The Pasha of Cuisine

by Saygin Ersin

  The cook would soon realize that no one in the house was required to be aware of anything except for themselves because the presence of others was not a prerequisite for another’s existence, and a person’s absence did not lessen another’s presence. No one in the house told anyone else what to do or not to do. Together they carried in the sacks of spices brought in by ships, and they loaded the ships in the same way after the spices had been sorted. When they got hungry, they would put any spice they desired into a bowl of olive oil and dip a piece of bread into it. When they got tired or bored, they withdrew to their rooms or whiled away the hours in conversation, listening to music, or sometimes delving into love.

  Everyone spoke in quiet murmurs. Apart from the waves, the wind, and the clinking of jars, the only sounds were songs, musical instruments, lines by the poets Firdevsî, Fuzûlî, and Ruhi of Baghdad, or anecdotes by Zarri who had not yet changed his name to Nef’i.

  Of course, there was also the Lady of Essences’s voice, which rang out at the most unexpected times. Only she was granted the privilege of being able to speak loudly in the mansion, and only she could disrupt the seemingly infinite peace to remind them that the world was still turning with all the burdens it carried.

  The cook did not see the Lady of Essences that day, nor the day after, nor the day after that.

  When they encountered each other on the morning of his fourth day there, the Lady only asked him how he felt and then withdrew to her room. The next day, the cook learned that she had set off on a journey to buy spices and wouldn’t be back for at least three weeks. When the Lady returned, nothing changed. She would be there one minute and absent the next, and the lessons the cook was eagerly awaiting never seemed to begin.

  Despite feeling a deep respect for the way of life at the mansion and all its residents, the cook was becoming impatient. His desire to cook shriveled when he realized that there wasn’t even a proper stove at the mansion, let alone a kitchen, so he was forced to turn his attention to the processing of the spices, the carrying of loads, and tidying up. He listened to the poems recited at night on the terrace and joined the singing, but he couldn’t keep his mind occupied. He was bored, and as his boredom increased, the sorrow within him swelled, filling the void left behind. With each passing day he felt more and more trapped, and he began to despise the calm of the mansion, the peacefulness of the people there, the spices, and the scents.

  After almost a month, the cook could stand it no longer. He waited in front of the Lady’s room, and when she came out he asked when his lessons would begin. She gave him an odd look, as if she seemed to be hearing such a question for the first time in her life. The cook tried to frame his question another way: “You were going to teach me about spices. That’s what I was told.”

  After looking at him for a few more moments with the same blank expression, the Lady of Essences smiled pointedly. “Do you want to learn about spices?”

  The cook nodded.

  “Come with me,” the Lady said, and together they went downstairs. They walked past the rows of people working with sieves and mortars, and then stopped in front of a shelf, from which the Lady selected a jar at random. She opened the lid, quickly checked its contents, and shoved it into the cook’s hand. “Here’s some sesame. It’s a secret miracle. By itself it tastes almost of nothing, but adds density and a light oil to food. Smells slightly burnt after being cooked. There’s also sesame oil, which is another matter entirely. I’ll explain that later.”

  As the cook stared at the jar of sesame seeds in bewilderment, the Lady reached toward another shelf. “And here are nigella seeds. They also taste burnt at first, but then take on a sharp taste like aniseed. They burn brightly, but only for a moment. They don’t have that much power over the palate. Actually, never mind these. We should find something that’ll be useful to you. Let’s see …”

  After sniffing around the shelf in front of her for a moment, the Lady of Essences opened a large earthenware jar, took out a pinch of its contents, and tossed them into the air. The scent belonged to a spice that every cook knew well. “Cumin,” the Lady announced. “It’s one of the most capable spices. It changes the mood of whatever you cook. Its scent is what matters, not its taste. It doesn’t blend into food as well as black pepper or cinnamon, but when its scent blends into the scent of the dish, it creates an appetizing, lustful, inviting smell. Cumin calls out to you, lusty and enticing.”

