by Saygin Ersin
As the Treasurer sat there relishing the taste of the leeks, down in the courtyard silence reigned, hanging so thickly in the air that the crackling of the torches carried by the servants seemed to be a roar.
Even though he begged and pleaded, Zümrützade Hüsnü Bey was unable to keep Siyavuş Agha from storming off through the gate, bristling with spite and calculations for revenge. After the agha left, the other guests quickly and noiselessly followed suit.
Hüsnü Bey was plunged into thought. He wondered how the Chief Sword Bearer would settle accounts, knowing he would do so even over a mere dish of leeks. After all, he was Siyavuş Agha, a man who took revenge no matter how big or small the offence. He was pitiless, and that cruelty was what propelled him up through the ranks of the state’s hierarchy.
His name had echoed through the halls of the palace on the night the sultan ascended to the throne. Everyone knew about the new sovereign’s orders and the murders that the agha had committed with his silk noose, and he made no effort to keep them a secret. After having a few drinks at banquets and revelries, a vicious gleam would come into his eyes and he would begin to talk, a lascivious grin twisting his lips as he spoke about the atrocities he committed, sparing no detail.
The other guests, unable to close their ears to his tales of the slaughtering of women and children, would feel gloom pressing down upon their hearts. But he was Siyavuş Agha, after all, so they had no choice but to join in with his deranged laughter.
That was precisely what concerned Zümrützade Hüsnü Bey. Siyavuş Agha would take that dish of leeks which had been set before him as a personal affront and mete out his punishment accordingly. Hüsnü Bey decided that the next morning he would send some of his slaves to the palace bearing trunks filled with gifts, as he knew that gold and jewelry soothed the soul of the Chief Sword Bearer, and then he would quietly ride out the storm. His greatest fear was that he might have to deal with Siyavuş Agha in the near future, in which case the Chief Sword Bearer would unleash his rage with exacting precision.
Hüsnü Bey heaved a sigh and turned to his butler, who appeared as unsteady as the flickering flames of the torches in the servants’ hands. Hüsnü Bey’s eyes, which had been heavy with grief just a moment before, suddenly filled with anger. “Summon the cook,” he snapped.
The butler’s expression fell, as if he’d been expecting that command but praying it would never be uttered. “Yes, Master,” he murmured and shuffled off, disappearing into the shadows of the courtyard.
Soon after, the butler reappeared in the light of the torches, a thin figure following a few steps behind him. The butler stopped and stepped aside. The man behind him took a few bold steps forward until his face and figure were well within the glow of the torches. He stopped two paces from Hüsnü Bey and greeted him.
Hüsnü Bey could only bring himself to glance at the young face shining before him as the cook’s piercing green eyes bore into his own. A few brown curls of hair fell onto the cook’s eyebrows from beneath his turban, and his moustache with its curled ends lent his face an expression of mild, composed nobility. He not so much walked as glided, spoke little, but was eloquent when he did so, and worked at a calm, steady pace, never saying a harsh word even when the kitchen was at its busiest. Throughout his life, Hüsnü Bey had known dozens of aristocrats and for many of them, their elegance, just like their reputation, was a veneer, their actions mere imitations of refinement. But this young man was different. He carried nobility in his soul, not only in his body.
“Haven’t I told you a thousand times?” Hüsnü Bey growled. It occurred to him that the forced anger in his voice probably wasn’t very convincing, but he brushed aside the thought.
With a hint of a smile on his lips, the cook asked, “About what?”
Hüsnü Bey raised his voice. “The leeks, the cursed leeks! Hadn’t I told you that the Chief Sword Bearer hates leeks?”
The young cook thought for a moment and then smiled again. “Ah, yes, Your Grace, you did mention that …”
By now Hüsnü Bey actually was starting to get angry. The flames of a nearby torch seemed to be blown back by the force of his breath as he bellowed, “Then why on earth did you cook them?”
A somber silence fell over the courtyard. The smile had fallen from the cook’s lips but his gaze was still fixed on Hüsnü Bey’s eyes. Just as Hüsnü Bey was about to berate him further, the cook calmly asked, “Did he not enjoy them?”
Hüsnü Bey’s jaw dropped.
The cook asked, “Did he not eat them? Was something wrong?”
The master was at a loss for words. He couldn’t bring himself to say, “No, he didn’t eat them,” because the image of the Chief Sword Bearer raising the spoon of leeks to his mouth still lingered in his thoughts. Desperately he shouted, “You watch your tongue! I told you that the agha hates leeks. All of Constantinople knows that!”
“Well, the whole of Constantinople is wrong then. Including His Highness the Agha himself,” the cook coolly responded.
Hüsnü Bey was trembling from head to toe, not so much out of anger but because he was flustered. Still, he was one of the gentry, a man of influence; if he so desired, he could kill the cook on the spot and no one would dare question him about it. He could send him into exile for the rest of his life. But in the face of the young man’s coolness and the exquisiteness of his cooking, Hüsnü Bey felt helpless. For months, ever since that green-eyed menace had first stepped through the door of his mansion, that was how it had been. Hüsnü Bey had sensed that feeling of helplessness before, but that night, for the very first time, he admitted it to himself, and that was why he was trembling.
