The Panther and The Pearl

by Doreen Owens Malek

  She turned and saw Sarah, who shrank back against the wall. It was several seconds before Sarah realized that the woman was gesturing for Sarah to come inside the house. Not believing her luck, Sarah scanned the street quickly for her pursuers and then followed her hostess into the house.

  The main room was furnished with a hand woven rug and a large table and chairs set before an open hearth that took up most of one stone wall. Despite the heat, a small fire was burning and a cooking pot hung over it. A baby was sleeping in a hand carved cradle in the corner, and an oil lamp hung from a chain overhead.

  The woman unpinned her face veil and offered Sarah a seat. Sarah collapsed into it, removing her feradge and yashmak, sighing gratefully. The woman lifted the pot from its hook and raised her brows, asking if Sarah wanted something to eat. Sarah shook her head and mimed drinking, asking for water. The woman produced a jug and poured watered wine from it into a cup and handed it to Sarah. Sarah downed half of it in one gulp, grimacing at its bitterness, but it quenched her thirst. She rested and then finished the drink, sitting back and closing her eyes.

  A man came in from the back room, and the woman signaled to him with her eyes, indicating Sarah. The man nodded and withdrew quickly, dropping the beaded curtain between the two rooms.

  It was several minutes before Sarah opened her eyes again; she had almost fallen asleep. Her benefactor was sitting in a chair opposite her, stitching on a piece of needlework confined in a hoop. Sarah tried to remember what Turkish she knew.

  “Tessekur ederim,” she said, thanking the woman for her spontaneous hospitality.

  The woman nodded and smiled.

  “Can I get a carriage from here to the docks?” Sarah asked in elementary Turkish. James lived near the docks.

  The woman shrugged incomprehension.

  Sarah stared at her, puzzled. She had just understood when Sarah thanked her. Maybe she spoke only a few words of Turkish. Maybe she was Armenian or Circassian; they had their own sections in the city were their native languages were spoken.

  Sarah tried again, asking how far she was from the sea. She had no idea whether she had run away from it or toward it, she had changed direction so many times.

  The woman shrugged again, then rose and dished up a bowl of stew from the hanging pot, placing it before Sarah together with a wooden spoon.

  Sarah realized that she was famished; she had eaten nothing since her breakfast of feta cheese and honey, and her recent exercise had given her an appetite. She was eating heartily when the door to the street opened, and both women looked up to see Achmed, khislar to Kalid Shah, framed in the arched entrance.

  Chapter 6

  James Woolcott sat fidgeting in the outer office of the Under Secretary to the American Ambassador in Constantinople, holding his fedora in his hands. He was wearing a dark blue, double breasted frock coat with a matching vest and striped gray trousers. His standing collar was teamed with a four-in-hand tie, and a pair of dove gray gloves was folded into his waistcoat pocket.

  He believed that in order to be taken seriously, he must dress for the occasion.

  Minor functionaries bustled past him, stacks of paper in hand, and a large American flag stood in a corner to his left, its wide border decorated with gold braid. He was staring at the portrait of President Chester A. Arthur on the facing wall when the door to the secretary’s office opened and a young diplomat-in-training said, “Secretary Danforth will see you now.”

  James rose and entered the inner office, which was well furnished in teak and oak, with a local Kirman carpet on the floor. Heavy red drapes with gold tassels partially concealed the grilled windows and a bust of the late President Lincoln stood on a pedestal by the door.

  Secretary Danforth came out from behind his massive desk and extended his hand. James shook it and then sat in the guest chair indicated by Danforth as he resumed his seat.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Woolcott. I understand that you have a thriving business here. I’m always proud to make the acquaintance of successful Americans abroad. Their prosperity improves the image of our country to the natives. Now how can we here at the embassy be of service to you?”

  Danforth was a portly man in his forties with a florid face and the hail-fellow-well-met air of a career diplomat. He was also something of a dandy, sporting a cutaway coat with checked trousers and a trim, waxed moustache.

