The Panther and The Pearl

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “No, she won’t, she’s very well trained.” He smacked the horse’s rump and she took a few steps, then stopped.

  Sarah looked down at him.

  “Well? Nudge her with your knees,” Kalid said.

  Sarah obeyed, and the horse trotted forward. Sarah hung on warily, jouncing.

  “I’m going to fall off,” she said wildly.

  “Grip with your knees,” Kalid instructed her patiently. “She’ll respond.”

  Sarah obeyed his directions and was able to control the horse, which trotted around at a leisurely pace as Kalid followed on foot, telling Sarah what to do. Then he took hold of the horse’s bridle and led the animal in a circle as Sarah hung on, improving her grip and seat as Kalid talked. Finally he said, “All right. That’s enough for now. We’ll try again in a few days.”

  “Can’t I stay on a little longer?” Sarah asked.

  Kalid laughed. “I thought you wanted no part of this.”

  “Well, I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

  “Indeed you are, but an inexperienced rider is stressful for the animal. She needs a rest. Down you come.” He lifted her off Ousta’s back and set her down before him. She looked up into his sparkling brown eyes and saw approval there as he said, “You did very well.”

  Sarah didn’t want to react, to be warmed by the compliment, but she was.

  “May I go now?” she said briskly, to dismiss the unwelcome emotion she felt.

  “Certainly not. We’re going for a ride.”

  “I just went for a ride.”

  “We. The two of us. On Khan.” He got the big Arabian and vaulted into the saddle, then took Sarah’s hand and pulled her up behind him with one movement.

  “Hang on tight,” he called, then kicked the animal, which shot forward instantly. Sarah almost fell off as she seized Kalid in a convulsive grip and then shut her eyes as they approached the paddock fence. The horse soared over it and took off down a cobbled lane leading to the open countryside.

  It was several minutes before Sarah could open her eyes. When she did, she saw that they were galloping through a wide field carpeted by wildflowers in the full sun, with the distant blue sparkle of the Bosporus as a backdrop. Kalid was leaning forward, riding hard, and Sarah could feel the play of his muscles under her hands as he controlled the charging animal. Strands of Kalid’s hair blew back into her face; it smelled clean and peppery, like grass. She clung to his lean waist, forgetting their circumstances, forgetting everything but the sensual pleasure of speed and safety. Finally she leaned forward to put her cheek against his back and closed her eyes again, not in fear this time but in surrender to the magic of the moment.

  It was a long time before they slowed and finally stopped. When Sarah raised her head, she saw that they were at an oasis, with numerous shade trees and a clear stream running through green grass. Kalid jumped down and then took her hand to help her off. This time when she stood before him, she could not meet his eyes.

  “Did you like that?” he asked quietly, and she could tell by his tone that he knew the answer to his question.

  She turned aside, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve and kneeling to dip it into the stream.

  “It’s so hot,” she said, as she wrung out the cloth and then wiped her face and neck with it.

  Kalid loosened the laces at the neck of his shirt and drew it over his head. You’ll feel better after a few minutes in the shade,” he said, tossing the shirt aside. He bent and splashed his torso with the water. Sarah watched as the rivulets ran down the hard muscles of his arms, the taut biceps and triceps flexing as he moved. His chest hair glistened with droplets, and his ribs were visible beneath the satiny skin of his back as he turned and caught her watching him.

  Sarah looked away quickly, but she could feel the warmth creeping up her neck as blood seeped into her face.

  He came and sat next to her on the grass, using his shirt to blot the moisture from his body.

  “Why are you so obstinate, Sarah?” he said softly. “Give in to your feelings. I know what you want, and I can make sure you have it. Today and any day.”

  Sarah studied her hands in her lap, saying nothing.

  “We could bring each other so much pleasure, kourista,” he murmured huskily.

  “Pleasure is not the most important thing in life,” Sarah replied, not trusting herself to look at him.

  “What is?”

  “Freedom,” she shot back defiantly.

