by Saygin Ersin
That wasn’t in itself a problem. The state had etiquette to follow and its subjects had experience. They could draw the route, calculate the amount of supplies needed, prepare them, and set out on the road in a single day. But the cellar, which Şakir Effendi had meticulously put back into order, would be emptied again, and the sudden expedition would siphon off a great deal of the money from the Treasury, which meant it would be even harder to replace the supplies that were going to run out.
Şakir Effendi had been a public servant for many years and he could foresee the approaching storm. Thinking about the Janissaries’ payment made his hair stand on end, but even that wasn’t the most pressing matter. He knew that if he couldn’t somehow find a way to feed the remainder of the palace residents after the expedition, he might be removed from his post before the payment had to be made to the Janissaries. Who knows, he thought, perhaps that was the best thing that could happen to me, all things considered.
When the cook returned to the kitchen, he saw that all was calm save for a few cooks who were whispering to each other. Silence hung heavily in the air in the Aghas’ Kitchen. Many of the assistants were nowhere to be seen. He guessed that they had been instructed to begin the preparations.
All the masters were dejected, as they knew that the hardships of the expedition would be a heavy burden on them as they tried to please the aghas, pashas, and the sovereign as they cooked in a makeshift kitchen under a half-open tent.
The only person who seemed to be pleased was Mahir, who was rubbing ash on a dirty pot to clean it, whispering a cheerful tune as he dreamed of the days he would spend in close quarters with the palace elite.
When Mahir saw the cook, he put down the pot and smiled. “Look, Master,” he said, wiping ash from his hands, “fortune is on our side again. Our sovereign will ask for another dish from us. This time we won’t embarrass ourselves.”
The cook studied his assistant for a moment. If these had been ordinary times and they had been living in an ordinary place, he would have punished Mahir for his impertinence, or at the very least said, “If there is an embarrassment in this kitchen, Mahir, it’s you!” But he knew that it wasn’t the time or the place, and it suited him for his assistant to be lost in dreams.
“God willing,” he said. “God willing …” He picked up a small pan and said, “Now run along and bring me some pastry flour, eggs, butter, a little yogurt, and sesame oil.”
“Straightaway, Master,” Mahir replied, but he didn’t move. “Are you going to make fritters again?”
The cook nodded.
“For the Privy Chamber?” Mahir asked.
“They should have something sweet to eat before the expedition,” the cook replied, running out of patience. “They won’t have any such treats while they’re gone.”
Mahir was surprised. “But Master, won’t we be with them? Can’t you cook desserts during the expedition?”
The cook bit his tongue, unsure of whether he should be angry with himself or with his assistant. He snapped, “Don’t ask so many questions! Now run along.”
“Straightaway, Master,” Mahir said and ran off. He got the butter, eggs, and yogurt from the shelves in the kitchen and then made his way to the cellar to get the pastry flour and sesame oil. Returning not long after, he was carrying not only a sack of flour and a pitcher of oil, but also a large bowl. With a smile he said, “You forgot to tell me to bring honey, but I brought it anyway.” The smile fell from his lips when he saw the cook holding a large paper cone.
“Is that … ceremonial sugar, Master?” he stammered, gazing at the large clear crystals of sugar that glimmered even in the dim light of the kitchen. The best honey in the capital cost sixteen or twenty silver coins per oka, but sugar sold for a hundred silver coins for the same amount. Few households could afford that kind of sugar. Desserts and sherbets that were served to the sovereign used sugar instead of honey, but even then ceremonial sugar was only used on special occasions such as royal weddings or ceremonies held in honor of newborn heirs.
“Where did you get it, Master?” Mahir asked. “Is that what you’ll use for the fritters?” He wanted to ask other questions but clamped his mouth shut when he saw the cook looking at him, his index finger pressed to his lips. The cook looked around to see if anyone was watching them. After all, there was no way he could explain why he was using sugar for a sweet he was going to secretly send to the Privy Chamber as a gift.
The cook said, “You go get a little rest.”
