by Saygin Ersin
Neyyir Agha once again turned to the meal-bearers. His smile was gone, replaced by a haughty mask and courtly seriousness. He lingered by the cook, seemingly waiting for something.
When the meal-bearers put the cover on the last tray and securely fastened everything down with ropes, they lined up in front of the Black Eunuch, who nodded for them to pick up the trays. Then he said to them, “Wait for me in front of the Gate of Felicity.”
After the last of the meal-bearers left the kitchen, Neyyir Agha said, “Well done to all,” and followed them out. There was nothing out of the ordinary in his behavior apart from the fact that he lightly brushed against the cook as he walked by. Master Bekir told his assistants to tidy up and his apprentices to start cleaning. Picking up his grindstone, he sat down on a low stool to sharpen his knives, just as he did every evening.
The cook waited for a short while to make sure everyone was busy with their work before going into the courtyard. As he had guessed, Neyyir Agha was waiting for him on the corner of the porticos in front of the kitchen, watching the meal-bearers head off in various directions. The cook saw Firuz Agha and his entourage walking toward the Gate of Felicity. A boy behind Firuz Agha was carrying the Chief Sword Bearer’s dinner. At the rear of the entourage there was a man carrying a sack of bread, and the cook knew that at the bottom of the sack was a porcelain bowl containing freshly fried sweets with cheese because he had put it there as a dessert for the page boys of the Privy Chamber.
When the courtyard was empty at last, the cook approached Neyyir Agha. Without taking his eyes off the meal-bearers who were waiting for him near the Gate of Felicity, he said to the cook, “Yet again you’ve done well, Master Effendi.”
“Thank you,” replied the cook. “But it’s not over yet. Once everyone eats and we receive no complaints, only then can we feel at ease.”
The Black Eunuch glanced at the cook. “You’ve nothing to worry about,” he said. “After all, you cook for the Chief Sword Bearer, the most difficult person to please within the walls of this palace. The fact that His Highness the Agha is content with your cooking is known to everyone. If you don’t receive any complaints from him, who could ever say a word against you?”
The cook replied, “Here, we are all one and the same. If one kitchen receives a complaint, we are all held responsible.”
“I understand,” Neyyir Agha responded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Drawing a little closer, he continued, “But what I don’t understand, Master Effendi, is why you want to help in the Odalisques’ Kitchen as well, when your burden is as heavy as it is. Why create more work for yourself?”
If the Black Eunuch had been looking not into the cook’s eyes but at his chest, he may have seen that his heart was pounding wildly. Despite this, the young cook’s expression was impassive. He leaned toward Neyyir Agha and said, “If you love your art, it becomes your life. For us, the rank of who we cook for matters nothing. The more palates a cook pleases, the happier he will feel. Besides, not everyone is lucky enough to work with a cook as talented as Master Bekir and learn from him. I’m not making life more difficult for myself but seizing the opportunities that come my way.”
Neyyir Agha did not reply. He kept his eyes trained on the cook’s face, trying to read his expression. The cook saw the agha’s huge hand reaching into his cloak. His instincts told him to step away but he remained where he was and kept his eyes fixed on the agha’s. “Then please accept this, Master Effendi,” Neyyir Agha said, “as a reward for the love you feel for your work.”
The cook looked at the large bottle Neyyir Agha was holding within the folds of his cloak. “Kandiye wine,” the Black Eunuch continued. “It was taken from Haseki Sultan’s personal cellar to be presented to you as a token of the odalisques’ appreciation.”
The cook was surprised. “That is most kind of them,” he stammered. He wondered if Kamer had been one of the odalisques who sent the wine or even suggested the idea herself, but then he realized that she would never take such a risk.
Neyyir Agha handed him the wine, wishing him a pleasant evening as he did, and just as he was about to head toward the Gate of Felicity, the cook said, “Pardon my curiosity, but I have a question myself.”
The Black Eunuch was intrigued, as the cook usually spoke very little. “But of course,” he said.
