by Jenny White
“When are we going to find you a bride?” she asks with a teasing smile. “The other day, I visited Jelaleddin Bey’s household. His daughter is lovely, educated, and of the right age. She is as beautiful as a rose. Don’t wait too long or another family will pluck her from under your nose.”
Kamil circles his palm in the air to signal exasperation, but he is smiling. This is an old game between them.
“A well-run marriage will bring you back to us.” She looks at her silent daughters and gaunt father. “If you were married, we would all go on outings together with our new sister-in-law. Wouldn’t that be fun, girls?” Feride has two sisters-in-law, her husband Huseyin’s formidable sisters, but they are not the friends she seeks. The two women jealously guard their brother’s interests against any encroachment by his wife.
“Yes, Mama,” Kamil’s nieces answer in unison.
His father heaves himself to his feet and, with unseeing eyes, moves toward the door. A servant shadows him, in case he should fall.
Feride looks meaningfully at Kamil, but he doesn’t meet her eye. He fights down the anger his father’s rejection always evokes in him. It is an unworthy feeling that he tries to hide from Feride.
Kamil uses his bread to capture a piece of goat cheese from his plate and glances surreptitiously at his sister, who is helping the girls finish their breakfast. He wonders how, despite all her duties and worries, she always manages to look so calm, her hair sleeked back under an intricate cloth cap festooned with ropes of tiny pearls, her gown pressed, her hands resting quietly in her lap or working efficiently at some task. Her long, pale face, with its straight nose and thin lips, is not conventionally pretty, but has a seriousness about it, a peaceful radiance that is attractive. Has this life made her content?
It is a contentment that can kill, he thinks. Always forgiving the gentle violence done to one’s time and aspirations. Making minutes into hours and days into years, when there is so much to be done. He does not want to pour his life into a leaky hourglass.
There is no concept of time in the Orient, he thinks grimly. Time is when you marry and have children, then your children marry and have children of their own. That is how lives are reckoned. Between those markers, people sit in the shade, drink tea with their fellows, and make their neighbors’ hills into mountains or cause mischief.
He prefers to measure his time and calculate what can be done with it minute by minute. His hand automatically finds the pocket watch his mother had given him before he went away for his year at Cambridge. He strokes it absentmindedly.
When the girls have finished eating, they run off. Feride and Kamil move to the sitting room. Feride closes the door.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispers anxiously. “You saw Baba just now. It has become unbearable. He rarely speaks and never leaves the house. All he does is sit in his quarters smoking his pipe. Not only does he refuse to speak with Alev and Yasemin, now he avoids them in the house. When I asked him about it, he claimed that they’re of an age where it’s inappropriate for them to be in the same room with an older man. He wants them to cover their hair!”
“But they’re only children.”
“I know. It’s ridiculous,” Feride says crossly. Two vertical lines between her eyebrows spoil her otherwise smooth face. “He’s their grandfather, after all. No rules forbid him seeing them. The girls love their grandfather. He used to play with them when they were younger. Now they think they’ve displeased him somehow.
Kamil has a sudden insight. “You know, Feride, the girls are beginning to look just like their grandmother, with that reddish hair and freckles. And their voices, especially Alev. Do you remember how you once described Mama’s voice, like doves cooing? Maybe Baba can’t bear to be reminded,” he suggests.
“Nonsense. He’s simply allowing himself to be old and unpleasant.”
“Have you told him that they’re upset and miss his company?”
“Of course. But he says, ‘It’s Allah’s will.’ Since when has he cared a kurush about Allah’s will? The only will he ever cared about was his own,” she adds bitterly.
Kamil suddenly perceives that Feride has a very different experience of their family. Certainly he has never thought of his father as strong-willed—just the opposite. What else has he been blind to?
“I can’t figure out what’s happening to Baba. And he’s not eating anything,” she adds in a pained voice. “You see what he looks like.”