  James cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Danforth, about six weeks ago my cousin Sarah came from Boston to visit me here. She spent some time seeing the local churches and sights and became fascinated with the harem at Topkapi.”

  “Shocking practice,” Danforth said, frowning.

  “Yes, of course. But I knew Sarah wanted to see it, and when I became aware that the Sultan was seeking a teacher for his daughter, I arranged for my cousin to go into the harem as an English tutor for the Princess Roxalena.”

  Danforth raised his brows. “Was that wise?”

  “Apparently not. I saw no harm in it at the time, as the Sultan has traditionally been tolerant of Western influences, but Sarah had only been inside the harem about three weeks when she disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Danforth echoed.

  “Yes. I received a message from the Princess saying that Sarah had been sold into the harem of the Pasha of Bursa for a sum of money and an heirloom that the Sultan had been coveting for some time.”

  “The Pasha of Bursa?” Danforth said, smiling. “Well, that’s no problem at all, Mr. Woolcott. The pasha’s a reasonable fellow, has an Oxford education. I’ll just get in touch with him and ask him to return your cousin to you.”

  James swallowed nervously. “I . . . ah, don’t think you understand the situation, Secretary Danforth. The pasha bought Sarah for himself, to be kept for him personally. For his . . . pleasure.”

  Danforth’s high color deepened even further. “Oh. That’s rather a different matter. Under local law women are chattels, you understand. Very unfortunate, but there’s little influence we can bring to bear in such a situation. We cannot impose our values on a foreign culture. Embassy personnel are guests here.”

  James stared at him. “Are you telling me there’s nothing we can do?” he asked incredulously.

  Danforth coughed. “No, not exactly. It’s just that no matter how Westernized some of these people seem, they revert to their barbarism whenever the mood takes them, and the Sultan supports these regressions among his subordinates. He’s a dictator and could throw all of us out on a whim. We have to tread carefully if we want to keep the profitable trade routes open and businesses like yours in operation.”

  James was silent. He did not want to lose his livelihood, nor did he want to be the cause of widespread bankruptcy among the American colonials in Constantinople.

  Under Secretary Danforth painted a realistic but not very encouraging picture.

  “Can we at least make inquiries?” James asked weakly.

  “Of course, of course,” Danforth said briskly, picking up his pen. “Just give me the details and I will talk to the Ambassador and see what can be arranged.”

  James sighed, reviewed the story in his mind, and then started at the beginning.

  Roxalena surveyed the large array of items displayed on the floor of the tepidarium at Topkapi and then shrugged.

  “I see nothing of unusual beauty or value here,” she said to the anxious tradeswoman, who immediately launched into her set speech again, babbling about the quality of her Damask silks and Jerusalem lace. Roxalena held up her hand.

  “Bring these things down to my apartment,” Roxalena said to the ‘bundle woman,’ so called because she came into the harem periodically with her wares concealed in cloth bundles. “I wish to consider them in private.”

  Shirza helped the merchant to gather up her fabrics and trinkets and carry them to Roxalena’s suite, away from the prying eyes of the other harem women. Once they reached the princess sultana’s rooms, Shirza closed the door to the corridor and Roxalena gestured for t
hem to come into the inner chamber where she slept.

  “Display your wares here,” Roxalena said, gesturing to her sleeping couch.

  The bundle woman complied, and Roxalena quickly selected two marcasite studded silver bangles and a bornoze, or bathrobe, of unbleached Egyptian cotton, which she gave to Shirza. Then she signaled to the servant with her eyes. Shirza scurried to the door and took up her position just inside it.

  “Will you be stopping at the Orchid Palace in Bursa sometime soon?” Roxalena inquired of the bundle woman casually, paying her for the items she had chosen.

  The woman nodded. “It’s part of my regular route, Princess. I should be their next week.”

  Roxalena looked at Shirza, who nodded encouragement.

  Roxalena reached inside the capacious sleeve of her caftan and withdrew a two hundred kurush note. She ripped it in half as the peddler’s eyes widened.