  Just as the Lady was about to make her way to another shelf, the cook asked, “And what is its nature?”

  Again the Lady of Essences appeared surprised.

  The cook went on: “Is it warm, for example? Or moist?”

  “I don’t know,” the Lady curtly answered. “I’m not a doctor.”

  The cook was taken aback but said nothing. He thought they had begun their lessons at last and he longed for anything to occupy his thoughts.

  “May I have a pen and some paper?” he asked.

  The Lady burst into laughter. She pointed to the rows of shelves and the hundreds of jars, bowls, and pots that were on them. “What will you do, memorize them all?” she asked.

  Before the cook could open his mouth to reply, she went on to say, “Which ones are you going to memorize, and more importantly, what exactly will you be memorizing? Cinnamon, for example. It goes with sweet, savory, sour, and bitter. Here is ginger: you can cook it with meat or use it to make pickles or jam. What about cinnamon or ginger will you memorize? The taste of coriander for one person is not the same as for another. Oregano tastes very different when used in two dishes made by two different cooks. You can’t memorize spices, you can’t learn them. You can only understand them.”

  The Lady of Essences walked toward the cook and placed her finger in the center of his forehead and said, “Spices are not related to intelligence, but to emotions.” Then she pointed at his heart. “It is meaningless to know what spices are, whether they come from trees or roots or bark, or to memorize their natures, as it won’t be of any use to you. You should be able to inhale the scent of garlic and write two verses of poetry, compose an epic about the basil and mastic combining in your mouth, and extol the virtues of myrrh and a pinch of rosemary. Only then can you tell me that you’ve learned about spices. You should look into the eyes of the person you want to mesmerize with your food and see into their heart and soul, and at the same time be able to go through all the scents you know in your mind and decide which ones will either dampen or whet the appetite of their soul. Only then can I say that you’ve become the true Pasha of Cuisine.”

  The Lady of Essences took a breath and turned those eyes of hers, eyes which seemed to be mirrors of truth, to the cook’s once more before saying, “In order to do all that, you have to learn what it means to be human. To get to know humanity, you must first be aware of your own existence. As long as you try to run away from your own feelings as if they are ghosts, try to bury and destroy your memories as if they are worthless, I see no way forward for you. But I can give you a small piece of advice, for what it’s worth: stop fighting yourself. Break the chains of your memories. Let them flow. You only stop and think, but you need to think in the right way. Not just with your mind but with your heart, too.”

  At first, the cook thought she was making fun of him as she often did. It made no sense to him. Why would she suggest thinking to someone whose biggest problem was thinking and whose greatest desire was to stop his mind and keep his thoughts under control?

  Out of desperation, he went along with the Lady’s advice, trying to come to terms with himself by quieting his busy mind. If he didn’t feel like doing anything, he merely stood there; sometimes he would join in with the work and grind cinnamon for hours on end, and sometimes he would spend a whole day on the terrace staring at the sea.

  As the months went by, winter began to loom on the horizon and the winds began to blow stronger. One day the cook found himself doing exactly what the Lady had advised him to do: thinking.

  He had come to th
e conclusion that it was useless to force himself not to think, to try and banish the darkness from his soul and the memories from his mind. From the moment he began to think about everything he had been through, all the happiness and pain, all his dreams and nightmares, they became more manageable, and in time almost ceased being fears altogether.

  As he started to genuinely and truthfully think, and to bravely think, he also began to feel again, and he realized that he had crippled his soul so he wouldn’t suffer. Just as the night was a natural part of the day, pain, suffering, and gloom were parts of the heart, and trying to get rid of them did not bring peace but on the contrary left one’s spirit broken and devoid of feeling.

  Thinking about what had happened, thinking about Kamer and what could happen in the future, still filled his heart with an indescribable pain, but he no longer felt like a lifeless empty shell. Darkness wasn’t comparable to living in the void. It left a taste in one’s throat, no matter how sour; it smelled of longing and its fruit was tears.