The cook knew well the danger his question could put him in. But in the end his curiosity and longing overcame him. “I sometimes go out into the courtyard at night to get some fresh air,” he explained, “and at certain times I hear the sound of singing coming from the Harem. Forgive me for my impertinence, but I was very curious because her voice is so lovely. Who sings those songs?”
Neyyir Agha smiled and answered without hesitation. “Who could it be? The Harem’s greatest nuisance. Her name is Nur-i Leyl. You’re right, she has a beautiful voice, but what use is that? I’ve been at the Harem for many years, and I’ve never seen a lady so obstinate, cross, or proud. She was supposedly given as a gift to the Harem so she could entertain Haseki Sultan and please her with her voice and dance, but there’s no chance of that. Suppose there’s a banquet and you tell her to sing—she won’t open her mouth. But give her a lashing and she sings like a nightingale. You tell her to dance, and she stands as still as a statue. But if you throw her into the dungeon, she dances in her cell. So many haughty, headstrong girls have become meek and mild within the walls of the Imperial Harem, but that one has confounded us all. I myself don’t know how we’ll get rid of such a nuisance. Haseki Sultan keeps berating us for not having set her straight yet. God forbid we suffer for her disobedience in the end.”
Neyyir Agha was breathless and his face was flushed. The cook was biting the insides of his cheeks to keep himself from laughing. “I see,” he finally managed to say, sincerely adding, “May God make your work easier.”
After bidding the cook farewell, the Black Eunuch strode toward the meal-bearers and the cook returned to the kitchen.
His emotions were wavering between anger, impatience, yearning, and determination, but above all he felt happy. For years he had kept Kamer alive in his mind as a dream, but now the ghost in his mind had at last taken on a bodily form. He no longer had to carry her within his memories, imagine her in idle daydreams, or see her in his dreams and nightmares and wonder if she was real.
The calm that settled over the kitchens at the end of the day also descended upon the Aghas’ Kitchen. The cooks had left and the handful of assistants and apprentices who remained wearily placed the crockery and cutlery back on the shelves. The only person still bristling with energy was Mahir. He was sitting by the stove, wiping down chopping boards with a piece of cloth. The cook approached him quietly from behind and asked, “Almost finished?”
Startled, Mahir turned around. “Thank you, Master, yes,” he said, getting up.
The cook looked over his assistant. He seemed nervous and his hands were shaking. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You shouldn’t have had me cook that dish,” Mahir replied, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m sure I got it wrong.”
The cook smiled. Earlier that day, he had told his assistant that he could make one of the dishes for the Chief Sword Bearer’s dinner himself, to the surprise of Mahir and the rest of the people in the kitchen. The dish in question was meat and celery root stew. Mahir had thought he was joking at first. When the cook repeated his request, Mahir protested. In the previous weeks, Mahir seemed to have gained some confidence, but he was still level-headed enough to know that he shouldn’t cook anything that would be served to the Chief Sword Bearer by himself.
When the cook had loudly repeated his request for the third time, Mahir obediently took his place at the table and started sullenly pulling leaves off celery stalks.
The cook knew that meat and celery stew was a difficult dish to prepare. In addition, it was almost spring and the winter vegetables were no longer so fresh. But he was also certain of two things. First, Siyavuş Agha was no conn
oisseur of cuisine, contrary to what he wanted everyone to believe. Second, a single whisper from the Pasha of Cuisine would be powerful enough to make up for a thousand faults in a dish.
Mahir had made his first mistake by roasting the meat for too long, as it would cook again along with celery inside dove meat covered in dough, and by doing so, he spoiled not only the appearance of the dish but its taste.
The seasoning was an utter disaster. And because Mahir was incapable of learning how to measure out the spices, he had tried repeating the seasoning a second time, filling the kitchen with a rancid stench in the process. That was the only time the cook stepped in to help. With a few whispers, the stench had vanished and the dish became at least slightly more edible.
The cook looked at his apprentice, who was trembling as if an executioner’s noose had been wound around his neck and asked, “Mahir, did you not taste the food you cooked?”
