He had to handle this matter efficiently and delicately. The Sarah Woolcott affair was not going to stand in the way of his getting to Paris or Vienna.
The doors of the Topkapi audience room were opened by the Sultan’s khislar. James and Danforth advanced inside it, to find the room crowded with janissaries and halberdiers lined up on either side of the throne. Osman Bey was standing on the Sultan’s left and the khislar moved to his right. The Sultan himself was seated, wearing the midnight blue uniform of Chief Janissary, a fez with a half moon and a gold tassel perched on his head.
Danforth gave a ceremonial greeting in Turkish and the Sultan bowed his head. They talked back and forth, with James straining to follow the conversation, for about a minute. James had learned quite a bit of Turkish in connection with his business, but this formal language, filled with flowery phrases, was a little beyond him. Finally Danforth turned to him and said, “Just what is it that you want me to ask the Sultan?”
“Ask him what has happened to Sarah,” James said in exasperation.
Danforth translated the question, and they both listened as the Sultan replied.
“He says he has no knowledge of this woman,” Danforth said, avoiding James’ eyes.
“What is he talking about? I arranged for Sarah to come here through that man right there,” James said, outraged, pointing to the khislar.
Danforth spoke again, and the Sultan shrugged before saying something that left Danforth speechless with amazement for several seconds.
“What did he say?” James demanded, watching Danforth’s face closely.
“The Sultan says the woman may have been here, he takes little notice of such things. You would have to question the khislar about the arrangements for the harem.”
“Then question him! What the devil is going on here, Danforth? It’s obvious the Sultan is lying and you’re not even challenging him about it!”
“Be quiet!” Danforth replied, keeping a smile on his face with an effort. “You don’t know how much English some of them may understand.”
James fell silent, frustrated, as Danforth turned to the khislar and asked him a series of questions, which resulted in several terse replies. They were simple enough for James to understand them, and he looked from one to the other as they talked, growing more incensed as it became obvious that Danforth wasn’t getting anywhere.
“The khislar says there was such a woman here for a short while, tutoring the princess sultana, but he does know what has become of her.”
James’ face was turning redder by the second. “I gathered that much myself. Danforth, this is utterly preposterous! You cannot mean to let these people get away with this!”
Osman Bey had been avoiding James’ gaze, but now he looked at him meaningfully, turning slightly and signing with his eyes toward the hall. James subsided immediately, gaining control of himself after a few moments of difficulty.
“Thank the Sultan for the courtesy of this audience, and ask him if we have his permission to visit his Pasha at Bursa,” James said, in as reasonable a tone as he could muster.
Danforth, relieved that James wasn’t going to make a scene, communicated the message. The Sultan shrugged and said something in a mild tone, dismissively.
“He says that we may go to Bursa if we wish,” Danforth translated.
James nodded. “Then let’s get out of here,” he said briskly.“Our mission has been accomplished.”
Danforth gave a concluding speech, and then they bowed their way out toward the hall. Osman Bey seized his chance when the Sultan turned to speak to the khislar. Bey walked forward briskly and held the door for James, saying under his breath in simple Turkish, “She is still at Bursa. She tried to run away but was given back to the pasha by a janissary. She is in good health and unhurt.”
“How do you know?” James muttered, glancing at the throne, where the Sultan was still talking, not looking at them.
“The Princess Roxalena has been bribing people for information. Good luck. I must go.” Osman turned away and walked back into the throne room as James and Danforth made their exit.
“Did you hear that?” James said to Danforth.
Danforth nodded. “I’ll send word as soon as possible that we want to see the pasha.”
“I hope he will be more cooperative.”
“Oh, he’s a different type altogether from the Sultan. The Sultan just lies, stonewalls and evades, all the while daring you to make an international incident of his unresponsiveness. Kalid Shah is very sophisticated, well educated, but even more dangerous in his way than the Sultan could ever be.”
“What do you mean?” James asked, as they walked toward the Bird House Gate, led by an escort of halberdiers.
“The pasha has been abroad, he understands Western culture. I doubt he will lie about Sarah’s presence in his harem, but he may challenge you to take her back from him.”
“What?” James said, aghast.
“I don’t know for sure, I’m only guessing. But from the stories I’ve heard about this fellow, we can expect anything. He’s said to be very...resourceful.”
They approached their carriage as James removed his handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his brow.
“On days like this I wish I had never left America,” he said to Danforth.
The secretary nodded.
He had those days, too.
Sarah sat on the edge of the bathing pool and dangled her feet in the water. Behind her Memtaz was combing her hair and across from her Fatma was sitting on a bench, smoking a nargileh with two of the other women. The sweetish smoke drifted toward Sarah, causing her to wrinkle her nose.
“I hate the smell of that stuff,” she said to Memtaz. “It makes me sick.”
“Fatma is very fond of hashish.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“It helps to pass the time,” Memtaz said.
“I think it clouds the judgement,” Sarah said.
“That may be so, but there is little need to make decisions in the harem. All decisions are made for us.”