  “There is a woman in the harem at the Orchid Palace, a Western woman with long yellow hair,” Roxalena said. “Her name is Sarah. I want you to find her and give her the note I will write for you. When you come back to me with proof that you have seen her, I will give you the other half of this bill.”

  The bundle woman nodded vigorously. She would have to peddle her wares for six months to earn the sum Roxalena was dangling before her; she was more than eager to comply.

  “Do you understand?” Roxalena asked.

  “Yes, mistress. Yes.”

  “Very well.” Roxalena went to her vanity table and wrote carefully, in elementary Turkish, “I have sent word to your kinsman where you are. Do not despair.” She added in English, “I am yur frend. I will help.” She did not sign it. She blew the note dry, folded it, and handed it to the peddler.

  “And tell Sarah the letter came from me. Remember, I must have proof. A lock of hair, a personal item, something to show that you gave her this letter.” Roxalena was well aware the woman might resort to any deception in order to collect the bribe.

  The woman snatched the letter and the first half of the two-hundred-kurush bill and stuffed them into her bodice.

  “And if you report this to anyone, I will make sure that my father deals most harshly with you,” Roxalena added.

  The peddler looked suitably chastened.

  “You may go,” Roxalena said imperiously.

  The woman scrambled to pack up her wares and fled to the door, where Shirza let her into the corridor to join the waiting eunuchs. When Shirza returned, Roxalena grasped her hand.

  “Do you think it will work?” Roxalena asked.

  Shirza squeezed Roxalena’s fingers encouragingly. “I think it will, mistress.”

  “I miss Sarah,” Roxalena said mistily, biting her lip.

  “You’ll see her again.”

  Roxalena nodded, but her expression indicated that she was not convinced.

  Kalid paced back and forth in his audience chamber, raking his fingers through his hair. His jodphurs were splashed with mud; there was a rent in his sleeve and a streak of dirt on his cheek. Every time the door opened to admit a servant or a messenger, he whirled expectantly, then looked away, distracted.

  “Where is my horse?” he shouted to the last unfortunate who walked in on him, a groom who stopped dead in his tracks and said, “He is being saddled, master. Khan was so weary from your first run that we had to rub him down—”

  “I don’t want to hear excuses!” Kalid roared. “I have been here ten minutes and you have not produced a fresh horse! Now if I do not have—” he stopped in mid-sentence as the doors opened once more to admit his khislar, who had Sarah’s arm in a steel grip.

  Kalid stared. Her hands were tied before her and her veil was down around her shoulders, snagged in her hair; her eyes were swollen and tear stained.

  Kalid rushed forward and embraced her, folding her in his arms, murmuring something in Turkish. Sarah was so exhausted and defeated that she slumped against him wearily and allowed her head to fall to his shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” he said into her ear, in English. “I just came back from looking for you myself.” He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her eyes, every place he could reach.

  “I’m all right,” Sarah whispered, wondering why she felt so comforted when this was the very person she was seeking to escape.

  “Out, all of you,” Kalid called in Turkish to the other people in the room, over Sarah’s shoulder. And then, “Achmed, remain.”

  The khislar turned back and stood waiting, his arms folded, his expression blank.

  Kalid stood cradling Sarah in his arms, as if afraid she might vanish again if he let go. He felt so good to Sarah—solid, safe, and warm. She clung to him without thought.

  “Now tell me exactly what happened,” Kalid said in Turkish to the khislar.

  Achmed replied in the same language, and as the two men conversed Sarah felt Kalid’s embrace relax. Finally Kalid looked down at her, then flung her away from him so furiously that Sarah stumbled.

  “I see,” he said tightly. “Now I understand. Apparently everyone, including my revered grandmother, has been afraid to inform me of the truth. I thought you had been kidnapped or lost your way at the bazaar. I just spent three hours flogging my horse through every alley in Bursa looking for you. What no one wanted to tell me was that you were running away from me.”