Drawing on all his willpower, he gestured toward the main gate as he prepared to say, “Get out!” but the words stuck in his throat because of a taste that inexplicably appeared on his palate just at that moment. It was the taste of medfune. He imagined the slow-cooked aubergine dissolving in his mouth, the smell of braised meat, and the sharpness of sumac. Slowly he licked his lips and gulped. Still pointing at the gate, he glanced at his servants and the butler standing nearby with their torches. At that moment, Hüsnü Bey realized what a delicate position he was in. The eyes of his servants weren’t just filled with concern but also anger. For a second, he wondered about the dishes the cook had prepared which now held them spellbound.
Hüsnü Bey knew that his hand mustn’t remain aloft any longer, pointing at the gate. At last he broke free from the grip of the tastes he was imagining and pulled himself together. Pointing at the cook, he snapped at the butler, “Take him away and give him forty lashes.”
The butler motioned for two servants to take the cook to the cellar, which was at the far end of the courtyard. Hüsnü Bey watched the young man as he walked, head held high in the light of the flames; it was as if he wasn’t being led away but rather leading his captors. Glancing up at the windows of the mansion’s harem, Hüsnü Bey saw a sudden movement of shadows. He surmised that the women of the harem were also curious about what would happen to the cook.
“God, protect my sanity,” Hüsnü Bey muttered. He was in a sticky situation indeed, one that would appear to be sheer lunacy to anyone on the outside. The fact of the matter was that the cook had bewitched his entire household, from the harem to the servants, and everyone did his bidding. Early on, Hüsnü Bey had sensed that something was amiss; in the beginning he had cast his unease from his thoughts but as the situation became graver, he realized that he was trapped. Dozens of times he had decided to fire the cook but each time he put off doing so “until the next meal,” and ultimately all his firm decisions softened in the presence of a dish of kapama or the scent of stuffed vegetables. He wouldn’t have minded so much if he could have discovered the cook’s secret, but that proved to be impossible. The cook worked alone, without an apprentice or assistant. Whenever Hüsnü Bey sent his servants into the kitchen to keep an eye on him, they would return babbling about the wondrous scents there. The cook’s past was just as puzzl
ing for him. Hüsnü Bey had searched high and low but been unable to discover anything about who he was. In the end, Hüsnü Bey felt like he was on the verge of losing his mind.
He breathed in the cool evening air and sighed. Thinking that Hüsnü Bey had said something, the butler sprang forward and said, “Yes, master?” Guessing that the butler had also been lost in thought, Hüsnü Bey ordered him away with a snap of his fingers.
The butler led the servants back into the mansion. Hüsnü Bey lingered in the courtyard a while longer, taking comfort in the darkness and quiet, which helped clear his mind. He knew that he had to come up with a solution, but he also knew that sending the cook away wasn’t an option. He wasn’t about to make another firm decision only to be brought to shame because he went back on it. He thought, Only wisdom and science can sort this out. He considered asking a religious scholar for help, someone with extensive knowledge and pious insights who he could treat as a confidant. He knew that if the Council of Elders caught wind of his troubles, or even worse the Shaykh-al Islam, it would spell disaster. He already had enough trouble with the Chief Sword Bearer, and he knew that if word got out about his current plight, he would be endlessly ridiculed.
Feeling more at ease now that he’d come up with a solution, Hüsnü Bey decided to make his way to the harem, but just as he was about to walk through the door he turned around, deciding that it would be better to go to the men’s quarters, smoke half a pipe, and think about who he could speak with as a confidant. Before going inside, he listened at the cellar door. After every lash of the cane, he could hear a muffled groan. Hüsnü Bey smiled, wondering if forty lashes had been too few. Then he thought about lunch the following day, worriedly realizing that if the cook couldn’t stand, he wouldn’t be able to prepare anything. Since he hadn’t been able to enjoy dinner that night, he hoped to make up for it the following day. A broad smile on his lips, he walked toward the staircase.
However, matters weren’t going to unfold as the unfortunate Hüsnü Bey hoped. Not as he hoped at all.
As Zümrützade Hüsnü Bey puffed on his pipe in his room, the young cook lit the stove in the kitchen and started making a pot of semolina halva, humming a tune as he listened to the sounds coming from the cellar. There was another crack of the cane, followed by a groan. A voice said, “Easy, easy! For heaven’s sake, you’re not caning an enemy here.”
“As if your hide were so precious!” another voice responded. “We’re not even halfway done yet.”
“What do you mean? That made eleven.”
“You fool, it’s not like I’ve hit you in the head! You still know how to count, right? We’ve only done nine so far.”
“But the soles of my feet are already bruised. Please, show some mercy.”
“Look, you gave me twenty lashes. Now it’s my turn. Plus, the Master is next door, and he’s keeping count.”
He was right. The cook was stirring the contents of the pot, counting each blow. The page boys had agreed to get twenty lashes each in exchange for the semolina halva that the cook was preparing.
