should know that you are much too valuable to throw away as a servant, Nakshidil. A different fate would await you, one you may not wish to choose.”
Aimée frowned.
“You possess extraordinary beauty and grace, Nakshidil. The Sultan would never allow such a treasure to be wasted. He would make you a gift to one of his ministers, someone to whom he owed a substantial debt. Someone like Muzrah Kalif, perhaps.”
“Who is this man?” she asked timidly.
“Muzrah Kalif is one of the wealthiest men in Turkey and has enriched the Sultan’s treasury quite substantially over the years.”