Sarah let that pass. Fatma looked up and said something to Memtaz in Turkish that Sarah could barely understand.
“What was that?” Sarah asked Memtaz. “Something about a necklace?”
“She asked that I put aside the amethyst and citrine necklace for her. If the pasha sends for her again this evening she would like to wear it.”
“Tell Fatma she can have it,” Sarah said darkly, realizing that the request had been meant to convey a message, not to Memtaz, but to her. She wanted to feed the necklace to Fatma bead by bead, but she kept her expression carefully blank. She had been torturing herself with visions of Kalid and Fatma in passionate communion ever since the pasha had thrown her out of his apartment, but she certainly didn’t want Fatma to know that.
It would give the redhead far too much satisfaction to see that Sarah was jealous.
Sarah winced as Memtaz tugged at a knot, pinching her scalp. Sarah was going stir crazy again, thinking back on her last meeting with Kalid and almost wishing that she had given in to him. She would be enjoying an ardent interlude with the pasha instead of swishing her feet in the hamman and wishing she could strangle her rival.
But almost was the operative word. She had stuck to her guns and she was proud of it, even if she was now lying awake at night imagining Kalid caressing Fatma in the intimate way he had caressed her.
It wasn’t a pleasant picture.
Memtaz finished her task and Sarah rose, picking up her pattens and walking over to the tepidarium. Fatma rose also, and as Sarah went past her she stuck out one slender foot.
Sarah tripped, slid wildly on the slick hamman floor and shot fully dressed into the pool.
Fatma shrieked with laughter, crying helplessly, falling into her companions in an excess of mirth. Sarah climbed slowly out of the pool, pushing her plastered hair back from her eyes, as everyone stopped to watch the confrontation that had been building silently between the tw
o women for some time.
Sarah walked over to Fatma, who watched her slyly, waiting to see what she would do.
Sarah smiled at her sweetly, then hauled off and punched her squarely in the nose.
Fatma gasped, putting her hand to her face as blood spurted between her fingers. Then she let out a bloodcurdling yell and lunged forward, grabbing for Sarah’s neck.
Memtaz screamed and scuttled for the door, yelling for the eunuchs. Two of them appeared magically and dashed for the struggling women, separating them with difficulty and then carrying them off to different rooms.
“Get the khislar,” Memtaz shouted to the guard at the door, who abandoned his post as Fatma was carried past them, kicking and squirming. The sound effects were piercing, emanating from opposite ends of the bathing suite, until Achmed finally rushed in, adjusting his turban.
“What is the meaning of all this caterwauling?” he demanded of Memtaz, as the other harem women gathered around to witness the spectacle.
“There was a fight between my mistress and Fatma,” Memtaz said quietly, lowering her eyes.
Achmed sighed and nodded. Finally.
“And where is your mistress?” Achmed asked.
Memtaz nodded at an adjoining room. Achmed stalked toward it as the women parted ranks to let him pass.
“Go back to what you were doing,” he barked at them, and they obeyed reluctantly, still trying to follow the action. An event like this broke up the tedium of harem life and was eagerly anticipated and recounted afterward with relish.
Achmed entered the dressing room and found Sarah there, detained by a eunuch, dripping wet and spitting mad.
“Release her,” Achmed said to the eunuch, who obeyed. Sarah rubbed her arm where the man had held her.
“I understand you have been fighting,” Achmed said to Sarah, hands on hips, like a school principal with a recalcitrant student who had been called on the carpet.
“Talk to Fatma. She started it,” Sarah replied sullenly in kind, aware that she sounded like a ten-year-old after a recess brawl and not caring at all.
“At the moment I am talking to you. What happened?”
“Fatma tripped me as I walked past her and I fell into the pool. So I punched her.”
“You punched her?” Achmed said, staring at her. Sarah spoke Turkish with a heavy accent and he was not sure he had understood correctly.
“That’s right.”
“Do you think that was an appropriate response to a prank?” Achmed inquired.
“It wasn’t a prank.”
“No? How would you describe it?”
“An attempt to humiliate me and make me the object of ridicule,” Sarah replied evenly.
“I see. And why would she want to do that?”
Sarah looked at him in disbelief to see if he were serious. He was.
“I replaced her as the favorite,” Sarah said shortly, “and now she sees her chance to regain her former glory.”
“You listen too much to harem gossip,” Achmed said, and Sarah wasn’t sure what he meant. Before she could ask he went on to say, “We cannot have brawling in the harem. One more incident like this and you will be confined to your apartment again.”
“I don’t see why I should be punished because Fatma is behaving like an hysterical teenager,” Sarah retorted, behaving like one herself. This whole experience was causing her to regress.
Achmed held up his hands, weary of the exchange. “You heard me. I have nothing more to say. Stay away from Fatma or you will suffer the consequences.”
Achmed strode briskly from the room, his back rigid with righteous indignation. Sarah picked up one of her pattens from the floor and threw it at the closing door.
Kalid was sitting in his audience room, listening to a farming report that was less than riveting, when Achmed tapped on the door and then pulled it open cautiously.
“Come in,” Kalid said to him.