  Sarah said nothing, forcing herself to mime courage and meet his blazing eyes.

  “I knew you were stubborn, and willful, and obstinate. I did not realize you were also stupid,” he said in a dangerously low tone.

  Sarah’s throat closed. She had never seen him this angry before, and she had seen him angry often.

  “Have you any idea what might happen to you in this part of the world without my protection? If you think you have been ill treated here, that’s because you have never encountered the Bedouins. They would take turns raping you and then slit your throat and leave you by the side of the road for the hyenas.”

  Sarah looked away from him unresponsively, unable to bear the fury in his face.

  “Or,” he said, “they might offer you at the auctions in Medina or Beirut. Yellow hair and a pretty face would fetch a high price. How would you like being sold into slavery?”

  “I am in slavery!” Sarah replied heatedly, holding up her bound hands defiantly.

  He held his hand out to the khislar for his sword, and when Achmed gave it to him, he sliced through the rope that held her hands together with one stroke. Kalid then threw the sword on the floor and seized the front of her feradge, holding her face up to his.

  “You do not know what slavery is!” he said between his teeth. “You think you are in slavery here, where you soak in the hamman, eating sherbet and drinking boza while you dream up new ways to torture me? Is it slavery when you torment me with your refusals, reading travelogues while I lie awake at night, unable to sleep, tantalized by visions of making love to you? I am the one in slavery, not you! I could teach you what it really means to be a slave!”

  He shoved her away from him, but this time she kept her footing. “I am not free to come and go,” Sarah said quietly. “That’s what it means to be a slave.”

  “Oh, and where would you go? Back into Bursa, running through the streets like a wild dog? You’re lucky that you stumbled into the home of a janissary who was loyal to the Sultan’s pasha and so turned you back to me.”

  “For a price,” Sarah said contemptuously. “I saw the payoff. Obviously you buy your military the way you buy your women. How did they know who I was, anyway?”

  “My men went from house to house with the word as soon as you disappeared. How many blonde women in harem finery dashing around without a male escort do you think there are in Bursa?”

  “I had to try,” Sarah said stubbornly.

  “Why? Why did you have to try?” Kalid demanded, looking at her intently.

  “Because I cannot stay here! I have a life back in Boston, friends, family, a job. I came here on a vacation to see my cousin, n
ot to become the bed slave of some oversexed hybrid dictator!”

  “Am I so repulsive to you, then?” he asked softly.

  Sarah met his eyes slowly and could feel herself growing warm in response.

  He watched her and knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “That’s not the point,” she said miserably, looking away from him in dismay.

  Kalid threw up his hands. He stood staring at the floor, thinking, for several seconds, then said to the khislar in Turkish, “Bring the baltacilar to me.”

  Achmed did not move.

  Kalid looked at him. “Yes?” he said.

  “She should be flogged, master,” Achmed said. “As an example to the other women, if for no other reason.”

  Kalid looked at Sarah, who was obviously trying to understand their interchange, without much success.

  “You will not mark that skin,” Kalid said softly.

  “A period of time in the dungeon on bread and water?” Achmed suggested.

  Kalid shook his head.

  Achmed bowed and left, returning almost instantly with the second halberdier, who wore a heavy belt around his middle which contained literally hundreds of keys.

  “The ikbal is to be confined to her rooms until I rescind this order,” Kalid said to him. “You will unlock her door for food to be brought in and on any other occasion you receive my express notice, but at no other time. Her servant Memtaz is to be confined with her. And you will post two armed guards outside her door at all times. They can take the same shift as the halberdiers. Are there any questions?”

  The baltacilar bowed.

  “You may go,” Kalid said to him. The pasha then nodded to the khislar, who took Sarah’s arm and dragged her away, struggling.

  “What are you doing?” Sarah called over her shoulder to Kalid. “Where are you sending me?”

  Kalid listened until he could no longer hear her voice, then slumped into his chair, staring fixedly into space.