by Jenny White
“Yes. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t get a message to you at Chamyeri telling you to stay there. I wasn’t certain you were safe there either, despite Violet’s precautions. And I wasn’t sure of Violet’s motives.”
Misinterpreting the look on my face, he added quickly, “I know you’re close to Violet, but you should open your eyes. There’s something odd about her, hungry. The way she watches you.”
“Of course she watches me,” I snapped, still defensive of my companion despite my growing doubts. “She sees to my needs. As for…that man, what possible advantage is it for him to do something like this? He must know by now that I would never marry him.”
“Jaanan”—he squeezed the words from between his teeth—“you would have no choice. Believe me. It is his way of returning the harm you have done to him.”
I thought for a few moments. Perhaps he was right. I was untutored in many of the ways of society, but I clearly remembered the warnings and stories that circulated in the summer harems.
“Now what do we do?” I was aware that I had put myself in Hamza’s hands. He leaned forward and laid his hand on my shoulder. His fingers played with a lock of hair that had escaped from the scarf draped over my head.
“I don’t know,” he said softly. “You’ll be safe here for a while, but you can’t go out. The neighborhood women sit at the windows and watch who comes and goes.”
“So I exchange one prison for another,” I said softly, to myself.
“It’s only for a short while, until we figure out what to do.”
We…Was Hamza suggesting he would marry me himself? I waited for him to speak again, but he did not.
I wondered what my disappearance would mean. Did I still have a reputation that could be damaged? I had not had time to think about my future, to test which roads were still open to me. Had this closed another road? So far, the pens of others had drawn the features on the map that was my life.
I regarded Hamza, who was still silent.
“What do you think the consequences of this will be for me?” I asked him, hoping by his answer to decipher the calligraphy of his life on the thin pages of mine.
“Consequences? Of what?”
“Of my coming here.”
“What do you mean?”
“The world will believe that I’ve been abducted.”
“I had thought of it as a rescue,” he responded defensively.
We sat for a while, busy with our own thoughts.
“May I speak plainly?” he asked.
“Please do,” I said, perhaps more emphatically than I wished.
“I don’t mean to hurt you, Jaanan.” He paused, searching my face. “But since the attack by Amin, it has been difficult for you. Society doesn’t forgive. I know.” There was an undercurrent of bitterness in his voice that I had never noticed before. I was curious what his experience might have been. He had never spoken of it.
“I’m aware of that, Hamza. But I’m not alone. Papa won’t forsake me, nor will Ismail Dayi.” Nor would you, I added to myself, but with less certainty.
“You must tell Ismail Dayi that I’m safe,” I insisted.
“I’ll go myself and tell him.” Hamza rose and signaled to the young man.
As her son embraced her, the old woman began to rock and keen quietly. Gently he pulled her hands from his vest and spoke to her again in Ladino, the vowels falling like rain onto her parched, beseeching face.
YOUNG ALMONDS, peeled and eaten raw, leave a raspy feeling on the tongue as if you have eaten something wild. The almond seller exhibited them like jewels: a pile of almonds in their thin brown skins resting on a layer of ice inside a glass box, lit by an oil lamp. Wheeling them about the streets on warm spring nights, the almond seller had no special call—his cart was a sacrament and people flocked to it.
The following evening, Hamza returned and brought me a plate of chilled almonds. We sat on the divan by the window, the plate between us, and talked. I pulled my thumb over the fragile skin. It slipped away suddenly, leaving a gleaming, ivory sliver between my fingertips. The Jewish woman had withdrawn to another room at the back of the apartment. We were alone. This no longer worried me.
Hamza threw the almond into his mouth without peeling it. In a swift movement he was next to me and had wrapped his arms around me. My face was crushed to his chest and my head scarf fluttered to the floor. He smelled of leather.
“Jaanan.” His voice was thick and rough. I thought of the carnations embroidered on Mama’s velvet cushions in stiff gold thread. They scratched my cheek when I laid it against the rich velvet.
