The Sultan's Seal (17 page)

“Did Arif Agha describe the driver?” Sybil asks.

Asma Sultan thinks about this. “He said the driver was scruffily dressed, not in livery as one might expect if she were visiting a home in good society. But such families would have sent an escort. Anyway, Arif Agha told all this to the police.” Then she mutters to herself, “That fox-tongued fool always talked too much.”

“Is Arif Agha here?” Sybil thinks Kamil might wish to speak with him.

“He retired. His incompetence lost him our trust.”

“And his venality,” adds Perihan.

“It was stupid of the girl to get into a carriage unaccompanied,” Asma Sultan observes. “Anything could happen.”

“And clearly did.” Perihan completes her mother’s sentence in a satisfied voice.

“Was the driver a Turk?” Sybil asks.

Asma Sultan sighs deeply, unable to hide her annoyance at the continued questioning. “I don’t think so. According to Arif Agha, the man had Arab hair the color of sand. Perhaps a Kurd. Their hair is curly like that, but they are usually darker. One of the minorities? But which one?” She throws up her hands in mock despair. “How is one to tell?” After a moment, she adds darkly, “If you toy with a snake, it will bite you.”

Perihan asks Sybil, a bit sharply, “Why do you want to know this?”

Leyla intercedes. “Of course, she was one of your people,” she tells Sybil kindly. “It’s natural that you should want to know as much as possible about her.”

“Her killer was never found,” Sybil adds.

“Under a rock, no doubt, among others of his kind.” Asma Sultan shrugs.

“Do you think it’s of any importance now?” Shukriye asks.

“I don’t know. I’m helping Kamil Pasha, the magistrate investigating Mary Dixon’s murder. He seems to think there’s some connection between the two deaths.” She turns to Asma Sultan. “Did you say your mother had a collection of Chinese art? My cousin would be most interested to take a look at it, I mean, if that’s permitted. And I’ll be sure to tell Kamil Pasha about it.” She says his title proudly, as if it already belongs to her, relishing the heft of it on her tongue. “He’s coming to dine with us the day after tomorrow.”

“My mother has passed away,” Asma Sultan replies stiffly.

Sybil is mortified. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t know. Health to your head.”

“It was a long time ago.” Asma Sultan rises to her feet. “Now it is time for us to leave.”

Shamed by her gaffe, Sybil watches as Asma Sultan, ignoring Leyla’s protestations, walks to the door and raps on it. It is opened immediately by her eunuch. She waits while Perihan kisses her hostess on both cheeks in farewell. Sybil feels Asma Sultan’s eyes on her, but when she turns, Asma Sultan is gone.

I
t was early in the day. The lane leading to Chamyeri Village was still cool beneath the pines and I shivered in my light feradje. The air was lush with the smell of pine. I tasted salt on my tongue.

“It’s been nearly a year. Why should I be banished any longer? There’s no one to talk to here and nothing to do,” I added petulantly.

I did not mention Mary. Violet did not like her, as she had not liked Hamza, my only two friends. I had scolded her for withholding Mary’s messages. If Violet had not been a servant, I would have suspected her of jealousy. It was true that I no longer enjoyed her company as much as in the past when I had no friends of my own. It was true that I had outgrown her touch. The last time she came in the night wanting to share my quilt, I told her we were no longer children who could tumble about unconcerned like the kangal dog’s new puppies. She sat on the edge of the quilt, sullen, her mouth downturned. I noticed the deepening lines beside her mouth and between her eyes. I reached, out of habit and concern, to smooth them away. She caught my hand and nestled her cheek in my palm. When I tried to withdraw it, she caught the edge of my hand between her teeth and shook it, for all the world like a kangal, before releasing me and slipping out of the room. I stared at the indentations left by her teeth in my flesh, wanting to laugh, but also curiously afraid, as if a violent current had disarranged the air.

She was dear to me nonetheless, as she ought to have known. We were always together, except when Mary fetched me for our excursions. During the coldest months, snow-blocked roads had ended our meetings. The boat that delivered our coal also brought letters from Mary early that winter. But I had not seen or heard from her in months, even though the roads were now open. She had written that she had some business to see to and would come to me as soon as she could. But I no longer wished to circle the shallows waiting, and decided to throw myself back into the current of life.

“Ismail Dayi is hardly ever here and Mama refuses to listen to anything. It’s as if I’m a child again.” I thought of poor Mama lying on her divan, coughing, wrapped in her fur cloak despite the warm balm of spring, and felt my complaint stick in my stomach. “I hope Mama gets well soon,” I whispered by way of apology. What is written will come to be, but what is spoken also provokes fate.

Violet walked silently by my side. I had become accustomed to her new silences. I remembered her crying in her room when she first arrived at Chamyeri. She must be lonely, I decided. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. Her mouth was tight and a frown had settled onto her forehead. Perhaps it was time I asked Ismail Dayi or Papa to find her a husband.