Mahir was crestfallen. “Don’t you want any help, Master?” he asked.
“No,” the cook replied without looking at him. “Go on.”
“Very well, Master,” Mahir replied and shuffled toward the door. The pitiful tone of his voice pained the cook’s heart. I’m sorry, Mahir, he thought, and then set to work on the fritters.
First he put away the yogurt and the eggs, as they weren’t necessary. He put the flour into the pan and made a small hollow atop the mound of flour with his fist. He looked around again and saw that everybody was engrossed in their work. He took out a small glass bottle that was tucked into his sash and slowly uncorked it. When he poured the thick yellow-green liquid into the pan, the pungent smell of linden rose into the air. The cook took the lid off of a boiling pot of soup to mask the scent.
He planned on making fritters with fermented dough, which was why he had prepared the linden mixture. As he whispered over the pot, the linden mixture congealed and was now ready to raise the dough. It would give the fritters a soft, full texture, and, most importantly, create the mysterious essence at their center.
Everyone knew that linden naturally brought on a feeling of calmness, and when fermented, that effect was heightened. Some religious scholars stated that fermented linden was an intoxicating substance that Muslims were prohibited from consuming, and in some territories of the empire, judges had even had forbidden people from fermenting it.
Such religious scholars may have been slightly overzealous in condemning that beautifully scented flower, but if they were to have tasted a pastry made with the linden fermented by the Pasha of Cuisine, they wouldn’t have just advised against its consumption but banned it outright. In the hands of the Pasha of Cuisine, the innocent fermentation created a substance that tore down the barriers of logic which held back strong emotions and did away with all self-control. And that was exactly what the cook desired. Whoever ate the fritters would forget about fear and loyalty, discarding tradition and rules in the process. The void created by the fermented linden would be filled with the sugar, the taste of which would be heightened by the sesame oil. The cook knew that sweet, one of the four basic tastes, was coupled with the element of fire, which was famed for its violence.
The cook fried the round fritters, and, after soaking them in a bowl of sugar water prepared with a little lemon, he placed them in a porcelain bowl shaped like a gondola. He didn’t put a lid on the bowl to make sure they stayed crisp. As the scent of the fritters filled the air, everyone in the kitchen glanced at the bowl on the counter; it was only the cook’s aloof disposition which prevented them from asking for a taste.
The cook pretended to clean his knives as he waited for Firuz Agha. When he saw a silhouette pass through the doorway, he thought Firuz Agha had finally arrived, but it was Mahir.
Mahir approached with his head bowed and a sullen expression on his face. He walked slowly toward the table where the cook was standing and silently stood two paces away. “So,” the cook said, “is something amiss?”
“Neyyir Agha came,” Mahir replied.
“I see,” the cook murmured. After a pause he asked, “Is he well?”
“He was in high spirits.”
“For good reason, I suppose?”
“I asked but he didn’t tell me why. He only said ‘We’re getting rid of our troubles.’ But he said that it was too early to say anything.”
The cook frowned, thinking that if a discreet agha from the Harem was openly being cheerful, someth
ing serious must have transpired. A feeling of unease took hold of him. I have to find out what’s happening, he thought. He was about to make a decisive step in his plan, and he knew that he couldn’t leave anything to chance.
The cook was lost in thought, thinking about how he could speak to Neyyir Agha and ask him what had happened. As his mind raced, he saw a hand reaching toward the bowl of fritters. At first, he didn’t mind but when he remembered what he had put in them, he shouted, “No!”
In his panic, he had shouted so loudly that every head in the kitchen turned toward him. Mahir stood there, frozen. His hand was hovering above the bowl and he looked at his master with resentment and fear in his eyes.
“They’re still hot,” the cook offered, but it was too late to mend Mahir’s hurt feelings. One of the nearby assistants in the kitchen could hold it back no longer and let out a hearty laugh. On the verge of tears, Mahir stormed out of the kitchen.
The cook felt bad for him, but the thought of Mahir acting without loyalty and fear was too much to bear.