I didn’t struggle. This, then, is the path, I thought. Without hesitation, I opened the gate and stepped out.
33
Elias Usta’s Workmanship
Kamil can go neither forward into the second courtyard nor back out the wrought-iron gates. He sits in the guardhouse and waits with increasing impatience for the soldiers to allow him entry. They stand implacably at each entrance to the squat stone building, clutching their rifles. The air smells faintly of flint and leather. Kamil stood waiting at the outer gate of Yildiz Palace for over an hour before he was allowed to advance to the guardhouse. He bided his time at the gate with pleasurable thoughts about Sybil, with whom he is invited to dine the evening after next.
At least, he thinks, here I am allowed to sit. On the opposite bench sits a clearly irritated sharp-nosed Frank in stately clothing.
When the shadows have fallen the length of the courtyard, a blue-turbaned clerk appears at the door. The guards snap into rigid poses and bow in unison, their leather armor creaking as they make the gesture of obeisance. The clerk barks at the ranking soldier and motions peremptorily to Kamil to follow him. The Frank also stands expectantly, but one of the guards steps in front of him, hand on the dagger at his belt. With a heartfelt comment in his own language, the Frank falls back onto the bench. Kamil bows but the clerk’s back is already turned and he is hurrying away. Kamil lengthens his stride to keep up with him. The young man’s lack of decorum and self-importance amuses him. At that moment, the clerk swings around and catches the expression on Kamil’s face.
Cheeks flaming, he demands, “You. Show proper respect. You are not in the bazaar.”
Kamil’s clothing identifies him as a magistrate. He is surprised at the disrespectful tone. The clerk is very young. Probably a youth raised in the palace, Kamil decides, one of the many children of the sultan’s concubines. They are educated and given responsibilities without ever having set foot beyond these yellow walls. Certainly never to the bazaar.
Kamil smiles at the clerk and bows slightly. “I am honored to be received by the palace.”
Mollified, the clerk turns on his heels and hurries through an ornate gate. From behind, Kamil can see the young man’s slight shoulders straighten as more guards snap their weapons into place and salute him. Kamil notes, with pleasure, that the wall is covered in white and yellow banksia roses, passionflowers, sweet verbena, and heliotrope. Silver-gray pigeons waddle complacently on the lawn. In the distance, behind a marble gateway, Kamil sees the square classical façade of the Great Mabeyn, where the everyday business of the empire is conducted by palace secretaries, where the sultan’s correspondence is composed, and where his spies send their reports. His father must have reported to the sultan in that building, Kamil thinks.
They approach a two-story building so long that it stretches out of sight on one side. The clerk leads him through a door, along a narrow corridor, then out again into the blinding light of a large yard. Small workshops line the back of the building. Faint hammering and tapping, a strange creaking leak from their windows. The clerk stops by a room larger than others they had passed. Inside, a group of middle-aged men in brown robes and turbans sit drinking coffee from tiny china cups.
When the clerk appears, the men bow their heads in respectful greeting, but do not rise.
“I’m looking for the head usta.” The clerk’s voice is unn
aturally high-pitched.
A man with a neatly trimmed white beard looks up.
“You’ve found him.”
“Our padishah requires you to assist this man”—he looks disgustedly at Kamil—“with his inquiries.”
“And who is this man?” asks the head craftsman, looking benignly at Kamil.
“My name is Magistrate Kamil Pasha, usta bey.” Kamil bows and makes the sign of obeisance.
The usta sweeps his hand toward the divan, ignoring the clerk standing by the door.
“Sit and have some coffee.”
The clerk turns abruptly and leaves. Kamil hears laughter blow through the room, faint as leaves rustling.
A servant brews coffee in a long-handled pot over a charcoal fire in the corner and hands Kamil a steaming cup properly crowned with pale froth.
“So, you are one of those new magistrates.”
“Yes, I’m the magistrate of Beyoglu,” Kamil answers modestly.
“Ah.” Knowing nods circle the room. “I’m sure you have your hands full with all those foreign troublemakers.”
“Yes, I suppose so, though bad character knows no religion.”