Kamil takes her hand. “It’s the opium, Feride. After a while, it weakens the appetite. Have you noticed anything unusual about his eyes?”
“His eyes?”
“Are they darker?”
“I haven’t noticed. Is that a symptom?”
“I believe so.”
She stares at him, then pulls her hand away. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I only just learned it myself. I read it in a book,” he lies. “It happens in the later stages of addiction.”
“You and your books. Well, what should I do? Should I try to stop his opium? I can order the servants not to get it for him, but he might have other sources, and it would only make him angry. What should I do?” she asks again, exasperated.
Kamil is reminded of Sybil and her father. He wishes he could talk to her about his father. Perhaps he will. Why not? He looks again at his sister and wishes he could smooth the frown from her face as he had done as a boy. How would she and Sybil get along? Like fire and fire, he thinks. Or ice and ice. He leans over and brushes his index finger along her brow as if wiping away her frown. For a moment, Feride is stiff and silent, then she begins to cry.
“Don’t cry, my soul.” Kamil sits next to her and holds her until she is quiet. Then he pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to her.
Kamil sits back, frowning, and reaches for his beads. “It might be possible to take Baba’s opium from him, but it will make things worse for a time, much worse. And it’ll be you who bears the brunt of his wrath.”
“But what else can we do? Things can’t go on like this. He’ll starve to death.”
They sit silently for a while, side by side.
“Maybe we can arrange for the opium to be diluted slowly until he’s weaned.” Feride sits up straight, her eyes still blurred by tears, but excited by her idea. “Yes, yes. That’s what we must do. Do you think he’ll notice? If we do it very, very slowly? The servants will help me.”
“I don’t know, Feridejim.” Kamil pats her hand. “The paste is very distinctive. He’s sure to notice any change. I’m not even sure it can be diluted. I’ll do some more reading about it. For now, try to cut down the quantity and make sure the servants don’t smuggle in more. In the meantime, you should prepare the little ones for a difficult period. Baba might lash out at them. That will be even worse than neglect.”
“Maybe I should send them to Huseyin’s mother for a while.” Her voice is unsteady and she begins to cry again.
“You know you don’t get along with your mother-in-law, Feride. Let the girls stay here for now. Just keep them away from Baba if he begins to act differently. It’s a big house.”
“Yes, my little brother. Yes, that’s what I’ll do,” she says with more confidence than she feels. “Thank you. You always know what to do.”
You will face the consequences if I’m wrong, he thinks, but does not say to her.
19
The Crimson Thread
When I was seventeen, Papa decreed that I move from Chamyeri back to Nishantashou to live with him and Aunt Hüsnü. He was claiming me, as he put it to Mama, for civilization.
“Enough of this indolence, sitting on cushions and eating honey lokum. You and your brother are filling her head with nonsense. Poetry is well and good, but what does she know of running a household or moving in society? What husband wants a wife who has been raised by wolves?”
Violet and I looked at each other. We were squatting behind the rhododendron bush beneath the latticed windows of the harem sitt
ing room. I quaked with anger at my father’s harshness. How could he know what went on in this house when he was never here? He had not visited for over a year. The angry words spilling from the window weighed down my limbs. I tried to rise and run away, but Violet took my arm and pulled me back. She shook her head impatiently and pressed herself more tightly against the house wall. I could hear my mother weeping quietly. I willed her to speak, but she didn’t argue, she didn’t fight for me. I knelt, shaking, under the bright blossoms until we heard the rumble of Papa’s coach. I could not be distracted that night by Violet’s petting, so she stilled me in the vise of her arms. The following day, I discovered five round plum-colored bruises on my arm where Violet had anchored me.
