The Sultan's Seal (22 page)

Ismail Dayi patted my hand. “He may not be entirely without blame, though. Hamza might well be right. Amin is certainly in debt. He could have had designs on you, even from Crete. Accomplices are cheap. Certainly your father believed what you told him about Amin’s plan to take you from the house. Your father has banished Hüsnü Hanoum from his sight. Amin’s sword struck wide. Such folly.” Ismail Dayi clicked his tongue in disapproval, I could not tell whether of Amin, my father, Aunt Hüsnü, or of humankind.

Amin Efendi was a thousand years ago, I thought. I placed my hand on Ismail Dayi’s arm, angry at the needless pain Hamza’s silence and my own had imposed on this man, my chosen father. Hamza had written a letter in effect blackmailing my uncle. The language expressed perfectly his warring desire for approval and a blacker motivation that I had briefly glimpsed at the apartment on Djamji Street.

Ismail dayi looked thoughtfully at the letter in his lap. “So you think Hamza sent this.”

“It’s in his handwriting. What did the kadi say when you showed him the letter?”

“He sent me to Magistrate Kamil, who is more experienced in these matters. He thought we should take the implied meaning seriously—that if I didn’t help the reformists, something might happen to you. He suggested I step up the tempo of my meetings with a variety of highly placed people here at home. It would look on the surface as if I were doing what the letter demanded. But we wouldn’t necessarily discuss reform. He said we could debate the price of Smyrna dates, if we wished, as long as it seemed to a casual observer that something, possibly a political something, was happening.”

“And what is the price of Smyrna dates, dayi dear?”

“I couldn’t tell you, little one.”

We both laughed, although my laughter was mixed with pain. I thought of Nedim’s lines:

To save myself, I had bound my little craft to a mirage.

I
SAT BY
the edge of the water, cradling the sea glass in my hand, wondering what it had endured to earn its beauty, then let it slip slowly from my hand back into the elements.

L
ast autumn’s leaves rustle underfoot behind the pavilion. A nightingale trills in the darkness, perhaps dreaming. The moon that silvered Mary’s blind face has fattened in the sky, then faded again until the world is dressed in shades of mourning. Ten miles to the south, Kamil Pasha studies an engraving of
Gymnadenia,
before his finger falls from the pages of the book in sleep. A shadow slips into Ismail Hodja’s kitchen door and moves swiftly through the corridors toward his study. Light streams from beneath the door. The figure pauses, presses his ear against the door, and, hearing nothing, pushes it open.

He sees two men kneeling side by side before a low table. Jemal is all in white, a loose cotton shirt and wide shalwar. His hair flows down his back like a river of ink. Ismail kneels beside him, dressed in a quilted robe. Without his turban, Ismail Hodja looks fragile, a fringe of thinning hair exposing a pale scalp. In his hand is a brush, poised over a square piece of parchment across which extends an elegant trail of calligraphic writing. A bottle of black ink and several more brushes rest on the table above the paper. Jemal holds a turquoise ceramic bowl in his right hand. Both are sunk in concentration; neither hears the door open. There is enough time for the intruder to note the muscular shoulders pushing against the shirt of Ismail Hodja’s companion. He had expected Ismail Hodja to be alone. Suddenly Jemal turns and, before the man can escape, springs and winds himself about him like a snake, his angry, kohl-rimmed eyes close to the man’s face. The bowl falls heavily to the carpet. A puddle of gray water seeps rapidly into the colorful wool.

Ismail Hodja lays down his brush and stands. “Why, Hamza, welcome. I wasn’t expecting you at this hour.” He gestures to Jemal to let Hamza go. Jemal does so with obvious reluctance, and squats nearby, within easy reach.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Ismail Hodja adds, gesturing toward Hamza’s worn workman’s clothing and his beard.

“I’ve come to ask for your assistance.”

“Of course, Hamza, my son. I will do whatever is in my power. What is it that you need?”

“I’m sorry to intrude, my hodja,” Hamza says softly, glancing nervously at the window. “I’m leaving for France tomorrow and I wanted to see Jaanan.” His eyes take in the fallen bowl and wet carpet. “I’m sorry.” He looks up anxiously. “Jaanan, is she here?”

Ismail Hodja looks at him carefully and suggests, “It’s rather late to call on a young lady.”

“Please. I need to speak with her.”

“I’m sorry, my son. My niece has gone to France.”

Hamza’s face reflects his confusion. “France? Why on earth…When?”

“Last month. We’d been discussing it for some time,” Ismail Hodja answers kindly. “You know how difficult life has been for her this past year.”

“I wanted to protect her,” Hamza says, half to himself. “She’s in Paris?” he asks eagerly.

“Yes, your many stories of the city made an impression on her. She wants to study. She’s safe there now, living with family.”

“I thought”—Hamza begins, then stops.

Ismail Hodja regards him thoughtfully, waiting for him to continue.

“Why did she decide to go now?” Hamza asks.

“She has lost a friend and we thought it best that she recover far from anything that could remind her of it.”