When he heard the last crack of the cane, he took the pot off the stove. Not every cook could make halva so quickly without burning it, but for our young cook, it was as easy as breathing. The sweet smell of caramelized sugar that filled the kitchen was a testament to the perfection of his work.
Shortly afterwards, he heard the sound of two pairs of feet scuffling along the floor and then a knock on the door. “Come in,” the cook called out. As the two boys stumbled inside, the cook glanced into the courtyard to make sure no one was watching.
When they breathed in the scent of the halva, the boys forgot all about their pain. Eyes fixed on the pot, they were eager to get their hands on their reward. “It’s done, Master,” one of them said. “Forty lashes.”
The other one added, “Maybe more, but certainly not less than forty.”
The cook looked at the boys with a mixture of anger and pity. They were the most wretched residents at that wretched mansion. They washed Hüsnü Bey’s laundry and in return they were allowed to be vile to their heart’s content. They had gone through so much in their short lives that they could no longer tell pain from pleasure. The cook was well aware of the fact that such people always had a fondness for sweets, particularly syrupy desserts. The rich taste of the sugar, which went straight to the brain, mingled with a pleasant burning sensation in the throat, creating a sense of delight.
The cook made his way toward a wicker basket of spoons hanging on the wall. He chose two large spoons, held them out to the boys, and left the kitchen, as he couldn’t stand to see his halva devoured with such haste and savagery.
If there was one thing that had escaped the attention of the servants who had been scouring the mansion from top to bottom since the morning call to prayer for the feast that night, it was the cook’s attire. The butler, who had an eye for the smallest of details, and even the mansion’s owner, hadn’t noticed that he was wearing his outdoor clothes. Like many things that escape notice, it was an important detail.
After withdrawing to his room, which was next to the kitchen, the cook started packing his belongings. He didn’t have much. Of the two outfits he owned, he was wearing the newer one, and the other was at the bottom of his bundle. On top of those he placed his work clothes, which consisted of two burgundy shirts, a pair of knee-length shalwar, and shoes with low heels. He wrapped his set of knives, which included a small knife, a larger one, and a meat cleaver, in a leather case which he packed beside his shoes. Before placing his red silk apron—which was a symbol of his rank as a master cook—in his bundle, he pulled two books out from under his bed. One of them was bound in black, and the other in green. He placed the thicker green book on his apron, and, after glancing over a few pages in the black book, he placed it on top of the other one and wrapped the apron around them.
He was almost ready. He sat cross-legged on the bed and stared at length at the single oil lamp illuminating the room. Then he closed his eyes and whispered one word. That word was from a language that was either unknown or had been forgotten long ago. At that moment, a scent wafted into his mind. The cook breathed it in, the scent of apple with cloves spreading in waves from his mind to his senses.
Nights of loneliness and yearning had taught him that if he breathed in deeply enough, so deep that he was filled with memories and dreams as well as the scent he conjured up in his mind, a beautiful figure from his past would appear in a corner of his mind, even if fleetingly. That moment, which was briefer than the flash of a flint spark, was the sole source of his love for life and his desire to keep fighting to stay alive.
The cook sat and waited, trying to relax his body and mind. His journey was beginning. The next day, nothing and no one would remain the same, not in his life nor at that mansion he was leaving behind, nor at the place to which he was going.
Zümrützade Hüsnü Bey woke up quite late the next morning.
The previous night, when the servants found the poor Treasurer still sitting at the dinner table, they informed Hüsnü Bey as well as the neighborhood physician, who confirmed that Halil Pasha was paralyzed. After placing Halil Pasha in the back of a coach, they sent him home to be tended to by his wives.
As he smoked his pipe, Hüsnü Bey had some coffee to clear his mind. Then he filled another pipe and had another strong coffee, at which point the possibility of sleep completely abandoned him, so he went to his harem, hoping a little vigorous activity might bring on sleep. Afterwards, he went to the mansion’s hammam for his ablutions and finally got into bed well after midnight.
When he woke up, he quickly did his morning prayers, even though it was well past morning by that time. He noticed that there was a commotion in the mansion. He wasn’t surprised, however, that no one had let him know what was happening because he was always in a foul mood when he woke up, and unless there was pressing official business, no one would dare knock on his door, not even if the mansion was burning down.
; Once downstairs, Hüsnü Bey saw that everyone was gathered in front of the kitchen. Yet again, shadows were darting about behind the latticed windows of the harem. After casting a stern glance up at his wives and odalisques, he walked across the courtyard. Everyone was staring at the kitchen door and the door to the small room beside the kitchen, which were still closed. The fact that no one had noticed his arrival infuriated Hüsnü Bey.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” he thundered, making everyone jump. Anxious eyes turned toward him. The butler looked up at the kitchen’s chimney. There was no smoke.
“Speak!” Hüsnü Bey bellowed again. But the fear he saw in their faces was already working its way into his soul.
The butler said, “He should have lit the stove hours ago. It’s been ages since the morning call to prayer. Something must have happened to him.”