The khislar advanced into the room and waited, his arms folded across his chest.
“We’ll continue this in the afternoon at one o’clock,” Kalid said to his minister of agriculture. The man rose, gathered up his papers and bowed his way out of the room.
“What is it?” Kalid said to Achmed.
“You asked me to report to you on Sarah’s activities in the harem,” Achmed replied.
“And?”
“And she just had a tussle with Fatma.”
Kalid stared at him, then began to smile. “Tell me what happened,” he said.
By the time the khislar was finished relating the story Kalid was laughing openly.
“I can’t believe Sarah punched Fatma in the nose,” he said, chuckling.
“I saw the evidence myself. Fatma’s nose is already swelling, it may be broken.”
“Have Doctor Shakoz look at it, he’s back from his trip.” Kalid was still smiling, but the khislar was stone faced.
“I see that you don’t find this incident amusing,” Kalid added to Achmed.
“No, master. I must maintain order in the harem. If these women are allowed to go unchastised I don’t know what mayhem will result in the future.”
“All right. Send Sarah to me.”
It was only a few minutes before Sarah arrived, dressed simply in a shift with a gold trimmed caftan belted at the waist, her hair still damp. They had not seen each other since their last altercation, and Kalid drank in the sight of his favorite hungrily, noting that her face clean of the harem’s usual makeup made her look like a little girl. He shooed away her escort and then sat back in his chair as she stood mutely before him.
“Achmed is very upset with you,” he began.
Sarah said nothing.
“He told me that you punched Fatma in the nose.”
“After she tripped me.”
“That’s very mature.”
“Are you going to instruct me about maturity now?”
“I’m going to instruct you about decorous behavior. It was my former impression that this sort of tiff was beneath you.”
“Well, maybe I’m learning how to get along around here. I’ll reduce myself to whatever level is necessary to survive.”
“Fiery words from a proper Boston miss.”
“I don’t think I’m so proper any more. You’ve seen to that. And I’d like to know what you’re planning to say to Fatma. Is she going to receive a lecture too?”
“I’ll deal with Fatma in my own way.”
“I can just imagine what that might be. Please tell your paramour if she tries anything like this morning’s stunt again she’ll wind up with a shiner.”
“What is a shiner?”
“A black eye. What do they call it in England?”
“A poke,” he said.
“Well, if you don’t want your Titian haired trollop to receive a poke, tell her to leave me alone.”
“My Titian haired trollop?” he whispered, wide eyed.
Sarah stared at him balefully. “Oh, you are a snake. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Throwing me in with Fatma, on her home territory, and letting her toy with me.”
“Territory?” he said inquiringly.
“You know exactly what I mean. Well, you might be surprised by the results. Be sure to check your local newspaper for the next installment in the serial.” Sarah whirled and stomped angrily toward the door.
“You have not been dismissed,” he called after her.
She turned to face him again. “May I have your imperial majesty’s permission to withdraw?” she asked sarcastically.
He looked at her with what could only be described as sadness.
“Do we have to be enemies, Sarah?” he said quietly.
“That wasn’t my choice, donme pasha,” she replied neutrally, not looking at him.
“All right,” he said, sighing. “You may go.”
Sarah walked out and her escort fell in behind her. The khislar passed her on his way into the audience room.
“Back again so soon?” Kalid sai
d to him testily. “What is it this time?”
“I have received a message from Turhan Aga.”
“And what does the Captain of my Halberdiers have to say?” Kalid asked, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.
“He requests an audience. He was given a letter for you from a messenger who came to the Carriage House gate.”
“Why didn’t he just pass the letter on to you?” Kalid asked, wondering at the excess of ceremony.
“He promised to deliver it personally.”
Kalid made an expansive gesture. “Send him in.”
Turhan Aga, Osman Bey’s counterpart at Orchid Palace, was a middle aged native of Izmir whose loyalty to his pasha was unquestioned and had led to a series of promotions resulting in his present position. He hustled into the room when admitted and dropped to one knee, a form of genuflection learned from the Christian Turks in his native city that he had never abandoned.
“What do you have for me?” said Kalid, who was fond of the captain.
Turhan withdrew the envelope from his jacket and handed it to his sovereign.
Kalid saw the American Embassy crest on the back of the envelope and tucked it into his shirt.
“Thank you, Turhan. You may go.”
The captain bowed and withdrew from the audience room. As the khislar followed him Kalid said, “Achmed, stay here.”
The khislar turned back immediately, waiting.
Kalid watched the doors close behind Turhan Aga and then said, “The letter is from the American Embassy.”
Achmed watched impassively as Kalid opened it and scanned the lines quickly. There were two paragraphs in English followed by a Turkish translation under them.
“The Under Secretary, somebody named Danforth, requests an audience as soon as possible in connection with the disappearance of an American woman, Margaret Sarah Woolcott.”
“Margaret?” the khislar said.
Kalid shrugged. “It’s the first I’ve heard the name. Anyway, I cannot ignore it. I must reply.”
The Panther and The Pearl Page 14