  He shook his head. “Freedom is the excuse you bring up because it allows you to lie to yourself. You’re afraid of me, aren’t you? Afraid of what you might become with me, afraid of passing the limits you have always set for your life.”

  Sarah swallowed with difficulty and twisted the damp handkerchief in her lap. It was obvious that he knew women very well, and she wondered about his past lovers—Fatma and probably many others—who had taught him so much.

  “I can’t allow myself to forget how I got here and what you did to me,” she said quietly.

  “Why? Why can’t you forget? Does it really matter now, when we are alone?” he said silkily, reaching out to stroke her throat with his fingers. Sarah closed her eyes and arched her neck, and in the next instant she was in his arms.

  His bare skin was a shock; he was hot, hot, despite his recent ablution, and his scent, a mixture of soap and sweat, was overpowering, an aphrodisiac. Her arms went around his neck almost involuntarily as he pulled her across his knees and his mouth came down on hers.

  He had never kissed her before, and Sarah had never been kissed like this. Her memory of all previous embraces vanished as her lips parted to admit his probing tongue; she reciprocated, tasting the pungent wine he had drunk earlier in the day and the slick hardness of his teeth. As he moved his lips to her cheek, then to the shell of her ear, he pulled her blouse loose from her skirt and lifted her shift, seeking the soft flesh beneath her clothes.

  “You are mine,” he said against her hair. “I knew you were mine from the first moment I saw you.” He turned and laid her flat against the ground, stretching out next to her and kissing her forehead, her nose, then her mouth again, more deeply this time.

  When he reached for the buttons of her blouse, Sarah sat up abruptly and pushed him away.

  “What is it?” he said, panting, his flushed face inches away from hers.

  “Do I have to give a reason? You didn’t. Two can play at that game.” She stalked over to the stream, tucking her blouse back into her skirt.

  She heard him come up behind her and then he grabbed her arm, whirling her to face him. His face was like thunder.

  “I should leave you out here. It would be days before anyone found you,” he said furiously.

  “You won’t do that. And do you know why? It’s too important to the great pasha to prove that he can break me.”

  “I could break you in half with my bare hands, and it wouldn’t change a single mulish thought in that stubborn head,” he said wearily, letting her go.

  “That’s right. So why don’t you just give me up? I’m sure you can find more compliant women in the harem.”

  His face took on a hard, set cast and he said, “Understand this, kourista. I will never give you up. If you refuse to bed me, I will not force you, but you will grow old in the harem, old and dried up and unused, so old and withered that no man will ever again be driven to the foolishness I have demonstrated. Now get over to that horse before I follow my first instinct and leave you here to rot.”

  Sarah obeyed because she was tired, tired of fighting this beautiful monolith who looked like a man, tired of hatching escape plans she knew would never come to fruition, tired of wondering why no one was coming to help her. Was it true that she was really and finally alone here, so far from her home?

  Kalid helped her onto the horse behind him and kicked it into action immediately. The return ride was nothing like the ride out; Kalid was silent and his back was rigid all the way. When they got to the stables, he dism
ounted and handed her down without looking at her. The eunuchs were waiting to escort her back to her room.

  Chapter 5

  James and Beatrice Woolcott were eating dinner when their servant, Listak, came into the dining room and said, “Visitor, madam. Shall I say to come back?”

  James rose and blotted his lips with his napkin. “No, no, I’ll take it. You go on with your dinner, Beatrice, it’s probably just the warehouse manager. I told him to come here and give me a report when he was finished with the inventory. I just didn’t think he would be done so soon. You can clear my place away, Listak, and bring some coffee to the sitting room. With two cups.”

  The servant bowed and retreated as James left the table and walked down the hall to his parlor. The small room, decorated in the height of fussy Victorian fashion, featured his best Afghan rug on the polished floor and Tiffany lamps on the Chippendale tables.

  In the midst of all this display of Western good taste, Osman Bey was a particularly large and Eastern odd note. He rose to his feet as James entered.

  James took in the halberdier’s uniform, the breadth of the Anatolian’s shoulders, and the serious expression on his face.