We passed orchards behind crumbling brick walls. Fig leaves draped the walls like dark green hands moving in the slight breeze, guarding the small, prim sacs of fruit. Pairs of doves with wine-red necks called softly to one another. We entered the shade of a narrow lane beneath overhanging second stories.

Violet looked about nervously.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Violet was lying. Something was worrying her.

At the open square in the center of the village, the small grocery stall was still closed. Two bony dogs slunk grudgingly around the back of the stall at our approach. Another dog lay on his side in the dust, his back leg twitching. Several old men were sitting on low, straw-thatched wooden stools under a tatty awning, drinking tea. Their eyes shifted to watch us pass.

We crossed the square quickly and plunged into the darkness of a narrow street leading to the shore. The overhanging upper stories of the wooden houses almost met overhead. We were here to rent a boat that would take us down the strait to Beshiktash, the nearest pier to Nishantashou. I knew Mama would not allow us to go. Without her authority, I could not send a servant to hire a boat, so I convinced an unwilling Violet to come along. I left a note for Mama and Ismail Dayi, telling them I had gone back to Papa’s house. My uncle’s house would always be home, but I felt the need to resume my life. Now that I was no longer to be married, I had to think about what to do. I had never much desired the company of society, but I was lonely too. In the city, I hoped at least to resume my education.

As we passed beneath the Muslim houses, I heard women calling to one another behind the wooden lattices covering the windows. Suddenly a bucketful of foul water landed beside us and exploded over our cloaks. Appalled, I stopped and looked up at the woman still leaning from her window, bucket in hand, smiling. Voices and muffled laughter came from behind the lattices along the street. Violet took my hand and rushed me forward, almost knocking over the man ahead of us.

We ran to the open area by the shore. Young men sat on the stones and mended nets. The fishing boats had left long before dawn. The men stopped their work and looked at us curiously. Our feradjes were spattered with yellow stains. We adjusted our veils more tightly. My hand was still in the vise of Violet’s grip. I had understood what Violet already knew. We had to leave here. Surely the matrons of Nishantashou would not throw slop on us. I felt certain they had more sophisticated means of cutting the rope that tethered me to society’s ship.

I was suddenly very angry. I loosed my hand from Violet’s, straightened my shoulders, and walked to the man tending the samovar.

“I would like to rent a boat and a boatman to take us to Beshiktash pier. You will be well compensated.”

V
IOLET’S SMALL FACE
was dark and strong, almost muscular, made up of planes and angles. She was attractive in a masculine way, the only hint of softness rich, liquid brown eyes that tilted up at the outer corners like almonds. Impatient, she continually shifted and readjusted her position, her thin fingers pulling at her clothing, so unlike when she was naked in the water, where she became tranquil and sleek.

I remember how disgusted she was at the exorbitant price of ten kurush the boatman demanded. Then he had the temerity to require another two kurush for the tea seller.

“They can smell desperation, these lowlifes,” she whispered through our yashmaks. “They’d take advantage of their mothers.”

The trip down the Bosphorus was uneventful. The boatman hardly had to move the oars; the current did all the work. He spent his time leering at us. When we landed at Beshiktash, however, he handed us onto the pier without incident.

Violet had charge of the purse. She was much better at keeping an eye on it in a crowd. The quay was crowded—boatmen, passengers, fishermen unloading their catches, buyers for the fish, and the usual street vendors, porters, and beggars. Violet kept hold of my arm as we pushed through the crowd, looking to hire a carriage to take us to Nishantashou. We were not on a main street. She pointed to a large carriage—really, much too large to have any business on that street—stopped right by the pier. We noticed it right away because the horses had such colorful traces—red and blue. The driver was short and powerfully built, with light-colored hair in tight curls, like the spring lamb Halil once bought to be slaughtered for our feastday meal. Dressed in ordinary working garments, he wore the black shoes of a Jew. Violet haggled briefly and then helped me into the box, while the driver climbed up front. I remember she was puzzled by the low price. “He wasn’t at all interested in bargaining,” she told me. “He looked rather like he was in a hurry.”

The carriage was very dark when I climbed in. When I turned to look for Violet a smell suddenly caught at my throat. The coach jerked harshly forward. Dark wings gripped me in the small space. I saw a flash and Violet flung into the light. Then only the light remained, then nothing.

T
HE LOW, PLAINTIVE
call of the itinerant scrap merchant. It was so familiar; the drawn-out first letter, a rapid stutter of consonants, then the tail of the word, laid like a peacock’s fan over the street behind his cart. I was in my room at Nishantashou, waiting for Violet to draw the curtains and wake me. I began blissfully to stretch my limbs, but the dimensions of the bed were wrong, the covers too heavy.

