Kamil Pasha: The Sultan's Seal Part 11

"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 ident.i.ty 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 Hsn, 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 chair 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 Hsn, 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 Hsn 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 Hsn 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.

Irritated, Kamil calls his a.s.sistant and asks him what is going on.

"A boy claims to have a message for you and refuses to divulge it to the head secretary."

"All right," Kamil sighs, "send him in here."

The boy is about eight years old, slim and wary as a street cat, his hair cut close to his head. He is dressed in lovingly patched trousers and a colorful knit sweater. Upon seeing Kamil, he falls to his knees and prostrates himself on the floor, his nose pressed against the blue arabesques on the carpet. Kamil sees that he is shaking. He walks over and puts his hand on the boy's bowed back.

"Stand up," he says gently. "Stand up, my boy."

The boy cautiously lifts himself from the floor, but stands with his head lowered. Kamil sees, however, that the boy's eyes dart around the room, noting everything.

"What is your name?" he asks, trying to put him at ease.

"Avi, bey."

"Well, then, Avi, why did you need to see me?"

Avi looks up at Kamil. His brown eyes are enormous in his fine-boned face. Kamil thinks to himself that these are eyes that see everything, ravenous eyes. He feels a pang of longing for the omnivorous freedom of a child's appet.i.te for life, not yet disciplined to distinguish raw from cooked, feasting without caring whether life is served at a table or from a tray on the floor. He smiles at Avi.

"Amalia Teyze sent me. From Middle Village. She said to tell you that she has some important information for you." Kamil notes with approval that the boy's words are unhurried and that he has regained his self-confidence.

"What is the information?"

Hands clasped behind his back, Avi continues in a singsong voice, as if he were reciting, "She said to tell you that some weeks ago the gardener for a konak at Chamyeri found a bundle of clothing by a pond in the forest. She said you would know which house. The gardener burned the clothing, but one of the maids saw him. The maid has relatives in our village. When she came to visit, she learned that Aunt Amalia was interested in such things and came and told her."

The boy stops, still standing ramrod straight. His eyes, however, stray curiously to the silver inkwell, pens, and open books scattered on Kamil's desk.

"That is, indeed, important information," Kamil says, reaching in his waistcoat for a silver kurush. "We thank you for bringing it."

"I can't take payment," he replies. "I was doing my duty."

Kamil reaches over and plucks a quill pen from its holder. He holds it out to the boy.

"For your service, please accept this pen. If you learn to use it, come back and see me."

The radiance of the boy's face as he solemnly accepts the pen shoots Kamil through with a delicious pain, a mixture of regret, longing, and pleasure.

"Thank you, Avi. You may go. Please thank your aunt."

He turns his back to the boy so that he should not see the emotion on his face, he-the rational administrator, representative of the all-powerful government.

21.

The Bedestan "We're lost," I said querulously.

Violet claimed to know her way around the Grand Bazaar, but we had twice pa.s.sed the same marble fountain on the Street of Caps.

"I know where I'm going," Violet repeated for the fifth time.

I stopped in the narrow street and took my bearings. Violet looked over her shoulder and, seeing that I was no longer following her, returned and waited impatiently beside me, her eyes roaming over the shop displays. She had a.s.sured Aunt Hsn that she knew her way through the maze of covered streets, even though Aunt Hsn knew as well as I did that this was untrue. As my companion, she went where I went, and I had never been to the Grand Bazaar. Aunt Hsn seemed as relieved as we were that she would not be required to accompany us on our expedition to purchase items for my trousseau. I had no intention of purchasing anything of the sort, but adventure beckoned. The glittering bazaar cast its spell over me as soon as I pa.s.sed through its ma.s.sive gates.

We were to go to the shop of a friend of Papa's, a goldsmith on the Avenue of Jewelers, to look at bracelets. At first we dawdled at every shop, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of slippers, bolts of cloth, carpets, hamam supplies, and precious stones, each with its own street of shops selling the same items in almost unthinkable profusion. When a shop owner spoke to us, we shied away, only to stop again at a different shop a few steps on.

