by Saygin Ersin
The previous cook had gotten tired of the complaints made by the boy’s mother and nanny, so he decided to quit, and Master İsfendiyar took his place. He was intrigued by the strange behavior of the child. It wasn’t that he was fussy or didn’t like certain foods. It was about the food itself. Take lentil soup, for example. He would gulp down a bowl of soup with relish one day and spit it out the next.
When the master realized the truth of the matter, he was so surprised that he could have swallowed his own tongue. The child wouldn’t eat something if the slightest mistake had been made when it was cooked, such as if the heat had been too high, if there was too much of a certain spice, or if the butter was rancid. In short, his palate was extraordinary. To test his theory, the master began to deliberately make mistakes when he was cooking. The experiment never failed. The boy noticed the mistakes of even the most experienced cooks and would refuse to eat what he was served. After making that discovery, Master İsfendiyar started to pay more attention to the young prince’s food, choosing the highest quality ingredients and cooking his food in separate pots. He cooked for him like that for three years, putting an end to his constant crying fits. The dishes he prepared helped the boy grow, bringing color to his face and making his eyes sparkle a brighter shade of green.
That night twenty years earlier, the child had just turned five years old.
The cook also remembered that night …
He remembered the silence more than anything. The hardened silence under whose weight the Harem had been buckling since early morning.
Then he remembered his father: how, on that day, he had hugged him tightly dozens of times, and performed prayer after prayer.
He remembered how Güldeste, his nanny, who had been his father’s wet-nurse, wept silently from dawn till dusk, reading the Qur’an.
How cruel it was for a person to watch his own death being mourned.
There was a knock on the door shortly after the evening call to prayer. One of the Black Eunuchs handed his father a summons. His father received the edict with a deep bow, kissed it, and placed it over his head.
When his father hugged him for the last time, he was sitting in his mother’s lap. His father placed his hands on each side of his face and kissed his cheeks. He never forgot how his father’s thin moustache tickled his skin.
His father kissed his mother one last time on the forehead, whispering something in her ear. “Of course,” his mother whispered in return.
He looked at his mother’s clear features and eyes, which were green like his own. From that day on, the word “resolute” always made him think of his mother’s face at that moment.
His father walked out without looking back. When the sound of his footsteps could no longer be heard, Güldeste broke down in tears. Women from the neighboring rooms joined in one by one, all of them weeping for the wet-nurse who had to send the boy she’d raised to the executioner’s noose.
Nineteen princes, nineteen brothers, walked into the hands of their executioners as the edict demanded, out of obedience to ancient law and respect for the peace of the land.
The cook remembered falling asleep in his mother’s lap. When he awoke to the sound of screams, his head was under the covers. Doors were broken down and furniture upturned. The screams of women echoed through the halls:
“My son!”
“My Mustafa!”
“My Mehmed!”
“My Bayezid!”
“My Murad!”
“My Korkut!”
The sultan’s thirst for blood was still unquenched. Another edict was issued, one that ordered the killing of the princes’ children and pregnant wives. There weren’t enough executioners to carry out the killings, so the new sultan set his royal dogs from the Inner Palace upon the occupants of the Harem.
The rest was darkness. He remembered burying his face in his mother’s breast, her heart beating like a dove’s, her scent, her breathing, the tumult.
“Stand behind me,” Güldeste whispered to the boy’s mother. This time there was no trace of sorrow or fear in her voice. They heard the sound of swords being unsheathed, the door being broken down, and the grunts of men. Güldeste whispered again, “We must go.”
He remembered running, his mother’s breathing becoming more labored, and the shrieks of horror that lodged in her throat.
They made it to the landing, Güldeste right behind them. She stopped and called out to them one last time: “Run!”
They stopped only once when they heard Güldeste let out a scream.