“Well said, well said.” The usta glances at the door through which the young clerk had left.
After the required pleasantries and answers to the men’s request for news from outside the palace, the head usta asks, “How can we help you?”
“I am looking for the workshop and the usta that produced this pendant.” He passes the silver globe to the head usta, who looks at it with an experienced eye.
“This is Elias Usta’s workmanship. It must have been made years ago, though. Elias Usta has long been retired. When his hands were no longer steady, he went to work as keeper at the Dolmabahche Palace aviary. We have heard nothing about him for many years. But this is definitely his work.”
He signals an apprentice to bring a lamp and peers inside the silver ball.
“Yes, this is an old tughra. It belonged to Sultan Abdulaziz, may Allah rest his soul.”
“Sultan Abdulaziz’s reign ended ten years ago. Could it have been made after that time?”
The head usta ponders this. “It would not have been officially approved. But it is true that, with Allah’s will, anything can be done at any time.”
“Would Elias Usta have needed permission to engrave a tughra?”
“Permission must be obtained for each item to be inscribed with the seal.”
“Who can give that permission?”
“The padishah himself, the grand vizier, and the harem manager. She would need instructions, however, from one of the senior women.”
“I would like to speak with Elias Usta.”
“I will send him a message. If he agrees to meet with you, I will let you know right away.”
Kamil tries to hide his disappointment at yet another wait, but he needs permission to approach anyone inside the palace.
“Thank you.” He bows.
Another man chimes in, “And we’ll make sure they send an adult with a mustache to fetch you!”
To the sound of laughter, Kamil bows out of the room and follows an apprentice through the warren of corridors and courtyards to the front gate.
THE NEXT DAY, the apprentice appears at Kamil’s office with a note:
It is with great regret that we inform you that Elias Usta was found dead this morning in the palace aviary. May Allah rest his soul.
Paper still in hand, Kamil stares unseeing out the window. It is the first sign that he is moving in the direction of the truth. Was it worth this man’s life? He feels cold, but, as a sacrifice to the dead usta, does not move to close the window against the chill.
34
The Eunuch and the Driver
The Residence is in a wing at the back of the embassy building. Kamil pushes open the iron gate leading to the private gardens. The air is still crisp in the shade of the plane trees, but there is a delicate sheen of heat beyond its perimeter. Kamil looks up at the enamel-blue sky against which the silver leaves of the plane trees twist and flash. The sight cheers him momentarily, despite the new shadows that have entered his life.
His father has become more irritable and aggressive as Feride, with the collusion of her servants, slowly reduces the amount of opium in his pipe. He strides through the house, flailing at objects that fall to the floor and break; the noise seems to intensify his frenzy. Then suddenly he collapses onto a chair or bed and curls up like an infant. Feride and her daughters are terrified, her husband angry at the disruption. Kamil is unsure where this will lead. He has found nothing in books to guide him and worries that he is killing his father instead of helping him. He is too ashamed to ask the advice of Michel or Bernie. His only close friends, he realizes with a start. Perhaps today he can raise the subject of fathers with Sybil. He is reluctant to reveal himself about something so personal, but he is drawn to see Sybil. Even if the problem of his father is not broached, he thinks, he will find solace in her company.
Mary Dixon also has begun to shadow his life. At his last audience with the minister of justice, Nizam Pasha asked him pointedly what progress had been made in discovering her murderer. It has been almost a month since her body washed up behind Middle Village mosque. His impatient gestures implied that Kamil had failed not just the ministry, but the empire. And perhaps it is so. If he did not know the English ambassador, he might assume pressure was being placed on the minister from that direction. But Kamil thinks Sybil’s father too distracted to muster a sustained attack. Did the British government take such an interest in a mere governess that it would pressure the sultan’s closest aides or even the sultan himself? He wonders, could there be another reason for Nizam Pasha’s intense interest? He remembers the old police superintendent’s intimation of palace involvement in the murder of Hannah Simmons. Were they watching to make sure he found the killer this time, or that he didn’t find him?