On the day of my departure, Mama did not look at me, although I knelt for some time on the carpet at her feet, holding in my hand the corner of her robe. She was hunched under her sable on the divan. I knelt before her and kissed the back of her hand, then pressed it respectfully against my forehead. Her hand was as light and insubstantial as a moth. My mind was racing to find the right words, the magic ones that would break her trance and bind her to me, a bright crimson thread wrapped once around her wrist and again around my waist, a thread that would extend between the farthest corners of the empire and this room in Chamyeri. Whenever I touched the thread, I would feel her pulse beat the lullabies of my childhood in Nishantashou, before Aunt Hüsnü came.
I assured her that I would be safe, that I would write and visit, but I could not be sure that she heard me.
“Goodbye, Mama. May Allah hold you safe.”
She turned her head toward the golden light that flowed into the room from the garden beyond. I saw shadows move across her face, but no tears.
I pressed the corner of her robe to my lips and lowered it onto the divan, the material almost black against the bright cushions. My fingers slipped across the satin as I stood. I moved backward toward the door. I could still feel the cool slick of her robe like water on my fingertips.
Violet was ready with our few bundles and our wooden chests. We did not have much in the way of clothing. My chest was heavy with books. Ismail Dayi had called me to his study the night before and pressed upon me all my favorite volumes. The lamplight accentuated the sharp planes and hollows of his face. I thought he looked tired.
“I can always replace them, my daughter. They are yours—these and anything else you wish to take. This house will be yours upon my death. No, don’t interrupt. And it is yours while I live, as well. I have no children of my own. You are my only child. This is and always will be your home. I tell you this now so that you will feel secure in your future and—well, perhaps I shouldn’t meddle.”
He took my hands in his slim fingers, pursed his lips, and examined my face in the candlelight while he considered.
“Do not think, my dear, that you need to marry in order to be secure. You have the wealth to make your own decisions. Take your time in everything, until you feel the pull within yourself. Do not let yourself be guided by fear, or even by desire. And certainly not by the will of others, although”—and here he smiled fondly at my upturned face—“I cannot imagine a will strong enough to pull you off your path, my little lion.”
We walked over to the open window and watched the moonlight dance on the Bosphorus.
“Like the moon and the tides, the human heart has many phases. Wait for them. They will not be rushed.”
I was not sure what Ismail Dayi meant, but in his gentle shadow, I was able to cry.
THE FORTUNE-TELLER behind the Spice Bazaar was almost blind. He had a long white beard and wore a tattered brown robe and a striped cap. Violet gave him a kurush and he opened the wooden cage. A fat white rabbit with black markings emerged timidly onto the fortune board. After a moment, he nudged the board with his quivering pink nose and the old man worried free the tiny piece of paper pegged to the board at the place the rabbit had indicated. Violet reached out to take it. I nudged her and she gave the man another kurush. The rabbit emerged again and nuzzled another piece of paper. Violet and I took our fortunes to the adjoining park and sat beneath a tree to read them. On my paper was written: “Always an abundant day. A life of movement and novelty.” On Violet’s paper: “Loyalty at the right place and the right time will rescue you from a difficult situation.” The fortunes were written in an elegant script and we conjectured about the identity of such a fine hand. The fortune-teller’s son, perhaps. Surely the old man did not earn enough money to hire a scribe to write out his fortunes.
My fortune, I mused, appeared to be marriage and I didn’t see what that had to do with abundance. Movement and novelty, certainly. Abundance of wealth, too, perhaps. But not the abundance of cheerful, fat-cheeked women in their songbird-filled rooms. I would always be the sparrow pecking at the bars.
Papa had decided that I was to marry his colleague at the Sublime Porte, Amin Efendi. A man fifteen years my senior, with a bristling mustache that extended beyond his cheeks on either side. The first time I saw him was when he came with a group of men to visit Papa. I had thought it odd that Papa asked me, and not the servant, to bring the men coffee. I couldn’t help but notice the man I later learned was Amin Efendi. His knees made sharp points in his trouser legs. He rested his right elbow on the arm of the chair and trailed his long, white fingers in a slow, indolent circle across his shirtfront. His eyes followed me around the room as I served small cups of coffee from a silver tray. When I leaned over to bring the tray closer, I smelled boiled wool and a faint odor of roses, which I find repellent on a man. I could feel his eyes follow the movement of my breasts under the cloth. He took the cup and, for a brief moment, we were touching through the tray. I jerked away, spilling coffee from the other cups.