Finally, I said, "Let's find the goldsmith's shop. Otherwise Papa will be angry."

And that is when we became lost on the Street of Caps.

"Look," Violet pointed. "An entire street of clothing."

She drew me toward a shop selling brocaded vests. I purchased a vest for Violet and a bolt of cloth for myself and arranged to have them delivered to Nishantashou. Then I asked the shopkeeper for directions to the goldsmith's shop.

"Follow this street," he instructed us, pointing deeper into the bazaar, "until you come to a gate. That's the entrance to the Bedestan. Pa.s.s though it. Outside the gate on the other side," he a.s.sured us, "you'll find the Avenue of Jewelers."

Violet was already pulling me away.

Before long, we came to a set of thick, iron-studded gates. They led inside a room as large as a building embedded right in the heart of the bazaar. I craned my neck at the high, vaulted ceiling above the narrow lanes of shops. A wooden catwalk stretched around the periphery just beneath the ceiling. Violet nudged me and pointed at a tiny shop crammed with antique silver ornaments and vases. A slim woman in Frankish dress was bowed over a tray of necklaces. The shop next door sold gold jewelry, but of a design and quality I had never seen. Similar shops stretched before us down narrow lanes beneath the dome of this strange room like a stage set in a theater. My father's goldsmith was forgotten.

"What is this place?" I asked the old Armenian shopkeeper wonderingly as he placed another tray of gold bracelets on the counter before me.

"This is the oldest part of the bazaar, chere hanoum," he explained proudly. "It's where all the most valuable things in the bazaar are kept. It's fireproof and at night, after the gates are locked, it's patrolled by guards." He pointed at the catwalk high up under the roof. "This is as safe as any bank in Europe."

Next door, the Frankish woman was trying to bargain with the shopkeeper, who suddenly no longer understood English. Leaving Violet to pay for the gold bracelet I had chosen, I entered the silver shop.

"Can I help you?" I asked her.

She turned and I was caught up in the startled gaze of her blue eyes. She seemed to see directly into my own, as if through a window. We smiled at the same time and, without another word, turned to the shopkeeper. I did not have much worldly experience, but I had good nerves, and soon the Frankish woman had her silver necklace at less than half the price the shopkeeper had at first demanded.

"Thank you," she said when we had stepped back into the lane. "My name is Mary Dixon."

22.

Crevice Kamil finds Halil cleaning his tools inside a shed at the back of the garden. By the flickering light of an oil lamp, Kamil sees a single low room. Halil looks up from the bench. His eyebrows are so dense and wiry that his eyes are almost invisible. The front of the room is stacked with neatly organized garden implements and tools.

To Kamil's question, he answers, "Yes, bey. I found some clothes. It's true. And I burned them."

"Why did you do that?"

"They were women's clothes, bey."

"What difference does that make?"

"Who knows what went on with those clothes? In the woods. It wasn't fit for anyone else to wear them. So I burned them."

As an afterthought, Halil adds, "Why? Did someone complain they were missing?"

"No, but it's possible that they belonged to someone who was killed recently."

"Killed." It is a statement, not a question. With his good hand, he absentmindedly strokes the stumps of his missing fingers.

Kamil wonders how much he knows about Mary Dixon's murder. Surely the villagers all know.

"Where did you find them?"

"By the pond."

"Show me, please."

Without a word, Halil merges into the afternoon shadows outside the door and leads the way through the garden. The air is heavy with bees. They pa.s.s the pavilion and climb over the ruined wall into the loamy gloom of the forest. The pond lies behind a screen of rhododendrons.

"There." He points behind a group of moss-covered boulders.

Climbing carefully over the slippery stones, Halil points to a narrow cleft. "Pushed inside."

Kamil slips on a patch of wet moss and catches himself on a bush, swinging nearly to his knees as the branches give way under his weight and others flail at him. He hangs there for a moment, breathing heavily, before pulling himself upright.