Hamza sits heavily on the divan by the door and puts his head in his hands. “I didn’t mean to disappear for so long. I suppose she thought I was dead or—worse—that I didn’t care about her. But when I get to Paris, I’ll explain everything.”

“It is not your absence she is mourning,” Ismail Hodja explains. Hamza’s head jerks up. “Although I know she is fond of you.”

“Who, then?” Hamza demands.

“Her English friend, Mary Dixon.”

Hamza looks puzzled. “What does Jaanan have to do with Mary Dixon? I don’t understand.”

“They met at an embassy function and became friends. My niece was much alone and it gave me great pleasure to see her bloom in this friendship. The poor woman drowned.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then you probably also know that the police believe she was drugged before falling into the Bosphorus. Perhaps even pushed, Allah forbid. The world would be an unhappy abode indeed were it not for the strength of our faith. The following day, Jaanan’s servant Violet had an accident and nearly drowned, but she survived, praise be to Allah. In any case, it is prudent that Jaanan be in a safe place, at least until the culprit is caught, lest his evil eye fall on other young women.” He eyes Hamza’s stunned face. “What is it that you wish to tell her, my son? I can pass a message on. Or, if you prefer to write, I can forward a letter to her.”

“Nothing. I…it was nothing.” Hamza stands. “If I could have her address, I will see her myself when I get to Paris. That is, if she’s willing to see me.”

Ismail Hodja studies Hamza’s face for a long moment, then says, “She is staying with her father’s brother near Arly.”

“Yes, I know the place.” Hamza bows his head. “Thank you, my hodja.”

“I know you and my niece have been friends for a long time, but my advice is not to presume on that past tie.” Ismail Hodja frowns. “Much has happened. You will have to regain her trust.”

“I understand, my hodja.” Hamza pauses, then stutters, “Actually, I came to ask something of you.”

Ismail Hodja extends his hand toward the divan. “Let us sit together and talk.”

Hamza doesn’t move.

“We must have a parliament to rein in the sultan,” he blurts out. “I beg you to ask the ulema, the religious scholars and judges, and your friends in the government to pressure the sultan.”

“Why would I do something like that?”

“He’s a tyrant, my hodja,” Hamza begins earnestly, “arresting people, ruining them on a whim. His spending is bankrupting the country.”

Ismail Hodja looks at Hamza curiously. “My dear son, as you are no doubt aware, I have tried to steer clear of politics. I have my own pursuits. These have endured”—he waves a hand at his library and the calligraphy on the table—“and outlived the minor lives and squabbles of ambitious men. Knowledge, beauty, and appreciation of Allah are the three enduring principles. Politics is just a fleeting shadow thrown against the wall by the sun.”

Hamza’s voice takes on a wheedling tone. “You have enormous influence, Ismail Hodja. How can you not use it for good? A word from you would move important men to reconsider their positions. If the ulema issued a fatwa in favor of reinstating the parliament, the sultan would have to listen.”

Ismail Hodja wags his head from side to side. “You overestimate my influence. I am just a poet and a scholar. I am not a politician. I have a minor official post. I am a teacher, an observer, nothing more.”

“You are a Nakshbendi sheikh. You have friends throughout the government. I know that people come here to seek your advice.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve watched what goes on here. Princes and ministers arriving secretly at all hours. You can’t tell me you’re not involved in politics.” Hamza’s tone has become heated.

“I don’t wish to argue politics with you, my son.” Ismail Hodja puts out his hands and sighs deeply. “But you are overstating Sultan Abdulhamid’s flaws. He has done much to modernize the empire. And despite his idiosyncrasies, he cares about his subjects.”

“You’re on the wrong side, my hodja. We will continue to work for a constitution and parliament from exile and we will succeed. The sultan himself may have to be eliminated. I came to warn you and ask you to join us before it’s too late.”

Ismail Hodja looks at Hamza with a puzzled frown. “There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you, my son. I know it was you that kidnapped Jaanan. Did you send me a letter threatening to harm her if I did not support your project?”

“What? I never threatened her.”

“Yet the letter seems to be in your hand. Jaanan said she recognized your writing.”

“Jaanan saw the letter?”

“Yes. I didn’t show it to her. She found it among my papers.”

Hamza is pale. “I didn’t mean to threaten her.”

“We have been like your family since you were a boy. My brother-in-law sponsored your career. You ate his bread. We are all fond of you, my niece more than anyone. How could you even think to hurt her?”

“I would never hurt Jaanan. It was only to get you to support the reforms. I would never have done anything to harm her. But she’ll never believe that now. I only meant to help her.”

“By kidnapping her and telling no one where she was? You let her believe we knew she was safe.”

“I meant to come and speak with you, but…things happened that stopped me. My driver was killed, and I feared for my life. I didn’t dare come here. Otherwise I would have explained the letter to you myself. It contained no threat to Jaanan, only a request for your help.”

“Please sit,” Ismail Hodja offers again. “We are your family. Everything can be discussed and, with the help of Allah, we will come to an understanding.”