I opened my eyes and saw an unfamiliar ceiling high above me, consisting of parallel rows of shallow arches. The tall windows were blocked with white-painted iron shutters, held shut by a heavy crossbar. I was in a narrow bed, covered by a heavy blue comforter. I was fully dressed, except for my shoes, feradje, and veil. I walked to a window, but the bar was locked in place. Street sounds penetrated faintly through the shutters—the rattle of a cart, vendors calling their wares, the sudden shriek of a child. I put on my shoes. My cloak hung from a hook on the wall. It had been cleaned and pressed. The yellow stains were gone. I moved quietly to the door. To my surprise, it was unlocked. I pulled down the handle slowly, opening the door only a fraction, then pressed my eye to the crack.

An old woman was sitting on a carpet on the floor, a copper bowl of aubergines between her legs. She took a vegetable in her hand, carefully cut off the stem, then skillfully cored it. Replacing the end, she laid the now-hollow eggplant into another bowl beside her.

“Come,” she said, without looking in my direction. I opened the door another fraction. Where was Violet?

“Come, come.”

I opened the door wide. There was no one else in the room. It was furnished with a divan covered not with silk and velvet cushions, but with colorful flowered cotton. The carpet was threadbare, but the broad wooden boards beneath it gleamed. The windows were open and a soft breeze carried into the room the sounds I had heard before. From one window, I saw the façade of another building through the lace curtains; from the other, the leaf-laden branches of a linden tree, wagging in the sunlight. The room was cool.

The woman looked at me and smiled. I could see that she was missing several teeth. “Welcome.”

I squatted on the carpet. She continued disemboweling the aubergines.

“Please, can you tell me where I am? How did I come to be here? There was another young woman with me. Where is she? Do you know?”

The old woman laid aside her knife, wiped her hands on a cloth, and stood. She adjusted the wide white apron attached to the front of her dress. I recognized the style. She was Jewish.

“Come, sit over here,” she said, pointing to the divan. Her Turkish was lightly accented. I climbed onto the flowered cushions, tucked my legs under me, and waited in the dappled light. I felt unaccountably peaceful, given the situation. What was the situation? Had I been kidnapped?

The woman returned with two glasses of tea on a gleaming silver tray with ornate handles, the only item of luxury I had seen. I thought: from her dowry.

We sat in silence for a few moments. Her face was serious, but her rheumy blue eyes regarded me kindly.

“I cannot tell you my name and I do not know yours,” she began, in her lilting accent. “It is safer that way.”

“Am I in danger, then?”

“I understand you are in very grave danger. That is why you were brought here.”

I was stunned. “What danger am I in? And who brought me here?”

“It is better for you not to know right now. My son understands these matters. I don’t interfere.” She regarded her tea glass. “Although I am not in agreement. It’s much too dangerous.” She looked at me so that our eyes met. “He is my only son.”

“It’s generous of your son to help me. What is his name?”

She examined me cautiously, then looked away.

I was suddenly anxious. “Violet? The young woman who was with me at the pier?”

The old woman frowned. “Your maid ran away. This creates a dangerous situation for us. She will raise the alarm and they will try to find you in Beshiktash.”

She looked at me questioningly. I nodded in agreement. She added thoughtfully, “But they should have no reason to widen the search to Galata.”

I’
M CERTAIN
I
SMAIL
D
AYI
went for help as soon as he realized we were missing. I suppose, after reading my note, he would go directly to Papa’s house, but find we had never arrived there. He would send Jemal to Chamyeri Village to ask whether anyone had seen us. The fishermen might report that two girls rented a boat and that the boatman dropped them at the Beshiktash pier. But the trail would disappear there. Was my uncle angry at me for leaving? I suppose he would seek advice from his old friend, the white-bearded kadi of Galata. What could a kadi do? He was a judge. The situation was still incomplete, like a cooked egg not yet peeled. Too early for judgment. The kadi would set the police on our trail.

The police would suspect the fishermen, of course. The lower orders are always looked at first, since, having so little, they have the most to gain or reason to envy. But if the police only thought about it, they would realize that the fishermen would never harm two girls from a well-known and important household. The police would disagree, arguing that someone might have paid the fishermen to abduct me. They would have learned from Papa—or, really, from anyone—that Amin Efendi was out for revenge.

Or perhaps Ismail Dayi told no one I was missing for fear of destroying what little remained of my reputation.

I felt no tug on the crimson thread around my waist that tied me to Mama. Did she think I was safe?

Violet would be awake, I knew, black eyes gleaming like fireflies in the dark, as I had often found her in my childhood when I couldn’t sleep and asked to spread out my quilt next to hers.

T
HE
J
EWISH WOMAN
sat on a cushion against the far wall, hands tatting furiously. Beside her squatted the broad-chested young man with the tight cap of blonde curls, the carriage driver, whom I assumed to be her son. Her agitated whispers refused to be calmed by his low, measured responses. They spoke what I recognized as Ladino, the archaic Spanish of Istanbul Jews who fled to the benign reign of the Ottomans after Queen Isabella expelled them from Spain. They kept their eyes averted from the divan where I sat. An untouched glass of tea rested on the divan between my knee and Hamza’s.