He knew Mahir was angry at him and that he would become angrier yet. Very soon, when the time was right, the cook would give his assistant the opportunity to take his revenge and cool his burning heart. That was Mahir’s purpose, and that was why he needed him, just like the others, including Treasurer Halil Pasha, Neyyir Agha, Privy Chamber Page Firuz Agha, Chief Sword Bearer Siyavuş Agha, the sovereign, and Haseki Sultan.
For months he had been setting the stage with meticulous care and the play was about to begin. The gondola-shaped bowl by his elbow would begin its journey toward the Inner Palace along with the Chief Sword Bearer’s meal.
And the next day, nothing would be the same at the palace.
When the cook withdrew to his lodgings that night, he knew very well he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep. Throughout the night, he feigned sleep and listened for any sounds that were out of the ordinary. The next morning just after the prayers, a farewell ceremony was going to be held for the sultan with all the residents of the palace in attendance. In the morning, the more experienced assistants would teach the apprentices how to behave during the ceremony. The cooks would get dressed, put on their finest attire along with embroidered handkerchiefs and spotless blue and red aprons, wind their turbans, comb their moustaches, and trim their beards.
Around midnight the palace fell silent. The cook closed his eyes, slowed down his breathing, and gave himself over to his thoughts. Time passed with agonizing slowness, and having to pretend to be asleep while his mind was occupied only increased the tediousness of waiting, which in itself was tantamount to torture.
In fact, the cook knew very well what was going to happen.
But he wondered how the events would transpire. He tried to clear his mind of doubts, but they kept coming back. As each scene unfolded before his eyes, his conscience recoiled in pain, and he had to stoke the flames of his anger to suppress the guilt he felt. And every time he felt angry, he found himself wandering among the painful memories of his past.
It was as if he possessed two hearts, one of which was quick-tempered and stern, while the other wise and compassionate.
An hour before the morning call to prayer, the cook heard what he was waiting for. Hasty footsteps made their way toward the kitchens from the Gate of Felicity; based on the sound of the steps, the cook surmised that they belonged to a page boy. He heard the footsteps enter the Royal Kitchen, make their way toward the lodgings via the passageway, and pause for a moment in the courtyard. Clearly whoever it was did not want to enter the lodgings alone. Then he heard another pair of feet slowly approaching. The cook thought, It’s probably the cellar guard. After a brief exchange of whispers, the guard became agitated. They walked toward the lodgings together and began to climb the steps.
The lodging guard met the newcomers at the top of the stairs, and after receiving the news he circled the cook’s bed a few times, considering waking him, but then made his way toward Master İsfendiyar. A few of the cooks woke up and sleepily murmured, “What’s the matter? What happened?” As more of them woke up, the cook heard the sound of other footsteps approaching from the direction of the Gate of Felicity and he was certain he heard the heavy footsteps of Firuz Agha approaching the kitchen.
The cook did not stir until Master İsfendiyar approached him with his limping gait and poked him in the shoulder with his cane. The cook opened his eyes, feigning surprise, and looked up. “What is the matter, Master?” Master İsfendiyar’s eyes were filled with anger and concern, but the cook thought that he saw a little admiration as well. “Firuz Agha is downstairs,” he said. “He’s waiting for you.”
The cook clambered out of bed, muttering, “What does he want at this hour?” Ignoring the cooks who had gathered around his bed, he put on his shirt and rushed downstairs.
Firuz Agha was waiting for him in the courtyard a few paces from the gate which led to the lodgings. There were two other pages with him. The cook assumed that the one who was out of breath must have been the one who’d rushed ahead to deliver the news.
The cook approached Firuz Agha and greeted him. Before asking anything, he waited for the curious cooks who had followed him to congregate within earshot. From what he had heard while he was in bed, news had already spread around the lodgings, and now everyone was waiting for the Privy Chamber Page to make an official announcement.
After the sound of footsteps fell silent, the cook looked into the agha’s eyes and asked, “What is all this commotion about?”
It may have seemed like an innocent question, but he made no effort to conceal in his voice what he already knew.