Papa insisted that I dress in Western gowns when he entertained guests. He allowed a trailing scarf over my hair when strangers were present, but insisted that my face be uncovered. I did not mind wearing such dress, but I resisted the corset. What kind of civilization, I wondered, tortured the body by compressing it so that it was a challenge to breathe and move and even made it difficult to sit on the already uncomfortable Frankish chairs? As a servant, Violet had been spared my father’s civilizing efforts. She laced my corset, but did not put much effort into drawing it tight. Aunt Hüsnü, whose maid laced hers so tightly that her body took on the shape of a wasp, looked askance at me when I emerged from my room. But she said nothing. My loose curves and easy movement set off to good advantage her own disciplined torso. My gowns slipped messily over my hips and along my shoulders, while hers looked perfectly proportioned, like the drawings of fashionable Frenchwomen in magazines.
A FEW WEEKS after I had served coffee to Papa’s guests, he called me into his study. I stood on the blue Persian carpet in front of his desk. He sat behind his desk, hands folded on his lap, his lips curved upward at each corner. He had a wide, kind face, a face that promised that he would listen patiently and understand what you had to say. The only hint that you might be wrong in your presumption was that his eyes remained cool and appraising. The smooth outlines of his jaw and features made his face unreadable. I was wrong often enough then, but only now have come to realize that his face encouraged you to project the response you needed and desired onto it.
Papa told me that his colleague, Amin Efendi, wanted to marry me.
“Don’t you think it’s time for you to start a family of your own? You’re twenty years old. He’s a good, steady man, reliable. He can provide you with a fine household. His wife died two years ago. He wants to remarry, and he wants to marry you.”
When I didn’t say anything, Papa added, “You needn’t be concerned. There are no children from the first marriage.”
I looked at him and tried to smile. “But I’m not planning to marry, Papa. At least not at the moment. And I don’t wish to marry Amin Efendi. He’s much too old for me.”
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but said nothing. During the long silence that followed, he sat back in his c
hair and regarded me with an unreadable expression. In order not to think, I counted the objects on his desk—two inkwells, a letter opener, a stack of white linen paper, four pens. One of the pens was leaking ink onto the blotter.
“Your pen is leaking, Papa,” I blurted out nervously, pointing to the stain.
Papa stood abruptly and stalked out of the room. Later, at dinner, he didn’t look at me but said matter-of-factly into his stewed lamb, “You will be engaged to Amin Efendi in three months. That will give you enough time to prepare. Allah knows where we’ll be able to procure a trousseau for you. Your mother taught you nothing. We’ll have to buy it.” He looked at Aunt Hüsnü, who nodded.
“I will not marry him, Papa. It is forbidden by the Holy Quran to force your child into marriage.” I set myself against my father. My mother’s approving presence seemed to regard the scene from afar.
“What rot is that? Is this what that ignorant Ismail Hodja taught you?” Papa shouted. “Filled you with religion like a stuffed dolma. This is a modern household and I expect you to obey me, not a musty old book muttered over by a lot of dirty old men with one foot in the darkness of history and one foot in the grave.”
Aunt Hüsnü continued chewing throughout this exchange, as if nothing at all could suppress her enjoyment of stewed lamb with apricots.
Violet came through the serving door behind Papa and Aunt Hüsnü carrying a tureen. I saw her spit into the soup.
20
Avi
The high, clear notes of the boy’s voice rise above the clamor of Kamil’s outer office.
“I can’t tell you. I’m only supposed to tell the bey.”
Suddenly the boy begins to cry. There is the sound of a scuffle.