  “Has something happened to Sarah?” James said.

  Beatrice Woolcott was finishing her dessert when her husband rejoined her. She knew by the grim lines around his mouth that something was wrong.

  “James, what is it?” she said.

  James was ashen. He sat across from her and put his arms on the table, his head bent.

  “For heaven’s sake, James, tell me!” Beatrice said, getting up and coming around to his side.

  “Sarah has been sold,” he said.

  Beatrice looked as if she were going to faint. “Wh—what?” she finally said weakly.

  “The Sultan sold her to the Pasha of Bursa. The Captain of the Guards at Topkapi was my visitor just now. He told me that the pasha took a fancy to Sarah, and the Sultan traded her for some family heirloom and a lot of money.”

  “Oh, my God,” Beatrice said, going as white as her husband and clenching her hands.

  “Apparently, under Turkish law any woman in the harem is the Sultan’s property and he can do with her as he pleases.”

  “Did you know this when you arranged for her to go there?” Beatrice asked.

  “Of course I didn’t, what do you take me for?” James answered heatedly, staring at his wife.

  “I don’t know, James—you were very anxious to send her there. You thought it would help your business.”

  “Beatrice, please, recriminations are not going to serve this situation now. I have to find a way to get her back.”

  “Go to the embassy. Surely an American citizen can’t be treated this way!”

  James sighed. “We’re living in Turkey, and here we’re under the Sultan’s jurisdiction. Local law applies. I will certainly try, but I’m not sure how much the American representatives can do.”

  Beatrice reached over and patted his hand. “Why did this guardsman come to you with the story? I’m sure there was some risk involved, if he works for the Sultan.”

  “Princess Roxalena sent him. She befriended Sarah and is worried about her, but we both know there is little the Princess can do against her father.”

  “What will happen to Sarah?” Beatrice asked softly.

  James looked away. “There is only one reason the pasha would want her, and I’m afraid everyone is clear about what that is.”

  Beatrice was silent for a long time. “He wouldn’t kill her?” she finally said feebly.

  “I doubt it. She might be discarded when he loses interest, but by that time she could wish she were dead.”

  “James, I’m so sorry,” Beatrice said, her compassion for his situation overcoming her natural tendency to carp.

  “You’re right, Bea, I know you are. I should never have let her go into that harem.”

  “Don’t despair. You’ll go to the embassy tomorrow and see what can be done.”

  James nodded bleakly, not comforted at all.

  “Did you talk to Sarah’s cousin?” Roxalena hissed, stepping back into the shadows as a kitchen skivvy passed them carrying a basket of ruby colored pomegranates on her head.

  Osman nodded. “I talked to him, and I know he will try, but I’m not sure there’s anything he can do.”

  “Kalid will keep her. He won’t be persuaded by government officials or anybody else. He’s very determined when he wants something. Or somebody.”

  “What do you think she will do?” Osman asked.

  “Try to escape.”

  Osman sighed. “I don’t see how she can be successful at that. Where would she go, who would help her? She knows no one in Bursa. She has no friends.”

  “She has friends at Topkapi,” Roxalena said firmly. “I have to think, Osman, there must be a way for me to help.”

  “Us. For us to help.”

  The muezzin in the tower began the call to evening prayer.

  “I must go,” Osman said. “At midnight, in the boathouse?”

  “At midnight,” Roxalena answered, slipping behind a screen, then out the kushane door.

  The pool in the hamman was filled with misting water, rose petals afloat on its surface. It was surrounded by marble columns and screened off from the rest of the harem by a film of gauzy drapes. The ceiling of the bathing area was crenellated and painted with gold arabesques; the floor was of glazed lapis tiles. The pool itself was pink marble with an orchid pattern visible on its bottom, crafted of contrasting tiles and inlaid mother-of-pearl. Surrounding the pool were tall plants and trees of various types, interspersed with stone benches where the harem women took their ease when not splashing or soaking in the water. Trays laden with sweetmeats and refreshing drinks, as well as ointments and lotions for the care of the skin, stood waiting for the masseuses and servants who used them. The ladies of the harem must always be maintained in a state of contentment and constant readiness for the pleasure of pasha.