  The cook wept. After all those years, he could finally cry.

  He had tried to hold himself back, terrified of what might happen if he let himself go. He had thought if he were to cry, his last defense would crumble and the ensuing darkness would fill his heart, making him its prisoner forever, condemning him to endless suffering.

  What he had really been frightened of was remembering. And crying meant remembering.

  The more he thought, the more he could see the truth of the matter. But he perceived his memories and his dreams not through eyes filled with fury and anguish as before, but as if he were an angel floating in the sky, aware that memories are left in the past and dreams never happen. He could see it all from outside, from up above: his childhood, the palace, the House of Pleasure, Master Adem, Sirrah, and Kamer. Most importantly, he could see himself. He could perceive his own life with all its what-ifs, if-onlys, truths, mistakes, hopes, worries, and everything he had done or not been able to do. Finally he could do nothing but admit one inescapable truth: he was still madly in love with Kamer.

  On one of those nights when he abandoned himself to the sound of the tumbling waves and the moon in the sky, murmuring a song he had once heard Kamer sing, he felt a gentle hand wipe away a tear that had started coursing down his cheek.

  The cook was startled. He turned and saw the Lady of Essences standing next to him.

  “Tears are the lifeblood of withered souls,” the Lady said, looking at the droplet on her fingertip. Then she sat down next to him. “Tell me. Tell me what happened.”

  It was the cook’s turn to be surprised. He had never imagined putting the thoughts in his mind into words until that day, let alone telling his entire story. It occurred to him that he hadn’t ever truly spoken to anyone in all his life apart from Kamer, and that even with her he had been secretive. The Lady of Essences had revealed his absolute solitude to him.

  To tell his story and put an end to the deathly silence with his own voice, he began with the first sentence that came to mind, which was perhaps the purest: “I was born in the palace …”

  At first he was ashamed of what he was doing. Somehow it felt pathetic. But as the words flowed, the knots came undone and the burden in his heart slowly began to lighten.

  After a while the cook had become not only the speaker but also the listener. He listened to himself as if he were someone else and saw with astonishment how the thoughts that had circled in his mind for all those years transformed when they came into contact with his tongue. What he had thought to be hopelessly complicated turned out to be simple, and what he had thought to be certain was actually doubtful. When he saw that a memory or dream he would spend entire nights mulling over took only three sentences to describe in words, he could do nothing but smile in confusion. Most of the time he couldn’t bring himself to lie, but sometimes he didn’t have the courage to speak of painful heavy truths exactly as they were, so he pruned and shaped his words before allowing them to venture forth.

  The cook talked all night, stopping only when dawn was about to break. The wind had subsided, the waves had calmed, and the sea had turned into a massive mirror waiting to add more color to the redness of the dawn which was about to break.

  The last words the cook uttered were, “It’s difficult.”

  The Lady of Essences replied with a short laugh. “Difficult? You think your life has been hard?”

  The cook could not reply. He merely looked at her.

  The Lady said, “Yes, bad things have happened to you, but your life couldn’t exactly be called hard. You know nothing of what hardship is. You were born in the palace and your parents doted on you. When you lost your family, you were welcomed by your masters, and they took care of you. You did not suffer as an apprentice nor toil as an assistant. Thanks to your God-given talent, you don’t even know what it means to compete. You have never lost! Because you have never lost, you haven’t learned how to win, how to fight and work to win. Only once were you met with a true challenge, and you failed at that.”

  The cook felt uneasy. Part of him wanted to grab the Lady and fling her into the sea, while another part said he should get down on his knees and kiss the hem of her skirt.

