Kamil Pasha: The Sultan's Seal Part 17

"I'm sorry," he added rapidly, seeing the look on my face.

"Who are your sources? Are they reliable?"

"Yes."

"Don't treat me like a china cup," I told him impatiently. "Tell me everything."

"He's in desperate circ.u.mstances. He already laid claim to you once. This would make it irrevocable. Not even Ismail Hodja or your father could avoid the shame if you didn't marry him then."

"He neither loves nor respects me. What does he want from me?"

"He gambles too much and has expensive taste in women. He's deeply in debt. He desperately needs your wealth and he needs it soon."

"But the wealth is Papa's and Ismail Dayi's. I have nothing of my own."

"You'll have a substantial dowry when you marry and later a sizable inheritance."

I could not read Hamza's face. His eyes were focused on a distant point beside my head. The current between us had become blocked, just as in the days when he was my tutor. He was reciting facts.

I was suddenly engulfed with rage at Amin for stealing both my childhood and my future, and at Hamza for not asking for me in marriage long before and sparing me this grief. He must have known I would agree and I'm sure Papa would have given his consent. I knew marriage now would be difficult, but surely that wouldn't matter to Hamza.

"So your friends have told you Aunt Hsn is helping that man"-I could not say his name-"that he intends to kidnap me from my own house and blackmail me into marrying him."

"Yes."

"And that is why you brought me here."

"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 gla.s.s 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 cus.h.i.+ons 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 Workmans.h.i.+p 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, pa.s.sionflowers, sweet verbena, and heliotrope. Silver-gray pigeons waddle complacently on the lawn. In the distance, behind a marble gateway, Kamil sees the square cla.s.sical faade 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 pa.s.sed. 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 unnaturally high-pitched.

A man with a neatly trimmed white beard looks up.

"You've found him."

"Our padishah requires you to a.s.sist 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 pa.s.ses the silver globe to the head usta, who looks at it with an experienced eye.

"This is Elias Usta's workmans.h.i.+p. 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 emba.s.sy 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.