“I did, Master,” Mahir stammered.
“And? Was there anything missing? Anything in excess? Were all the spices and the salt right?”
“It seemed right to me,” Mahir replied.
Poor boy, he’s hopeless, the cook thought.
Mahir continued, “But we’re talking about the Chief Sword Bearer. Will he like it just as I did?”
The cook sighed. “Is it your hands you don’t trust, or your palate? Suppose you know nothing of cooking or enjoying food. Did I not taste it?”
“You did, Master,” Mahir replied, abashed.
“Did I tell you it was fine?”
“You did.”
“Whose sense of taste do you trust more? Mine or the agha’s?”
Mahir fixed his eyes on the ground. “Yours, Master. Of course.”
“Well, there you have it!” said the cook. “I’m telling you for the last time, your cooking was fine.”
After a pause, and with tears welling up in his eyes again, Mahir said, “But Master! We’re talking about the Chief Sword Bearer. What if he doesn’t like it? We’ll be ruined.”
The cook looked at Mahir, thinking how terrible it must be to be untalented, ambitious, and cowardly all at once. “Don’t worry, Mahir,” he replied. “We could open a soup shop in Galata if that were to happen. It’s not the end of the world.”
Mahir fell silent.
Just as the cook was about to leave, he turned around and asked, “Did the Privy Chamber Page say anything?”
After hesitating for a moment, Mahir replied, “He thanked you for the pastries, Master.”
The cook fixed his eyes on his assistant. “Anything else?”
Mahir thought for a bit, looked at the apprentices milling around, stepped closer to his master and said in a near whisper, “He spoke ill of the Chief Sword Bearer again, Master. The other day he even swore about the agha. I pretended not to hear. It scares me, Master, you know the walls have ears.”
The cook nodded. He knew that his assistant was quite right to be afraid because if Siyavuş Agha was to hear what the page was saying about him, he would bring to ruin not only who spoke those words but anyone who heard them. But he knew he had to take that risk, and in any case when the time was right, he would set matters straight.
Leaving his assistant to his worries and fears, the cook withdrew to the lodgings. He wanted to rest until the evening call to prayer and then, just like he did at the end of every day when he hid a surprise at the bottom of the pots, he planned to go and listen to Kamer sing.
He spent a few hours lying half-awake in bed thinking of Kamer. Then he went to the masjid before anyone else, quickly performed his prayers, and went downstairs. As he walked through the narrow passageway in front of the kitchens, he decided to go out into the courtyard and stand under the oak tree as he had done before. But when he saw a ladder propped up against the confectionery wall, he stopped, checked to make sure no one was around, and quickly returned to the lodgings. He took the bottle of wine he had hidden in his trunk and went back downstairs. No one was around. Quickly he walked through the Kitchens’ Passageway and climbed up to the roof using the ladder. As soon as he reached the roof, he felt a sense of relief. He remembered how much he’d missed being alone. For weeks, from the moment he woke up until he went to bed at night, he’d been surrounded by people, which exhausted him. He breathed in the cool night air as if it were an elixir. Sitting down, he leaned back against one of the chimneys just as he had done years before at the House of Pleasure. Soon, Kamer would join him.
He removed the stopper of the bottle and smelled its contents. He took a small sip. It was exquisite, and he decided that it definitely merited a place in Haseki Sultan’s cellar.
He thought about all that he heard during the day. Neyyir Agha had called Kamer “Nur-i Leyl,” meaning “light of the night.” He disliked the name, and muttered to himself, “What a farce! Couldn’t they have come up with something better?”
As he sipped his wine, another thought occurred to him: Kamer had lost her name as well! No one else could better understand the trying times he’d been through. The cook made himself another promise: he was going to give Kamer her name back.
Just then, as if attesting to his promise, a song began to drift from the domes of the Harem up toward the sky. The words of the song were sad but her voice didn’t sound as dejected as it had before. He assumed the cheer in her voice was due to none other than the crackers coated with tulum cheese and Kastamonu garlic which he had hidden at the bottom of the pots. The cook knew that cheese reminded one of home, love, and childhood, which was why it was the closest companion of bread, and the warm nature of garlic filled one with vivacity.