And now Elias Usta’s untimely death. Kamil is worried about Sybil. Two Englishwomen were already dead.
Sybil opens the door herself almost as soon as he raises the knocker.
“Hello.” She smiles a brilliant welcome.
“Good morning, Sybil Hanoum. I hope I haven’t come too early.” He finds it momentarily awkward to account for his presence. The reasons he gave himself for stopping by seem fanciful now. “I hope you forgive my intrusion. I know I wasn’t expected until tomorrow evening.”
“I received your message, Kamil Bey. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” She is blushing.
“I hope I find you well.”
“Oh, very well. Very well, indeed. Isn’t it a glorious day?” Sybil steps onto the path and looks about her with the serene enjoyment of a child. She is wearing a dress of pale lilac, trimmed in maroon. The colors reflect in her eyes and give them the same depth as the sky. She walks to the edge of the patio and gazes down at the red-tiled rooftops of houses clinging to the lower hillside, suspended above a sea of fog.
Kamil stands beside her. “Thick as lentil soup, I believe you say.”
Sybil laughs. “That’s your national dish, not ours. It’s pea soup. Thick as pea soup.” She turns to him and touches his arm. “Won’t you come in? Have you breakfasted?”
“Yes, thank you. I have. But I wouldn’t mind some of your delicious tea.” For the British, drinking tea seems an end in itself, he thinks with relief, a ritual to which he can moor his visit.
She leads the way inside to the room off the garden and opens the French doors wide to let in the scented sunlight.
“How is your father?” he asks.
“He’s well, thank you. Busy as always. He’s been inquiring about some of the journalists we know. Apparently there’s been a crack-down and many were sent into exile.”
“These are dangerous days, Sybil Hanoum. Your father is a powerful man and protected by his office, but still he should be careful.” What he means is that Sybil should be careful.
Sybil stares at him for a moment. “Do
you really think Father is in danger? I can’t imagine that anyone would harm the British ambassador. Think of the consequences for your regime. It would be an international incident. It could even lead to military intervention by Britain. Surely no one in their right mind would risk that.”
“Unfortunately, these days one can’t count on rational thinking. There are other forces too, not under our control. Even in the palace. This is strictly between us,” he adds quickly.
“Of course. I wouldn’t breathe a word.”
Her pleasure at this confidence inspires him to continue. “The palace has destroyed other powerful people who became, shall we say, difficult. Besides, these things can be made to appear an accident. As you know, relations are strained between our governments. Some might wish them to deteriorate further. But I don’t mean to worry you, Sybil Hanoum. It was, perhaps, impolitic of me to speak of this to you. But I know how much you care for your father. Perhaps a word or two from you about being careful and always taking a retinue with him, his clerks, a dragoman, a few extra guards. There are other means of protecting oneself that are less obtrusive. I’d be happy to speak with him about it, if he’s so inclined.”
Distressed, Sybil shakes her head. “Father has never been careful. I’m sure his safety doesn’t concern him a bit. He has always lived just for his work,” she says sadly. “It’s as if he has put to bed all other parts of his mind, so that he has no distractions from his duties. But if you think it necessary, I’ll try to get him to take some precautions.”
Kamil understands from the flatness of her voice that her father, like his father, inhabits a land inaccessible to his family. He remembers a conversation he had with Bernie about Western and Eastern civilizations. Bernie argued that people in the West saw themselves as individuals, each with his own rights and responsibilities, in charge of a destiny of his own making. This could lead to sharing, if one had the same interests, or selfishness, if one did not. In the East, on the other hand, people were first and foremost members of their family, their tribe, their community. Their own desires were irrelevant; the solidarity and survival of the group paramount. Selfishness couldn’t occur, because there were no selves, only fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives. Bernie’s comparison seemed to make sense, at least in a general way, although Kamil could think of numerous exceptions, including himself. Yet he couldn’t deny that there was in Ottoman society a widespread belief in kismet and in the evil eye that brought misfortune. And family feeling was very strong.