After glancing at the cook, Firuz Agha bowed his head in a contrived expression of grief. “His Highness the Chief Sword Bearer has passed away,” he said.
The cook was shaken, but not because he felt pity or sorrow or guilt. On the contrary, he was surprised by how unmoved his conscience was. A strange dark sense of relief, which he was ashamed to feel, swept over him. Part of his heart felt light as a feather, but the other was filled with the dregs of fury and still felt heavy as lead. He was a novice when it came to revenge and was tasting it for the first time. He was just learning that rather than erasing fury, revenge only made it a permanent part of one’s heart, just like words inscribed in stone.
Without waiting for the insincere mutterings from the crowd behind him to quiet, he replied, “My condolences. How did it happen?”
“A terrible accident,” the Privy Chamber Page responded. “His Highness the Agha wanted to visit the hammam. He felt he should perform his ablutions before seeing off our sovereign on his expedition in the morning. The late agha was quite a hasty person, as you know. He was walking quickly through the hammam and slipped, hitting his head on the corner of the basin. God must have willed it so.”
“So be the will of God,” the cook murmured. They glanced into each other’s eyes knowingly.
The lie may have slipped from Firuz Agha’s lips, but the flames of the truth burned in his eyes. Firuz Agha knew he had to remain silent, and perhaps would have to do so for many years to come. But one day he would talk about it. The cook knew as well that Firuz Agha would one day tell someone in detail what had taken place a few hours earlier that night inside the Inner Palace hammam.
He would begin by talking about Siyavuş Agha. He would explain at length what a cruel, tyrannical, vindictive, and cursed man he had been. Then he would talk about that night. How Siyavuş Agha had bellowed for all the novice pages to get up and get dressed, how he ordered the hammam fire to be stoked, how he poured a hand basin full of hot water over the furnace attendant’s head just because he wanted the water to be hotter, how he soaped and washed himself for hours, not caring about the poor novice boys drenched in sweat, waiting hand and foot on him in all that heat and humidity while dressed in full ceremonial attire as per his orders, how he began to beat the novice boy who was responsible for his laundry with a silk towel he’d doused in cold water because the towel offered
to him to dry himself was not soft enough, and how a large lad who could not stand to watch his friend get beaten grabbed Siyavuş Agha’s tiny head and slammed it against the corner of the washbasin. He would tell everything, filled with anger which would still remain as fresh as it had been on that night.
The cook knew this because one day he would do the same.
How he wormed his way into Siyavuş Agha’s dreams by cooking the food he hated the most so that he would be appointed to the Imperial Kitchens, how he multiplied the agha’s conceit and cruelty with the food he cooked, how he turned the page boys’ hatred and spite into violence drop by drop with the sweets he kept sending them, and how he cleared the path toward his goal by getting rid of the agha who wielded such power over the palace as well as the Harem.
He would of course also say that there were hundreds of other ways he could’ve gotten rid of the Chief Sword Bearer without killing him. He could’ve confined him to his bed, just like he had done with Treasurer Halil Pasha, or driven him mad so that he would spend the rest of his days under lock and key.
“The agha could have still been alive,” the cook would admit.
It was true. Neither his cruel treatment of the page boys nor his influence at the palace was reason enough to warrant the Chief Sword Bearer’s demise.
Had Siyavuş Agha not been so fond of retelling in detail the story about how he caught an odalisque running for her life on the previous sultan’s enthronement night and how, on the roof of the Harem, just next to the Tower of Justice, he had slipped a noose around her neck and flung the still-conscious woman into the sea inside a sack on the shores of Sarayburnu, he may have still been alive. He told that story at every banquet table as if it was the peak of his career.
And the cook remembered quite well the woman who was caught on the roof of the Harem that night. It was his mother.
Siyavuş Agha shared that fate with so many other cruel people—his death had been sudden, and it was quickly forgotten. Contrary to what was expected, His Highness the Sultan did not cancel his expedition but merely postponed his departure from morning to noon.