Hamza doesn’t answer, his lips pressed in a grim line. “It’s over now. She’ll never…” He doesn’t finish. Suddenly his fist punches through the wood of the door. Jemal moves to restrain him, but Ismail Hodja catches Jemal’s eye and raises his chin slightly to indicate no. Hamza examines his bruised hand as if it belongs to someone else.

“You think you’re my family?” he says finally, his voice bitter. “I had my own family. Thanks to you and people like you, they were destroyed. You’re all hypocrites!” he bellows. “Look at you!” He eyes Jemal, who is poised to spring on him. “What would happen if everyone knew the truth about the respected hodja?”

Ismail Hodja lets himself down on the divan and shakes his head in disbelief. “Is that what you plan to do now, son?” he asks sadly. “You can no longer use my niece as leverage, so now you threaten my reputation?”

“It’s people like you who are destroying the empire. You crush people like my family without a second thought. You and that buffoon, the sultan. You are all evil, dissolute autocrats, playing with life and death.”

“It is your grief speaking, my son. Not the honorable young man I know. Your family lives in Aleppo, is that not so?”

“Leave my family out of this!”

“Your father was a kadi, was he not? What happened to him?”

“You know perfectly well what happened to him. It was your doing, you and the sultan. You poisoned his life,” Hamza chokes out.

“The poison has entered your veins, my son. We must bleed it out. Your father embezzled funds from the royal treasury, if I remember correctly.”

“That isn’t true.” Hamza lunges at Ismail Hodja, but Jemal is faster and catches his arms. Hamza twists in Jemal’s grip.

“That may be, that may be.” Ismail Hodja sighs. “It wouldn’t be the first time that the palace has resorted to artifice to eliminate an opponent. But your father gave information to the Arabs, did he not? He tried to enlist French support for a revolt. A kadi acting against his own government.”

Hamza stares at him. “How do you know this?”

“Those arrested gave information about your father’s role.”

“He always had the interests of the empire at heart. That didn’t mean he had to follow what the sultan commanded, if it was against what he thought was right.”

“The money was for the movement, then.”

“What money? What are you talking about?”

“And that is what you’re doing now, is it? Discarding the rules of law, morality, and human sentiment to do what you think is right. What is it you are trying to do?”

“Look who’s talking about morality!” Hamza spits out, looking pointedly over his shoulder at Jemal. Jemal twists his arms until Hamza yelps with pain.

Ismail Hodja smiles calmly. “You do not know everything you think you know. And what you do know, others know as well.” He shakes his head. “The hubris of the young. There is no profit in that direction, my son.”

Hamza looks puzzled.

Ismail Hodja smoothes his beard thoughtfully, then fixes Hamza in a steady gaze.

“I will not help you in your political goal, my son. I do not support violence or, may Allah protect him, the overthrow of the sultan.”

“It’s the only way.”

“I don’t believe that. I will not support the reintroduction of parliament under such conditions. There are other, more civilized ways.”

“You may change your mind,” Hamza says viciously.

“If Allah wills it. Let him go, please, Jemal.”

Jemal gives Hamza’s arms one more twist before he lets them fall.

As Hamza reaches the door, Ismail Hodja calls to him, “Hamza, my son. How is your mother? You had a sister, did you not?”

Hamza pivots and leaps for Ismail Hodja’s throat, Jemal right behind him. The two wrestle on the floor, upending the table and scattering sheets of paper. Unperturbed, Ismail Hodja gazes sadly at the blackness pressing in against the window. China cups and other small objects clatter to the floor. The glass narghile tips over, releasing water into the carpet.

“Don’t you dare mention my sister,” roars Hamza, struggling against Jemal’s grip. “She will be your last victim. I’ll make sure of that.”

“Allah is merciful, my son. May the poison in your veins be cleansed now. Examine your true motives in this. I know you are a good man.” He bows his head. “Selam aleikhum. Peace be upon you.”

Jemal wrestles Hamza to his feet and pushes him out the door. As soon as they are out of sight of Ismail Hodja, Jemal kicks Hamza so that he falls to the ground. With one motion, Jemal lifts him and throws him over his shoulder. He carries him to the gate and drops him stomach first onto Hamza’s horse tethered there, frees the reins, and slaps the animal’s rump. When the horse has disappeared down the dark road, Jemal returns to the house, stopping in the kitchen to fetch a glass of water for Ismail Hodja before returning to the study. He was the one who had found Hamza’s letter on the doorstep. He makes it his business to know about anything that might endanger his master. He does not believe in the peaceful draining of venom.

H
AMZA CURSES AS
he struggles to right himself in the saddle. The anesthetic of anger is rapidly giving way to pain as memories of his lost family mingle with the realization that Jaanan too is now lost to him. I will find her in Paris, he thinks, and explain everything. But he knows it will be difficult, if not impossible, to regain her trust. He halts and remounts properly. With determination, he spurs his horse onto the moonless road and turns south toward the city. What did she have to do with Mary Dixon? he wonders, glancing anxiously back at the screen of trees behind which Hannah too had abandoned him.