The cook remembered passing through narrow passageways and climbing up stairs, and then feeling the cool night air on his face. He looked up from his mother’s breast to breathe in the fresh air and glanced around. They were on a roof surrounded by minarets and towers. His mother ran toward one of the towers but their way was blocked by a wall. Two figures were running after them, one of them brandishing a dagger while the other was clutching a noose.
“Climb onto my shoulders,” his mother said. “Climb up …”
The boy clambered onto her shoulders and managed to climb on top of the wall. His mother jumped, trying but failing to get a grip. On her second try, she held on, but she slipped and fell to the ground. The figures were getting ever closer. She jumped again, catching hold of the edge of the wall, but she was too tired to pull herself up. With his tiny hands the boy held onto his mother’s arm and pulled with all his might, but he didn’t have the strength.
Their pursuers reached the wall and started pulling his mother down by her waist but she refused to let go, and the boy held on as tightly as he could. As her fingers slipped, she looked at her son’s face one last time, her tear-filled eyes gleaming in the light of the moon. She smiled and whispered, “Go.”
He started running. He passed two large domed buildings, and then the ground slipped out from beneath his feet. He remembered tumbling downwards into a void, letting out a short scream as he fell before hitting the ground. After a moment of silence, his nostrils filled with the scent of freshly cut vegetables. He got up and looked around, rubbing his aching arm. It was dark. He didn’t know where he was or where he would go. Then he noticed another smell, one that he knew well—the smell of chicken, which he loved. He began to follow it. As he got closer, he caught the scent of pepper. He quickened his steps as he caught the scent of rice boiled as soft as his mother’s hands. His fear started to fade and he broke into a run.
Master İsfendiyar was stirring a pot, thinking about the mute dawn that he knew would break in a few hours’ time and wondering how many coffins would be carried out through the third gate. There was one thing, however, that he knew for certain: No one would ever speak about what had happened that night or its victims. The palace had condemned those who remained to certain death.
When the cook walked into the kitchen for the first time in his life that night, Master İsfendiyar was removing the pot of soup from the stove.
Master İsfendiyar saw the boy standing by the door. His face was a mask of horror as he clutched his arm, his green eyes pleading for help.
The master’s surprise quickly gave way to fear for his life, as he heard the sound of footsteps echoing outside and he knew what would happen if they caught him helping the boy. His conscience told him to find a way but his fears held him back.
He stepped out of the kitchen, still unsure of what he should do. He hid in a dark corner near the gate of the confectionary and saw the torches looming near. Palace guards, pages from the Inner Palace, and Black and White Eunuchs were pouring into the courtyard, which was now aglow in the light of torches. He imagined the cold blade of a sharp dagger pressed against his neck.
Knees shaking, he returned to the kitchen. All the curses he had been heaping upon the sultan moments ago left his thoughts. He knew that if he didn’t help the boy he would come to despise himself, but fear was greater than all else, and fear was always right.
However, what he saw when he walked back into the kitchen would save both the boy’s life
and Master İsfendiyar’s conscience.
The boy had climbed onto the counter and sat next to the pot of soup, and he was trying to get a spoonful with a ladle that was as long as he was tall.
In itself, that may have not been surprising as every cook knows that fear can be one of the best ways to whet the appetite. What caught his attention was the scent of the soup, as he knew it wasn’t his own handiwork.
It was overwhelming enough to make him forget all his fears. There were open earthenware jars on the counter beside the boy and his tiny fingers were covered in spices.
The master stuck two fingers into the pot and tasted the soup. He found himself unable to stop licking his fingers, feeling as though he might faint from joy at any moment. While he’d been a cook for years and risen through the ranks to be stationed in the Royal Kitchen, he’d never heard of such a recipe nor recalled such a taste. The soup had hints of clover tinged with a perfect combination of cumin and pepper. Although he used the same spices day in and out, he was unable to figure out how the boy had come up with such an ideal blend—nor would he ever.
When he heard footsteps approaching the kitchen, he picked up the boy and placed him in a large pot under the counter. Before putting on the lid, he told the boy, “Don’t make a sound.” The boy nodded, still clutching the spoon.