  Sarah lowered herself into the water, which seemed hot at first but gradually had a soothing effect. She was an object of ridicule in the harem because she insisted on bathing in her shift, while the other women ran about as naked as newborns, donning the silk robes that lay draped about the hamman only when they were chilled. Some made little fires in the marble bowls that held potpourri and fed the embers sticks of sandalwood and myrrh, holding their caftans aloft to capture the fumes, which would then perfume their clothing as well as their bodies. And if a dispute arose, as sometimes happened, sturdy eunuchs selected for the purpose seized the offenders and tossed them out of the hamman to cool their tempers in private.

  Sarah soaked for a few minutes and then climbed out of the pool, donning her pattens, the clogs that protected delicate feet from the heated bath marble as well as the wet floor. She walked in to the adjoining tepidarium, past a splashing fountain, and toward the couches where the harem women reclined and drank coffee, dressed each other’s hair and told each other stories. Servants were in attendance to fold the women in cloaks, perfume their hair and skin, and bring them treats. Sarah waved away the slaves and picked up a book; written in Turkish, it nevertheless had pictures and was more interesting than watching a group of grown women behaving like, and being treated as, children.

  Sarah was not popular in the harem. As the new favorite, she had been given the ikbal’s apartment which had formerly belonged to Fatma. The other women all assumed that she was enjoying a wild sexual relationship with Kalid, which might have had its amusing side if only Sarah hadn’t completely lost her sense of humor.

  Kalid had not sent for Sarah for two weeks.

  Sarah used the time to formulate escape plans, insisting to herself that she did not miss Kalid. Of if she did, it was only because talking to him posed a challenge, a battle of wits that was completely missing from her conversation with Memtaz and the other women.

  Sarah was bored.

  She watched Fatma light a jeweled chibuk and then expel
a long stream of smoke. The tepidarium was almost empty today; only Fatma and Sarah and couple of others were present, along with the inevitable servants and eunuchs. Sarah studied Fatma, a gorgeous Russian from the Caucasus with flawless ivory skin and waist length wavy auburn hair. She couldn’t imagine why Kalid didn’t concentrate on her and leave his new ikbal alone.

  Fatma was certainly much more willing.

  Sarah sighed and went back to her book. For some reason, Kalid did not want everyone to know that they were not sleeping together. Maybe he didn’t want Sarah’s rebellion to give the other women ideas. Each night, she was taken by Memtaz to the men’s quarters and left in the music room adjoining the pasha’s apartments. There she spent the evening alone, amidst standing harps and timbrels and a Bullock’s grand piano, reading the English books that had thoughtfully been provided for her and teaching herself mah jongg.

  Yes, she was very bored.

  A servant appeared at her side with a dish of sherbet, rich burgundy in color, topped with a sauce of raspberry preserves. Sarah looked up to see Fatma smiling and nodding at her, gesturing for her to eat it.

  Now this was a switch. A peace offering from the woman who had made no secret of her silent animosity up to this point? While Sarah puzzled over what to do, Memtaz appeared from the hamman and bent to straighten Sarah’s pattens under her couch.

  “Do not eat that, mistress,” she said under her breath, her hands moving busily.

  Sarah glanced at her, startled.

  “A gift from such a one is not to be trusted,” Memtaz added in a louder whisper.

  Sarah looked over at Fatma, who was watching her closely, immobile as a statue.

  Sarah stood abruptly, stumbling ostentatiously and sending the dish of sherbet crashing to the floor. The crystal shattered and the gooey confection splattered on the tiles.

  “Oh, how clumsy of me, I’m so sorry,” Sarah said, glancing over at Fatma and shrugging helplessly. “Memtaz, please tell Fatma that I appreciate her thoughtfulness.”

  Then she fled, not looking back, as Memtaz conveyed the message and then patiently began to clean up the mess.