  The Lady went on: “You’ve told me all about your dreams. Kamer this and Kamer that. If a person wants something, dreaming is not enough. You have to have faith in your heart. If, instead of all those dreams, you’d had a drop of faith in love, you wouldn’t be in this state today. Now tell me. Kamer sent you that letter, fine, but what have you done? Besides crying and leaving your home, what else? Did you find her and ask her to say those words that were written in that letter? Were you afraid? Did your love made of dreams vanish when your dreams shattered? Did you follow her? Did you bring that pasha’s mansion down on his head? Did you set fire to the whole of Alexandria? Were a piece of paper and a few drops of ink the sum of your love? Tell me, young man. What have you done?”

  The cook bowed his head, the Lady’s voice echoing shrilly in his ears. He couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye. He knew her eyes would seek out an answer, and there was only one answer the cook could give: “Nothing.”

  That was how the cook discovered that the worst kind of shame arises not from what you do or what you fail at, but from what you don’t carry out to completion. He saw that empty, irrelevant, futile, or even evil actions could have a truthfulness and pride of their own.

  That day, as he looked at the Harem and felt Kamer slipping through his fingers, the cook could not justify standing there helplessly and giving in to fate.

  “There is a way, Master,” the cook repeated.

  “Son …” Master İsfendiyar replied, stammering. “Haseki Sultan has already seen to their engagement, and our sovereign has given his permission. The wedding can’t be prevented.”

  The cook laughed. “I know of something, Master, which listens to neither willpower nor edicts.”

  Concern flashed in the master’s eyes. “Only Darıcızade’s death could stop this wedding,” he said. “And we can’t even get close to him. He’s protected by an army of guards. Even if we were able to get into his chamber, we would never be able to get out. Suppose we could get out, what then? It would be certain death. I’m not afraid for my sake, but you’re still trying to—”

  “I said there was a way,” the cook interrupted him. He took a step closer to Master İsfendiyar. “But I need some help.”

  The master’s lips moved silently for a few moments as if he was praying. “Tell me.”

  “I need cooks. Three or four of them, good enough to create a feast, and they must be discreet. Can you do that?”

  “Easily. What else?”

  “I need to leave the palace tonight without anyone seeing me. There’s someone I must speak with. Could you open the rear gate for me?”

  “That’s easy as well. What else?”

  “That is all for now, Master. I will be back before the morning prayers, don’t worry.”

  “Good
. Wait here. I’m going to send an assistant to tell you that I’ve summoned you, which means the gate is open.”

  “Thank you, Master.”

  “When you return, don’t go up to the dormitory. Go to the Odalisques’ Kitchen, no matter what time it is. I will be waiting for you there.”

  “But why?”

  “Just do as I say,” Master İsfendiyar replied, and then he disappeared into the darkness.

  When the cook returned to the palace, he knew he would have to wait a few hours for the morning call to prayer. He had paid a short visit to Mad Bayram’s tavern, explained the situation in brief, and received a promise of help. Master Bayram was an astute and rather uncurious person. He merely said, “Don’t you worry, my boy. We will take care of this.”

  The cook padded toward the kitchen after closing and latching the rear gate of the Imperial Kitchens. To reach the kitchen, he had to pass by the stewards’ office, the cellar, and the lodgings. He hid in a corner and waited for the guard to finish his rounds. After he was sure there was no one around, he quickly walked across the courtyard. The night was so dark that the stars seemed blindingly bright. Placing his right hand on the wall, he felt his way along the Kitchens’ Passageway and entered through the first door he came upon. He could see a dim light coming from the Odalisques’ Kitchen. The single candle burning there revealed the silhouette of a man, but it wasn’t Master İsfendiyar. This man was taller and larger. When he noticed the movement of a few more shadows behind the silhouette, the cook panicked. Just as he was about to slink back the way he had come, a voice said, “It’s me, brother. Don’t worry.”

  He recognized the voice. “Master Bekir?”

  “Yes.”

  The cook took a few more steps toward the candle. Master Bekir was standing in the middle of the kitchen with his usual friendly grin. His six assistants were lined up behind him.