What saved them from the wrath of the palace guards who burst into the kitchen was partly the prestige of the Royal Kitchen and partly the soup. No one in their right mind would ever want to run the risk of being blamed for the simplest case of food poisoning or the smallest stomach cramp that anyone in the sultan’s household might get as the result of the food cooked there, and the palace guards were smart enough to know better. They only took a few steps inside and were content with asking Master İsfendiyar a few questions. Soon enough, however, they began to sniff the air. The master realized that the scent of the soup had enchanted not just himself but the guards as well. The guards gladly accepted the bowls of soup he offered them and even said “God’s blessings be upon you” as they left.
Master İsfendiyar waited until dawn to whisk the boy out of the kitchen. After asking the head cook for two hours’ leave, he took the boy to the home of a childhood friend. He asked him to take the child to Master Adem, who had trained them both. Upon hearing the name of their master, his friend agreed without saying a word.
His hands trembling, Master İsfendiyar wrote four words on a scrap of paper which he placed in the boy’s palm.
Those four words had the power to set anyone’s heart aflutter:
“The Pasha of Cuisine.”
Master İsfendiyar and the cook whispered in the darkness under the portico in front of the kitchen. The cook told him about all that had transpired and what he intended to do, withholding only the methods he planned to use.
The master’s face knotted in a frown.
“Look,” he said, chuckling, “it’s not like I can hide you in a cauldron this time, you won’t fit.”
The cook laughed. “God willing, there won’t be any need for that.” Then his expression became grave. “But if anything goes wrong, you must pretend that you don’t know who I really am. Promise me that. You risked your life for me once already.”
Master İsfendiyar nodded and glanced at the Tower of Justice, thinking of what he could do to help. “I can’t have you taken on at the Royal Kitchen,” he sighed. “That’s above my position.”
“There’s no need for that,” the cook responded. “I have no business there anyway.”
The master’s eyes remained on the Tower. “But I will ask around. I know people there. I can find out where she is and—”
The cook cut in, “No! I don’t want anyone mentioning her name. Not a single whisper.”
“Hear me out,” Master İsfendiyar continued. “I’m just thinking of your well-being. But … are you sure this is worth it? You know what kind of place this is. No one ever leaves the way they came in. Afterwards … well, I don’t want to see your dreams crushed.”
The cook laughed, but there was a bitter edge to his voice. “This has nothing to do with dreams, Master. It doesn’t matter what she may say to me. But I have to do this. It is the only thing I truly want to do.”
Master İsfendiyar heaved a deep sigh, looking into the cook’s determined eyes. “Very well, but tell me what I can do for you.”
“Do you know the boy Mahir? I want him to be my assistant.”
Surprised, the master asked, “The one who watches over the lodgings?”
“Yes, him.”
“Don’t be fooled by what he’s called. His name might mean ‘wise,’ but he’s not much help at all.”
“I know that. Why else would you have him watch over the lodgings?”
“And I don’t trust him.”
“I know that.”
The master searched the cook’s eyes and realized that it was pointless to ask too many questions. “Consider it done. Mahir will be your assistant. But don’t rely on him too much.”
“I know what I’m getting myself into,” the cook replied. “But there’s something else.”
“Yes?”
“I need to spend some time alone in the Odalisques’ Kitchen tomorrow. Could you arrange that?”
Master İsfendiyar thought for a few moments. “I’ll find a way.”
“Then that’s all for now.” The cook embraced Master İsfendiyar. “Thank you.”
“No, son, it is you who I must thank. Now go on, off to bed with you. Tomorrow you’ll get up along with everyone else. Don’t expect any special treatment from me just because you cook for an agha. I care nothing for the Chief Sword Bearer or his ilk.”
The cook folded his hands and bowed.
“Good night,” the master said.
Everyone was asleep at the lodgings. The cook tiptoed to his bed like a shadow, mulling over his plans. He was sure. He had to be sure. Then he closed his eyes, cleared his mind of thoughts, and drifted into a deep sleep.