Kamer sang:
“No one but the fire in my heart burns for me,
No one but the morning wind opens my door …”
The cook listened with his eyes closed, hardly taking a breath. He didn’t want to hear, see, or sense anything aside from her voice. His heart seemed to have stopped again and he was filled with silence. He felt as if Kamer was right beside him, sitting with her back to the chimney, as if he could touch her if he reached out.
The song ended and the spell was broken. The cook was alone with the night, with his yearning and despair.
And the sole remedy was wine.
The next day he couldn’t quite remember how he got down the ladder or into bed. When he woke up in the morning, still feeling the effects of the wine, the first thing he did was check himself for injuries. Thank God I didn’t hurt myself, he thought.
The day had started as usual and appeared set to continue in the same way. When he stepped into the kitchen, he found the Privy Chamber Page waiting for him just like every morning. But he sensed that something strange was happening. Master İsfendiyar and the Royal Kitchen’s head cook were also standing next to the page.
The cook approached them with measured steps, nodded to the cooks, and bid them good morning. All three men were looking at him in silence. Master İsfendiyar turned to the Privy Chamber Page and said, “Go ahead.”
Firuz Agha looked nervous. “Master Effendi,” he began, “the praises of your name have reached the ears of Our Lord the Sultan. He wishes for you to cook for him.”
The cook tried to conceal his excitement, but not because he wanted to make a show of modesty. He knew that he had to remain calm and keep his mind clear, because he was about to take a major step in his plan. That was precisely what he had been waiting for since the very beginning.
At the same time, he was internally cursing his luck. Because of a delay beyond his control, he wasn’t prepared yet and he knew that he had to act quick. “Our gracious sultan’s wish is my command,” he replied, his voice steady. “I shall try to be worthy of the honor he has bestowed upon me.”
“Doubtless you will,” the page replied. His voice seemed sincere but his expression betrayed an unease that the cook could not understand. He continued, “Our sovereign will be having dinner with His Highness the Chief Sword Bearer in two days’ time. You will create a single dish for their meal.
”
The cook bowed, saluting the ultan in absentia. “It will be my pleasure. Is there anything in particular our sovereign wishes to partake of?”
“You are free to choose to prepare whatever you like.”
The Royal Kitchen’s head cook cut in, glancing condescendingly at the cook, and said, “You shall cook in the Royal Kitchen. If there are any ingredients you require, you need only ask, and we shall bring them to you immediately. I would also like to offer my congratulations. You will be the youngest cook to step foot in the Royal Kitchen in the history of the Imperial Kitchens. Am I right, Master İsfendiyar?”
The master slowly nodded. He looked at the cook with concern in his eyes. “He’s far too young.”
The cook knew well why Master İsfendiyar was concerned and what he was trying to imply. “Please don’t be troubled,” he said. Then he turned to the Royal Kitchen’s head cook and said, “I am aware of the gravity of the request made of me. I will endeavor to be worthy of it.”
“God willing,” the three men replied in unison. After casting one last glance at the cook, Master İsfendiyar left with the Royal Kitchens’s head cook.
Checking to make sure that no one was eavesdropping, the cook lowered his voice and asked, “How did this happen? Do you have any idea?”
“Of course,” the Privy Chamber Page replied. “The Chief Sword Bearer has sung your praises so often that he finally managed to even interest our sovereign.”
The cook nodded. Neither the fact that the page did not refer to the Chief Sword Bearer as “His Highness” nor the anger that twisted his features each time he uttered the name had escaped his attention. “What’s troubling you?” he asked. “You don’t seem well. Is there a problem at the Inner Palace?”
The page was grinding his teeth. “How could there not be a problem, Master Effendi?” he asked, his voice trembling with rage. “The problem is right at the top of the Inner Palace before our very eyes!”
The cook feigned incomprehension. “What ever do you mean?”