When he was awoken by the morning call to prayer, the sky was still dark. Mahir, who was on guard duty again, was dashing around lighting the oil lamps. Yet again he was late. One of the older cooks, no doubt tired of waking up to darkness every morning, snapped, “For God’s sake, Mahir! Be a man of your name for once, why don’t you!”
The cook chuckled to himself, realizing that he had indeed chosen the right person to be his assistant. He stretched, got out of bed, and joined the other cooks making their way to the hammam.
They performed their ablutions, taking turns according to rank, and prayed together. By the time they made their way to the kitchen, the stoves had been lit and the water-bearers had filled all the pitchers. The usual sounds arose from the kitchens: the whooshing of bellows, the jangling of cauldrons, the clatter of knives, the thudding of meat cleavers, the rustling of rice poured into bowls.
In one of the kitchens, the smell of burnt oil filled the air and a cook shouted, “You idiot, I told you to put in equal parts flour and oil for the miyane!”
The trembling voice of a young apprentice answered, “That’s what I did, Master. I put in a spoonful of oil for each spoonful of flour.”
Then there was the sound of a slap. “Since when is a spoonful of oil the same as a spoonful of flour? Don’t you know how to use the scales?”
Someone else called out, “Bring some water!” and another cook asked for the fires to be stoked.
One assistant chided another, “Look, you’re not giving water to a horse. Pour it in slowly,” and a cook threatened his apprentice, “If you take your eyes off that stove for a single moment and burn those onions, you’ll regret the day you were born.”
The cook smiled as he listened to the sounds of the kitchen, but his joy was short-lived. Just as he’d been expecting, Firuz Agha from the Privy Chamber appeared in the doorway.
Over a pair of dark yellow shalwar he was wearing a long cream-colored shirt with a tulip pattern. The hem of his shirt was gathered in front and tucked
under a sash tied around his waist, which was the same shade of yellow as his baggy pants. While Firuz Agha was meticulously dressed, there was unmistakable panic and anxiety in his eyes.
“Is something wrong?” the cook enquired.
The page tried to muster a smile. “His Highness the Agha must have got up on the wrong side of bed this morning. He summoned us all for a tongue-lashing, saying that his quarters were dirty.”
“Well,” the cook replied, “I hope you’re not too troubled?”
“No, sir. It happens all the time. We’re used to it now.”
“I know that what you have to do is anything but easy. Perhaps I could help. A nice meal might calm the agha’s anger. Do tell, what would His Highness the Agha like today?”
“That is most kind of you,” the page replied, genuinely grateful. “His Highness the Agha would like fried eggs for lunch and stewed lamb for dinner.”
The cook tried to conceal his surprise at the Chief Sword Bearer’s request. Stewed lamb was a rather ordinary dish that novice page boys ate almost every day of the week and fried eggs were a quick lunch for inexperienced pages, because as soon as they climbed the ranks a little, they’d fry up eggs in their small kitchens whenever they got a chance and gobble them down in a quiet corner.
It was telling that Siyavuş Agha had chosen those two dishes, as they spoke of his own time as a novice working at the palace. The cook guessed that the internal wounds he’d spent years patching up had begun to bleed again, and the book of his conscience had fallen open. The cook knew that would happen but he was surprised at how quickly it had all unfolded. Either the stewed leeks had been a much more potent dish than he thought or the wounds in Siyavuş Agha’s psyche were deeper than he’d assumed. Either way, he was certain of one thing: the agha’s soul was in the grip of a mysterious dread. The agha didn’t yet realize that his woes were bound up with his past, but he was seeking a remedy in the dishes of his difficult youth. Siyavuş Agha was wrong, however. There was no cure for his sickened soul. The unease that stirred in Siyavuş Agha’s breast and stoked his anger would only get worse day by day because his rotten soul was now at the mercy of the cook.