A Tale of Two Sisters

by Merryn Allingham

  She would certainly not understand where her sister was headed right now. Lydia was feeling the slightest bit queasy about it herself. If only she could have heard from Ismet, but she had had no contact with him since the day she had agreed to help. She needed to see his smiling eyes, needed to hear his beautiful voice telling her she was doing the right thing. Every time she met Paul Boucher, she found it more difficult to defend her actions. She could argue with herself that at least she had brought a little pleasure into the man’s life – his existence, like her sister’s, seemed all shade – but it was a frail defence. She tried hard to convince herself she was doing nothing wrong, writing in her journal a superficial account to justify what deep down she knew was unjustifiable. But afterwards she had thought the entry foolish and cut the page free. If it were to fall into the wrong hands, it could prove dangerous. Something had made her keep the page though, folded into the neat bookmark she used daily. It satisfied her sense of mischief.

  Paul had adopted the role of guide with enthusiasm and in her hours free from the schoolroom had shuttled her from one city site to another – the Hagia Sophia, the Hippodrome, the Galata Tower, the Golden Horn – until she was dizzy with a jumble of facts and dates and scenes. Naz had watched her comings and goings with interest, almost timing her, Lydia thought, noting when her mistress left and when she returned. No doubt the girl handed her spying on to another once Lydia travelled beyond the palace. She wished him luck – it would inevitably be a ‘him’… There would be little to report other than two people viewing one historic site after another. In Lydia’s case, often wearily.

  Last week, it had been the turn of Dolmabahce Palace, a visit for which Paul had needed to seek special permission. The seaside palace was a good deal smaller than Topkapi, built on a more human scale, yet the Sultan’s quarters were as magnificent: his study, the library, the rest rooms, a gorgeous hammam with marbles brought from Egypt. She had loved it all, loved the whole day since Rabia and Esma had been with them. When the girls discovered she intended to visit their favourite palace, they had begged to go with her, and after much to-ing and fro-ing on Sevda’s part, the Valide Sultan had given her gracious permission.

  Paul had not been enamoured with the arrangement, but it suited Lydia well. The girls enlivened what might have been a tedious day, and while Paul offered her the usual facts and figures and she nodded at what she hoped were the right times, she had played intermittent hide and seek with them. Their presence had saved her from boredom, but more importantly had given a veneer of respectability to the trips she and Paul made together. If the couple were happy to be accompanied by young children, their friendship must be entirely innocent. The one person most likely to object had, in any case, raised no obstacle: Lydia suspected that Elise Boucher was glad to be left alone.

  Today they were off to the Grand Bazaar, but without the children. It was not a place for the young, Sevda said. Far too busy and far too noisy. They could easily get lost there.

  ‘And you should not be going either, Miss Lydia. You have visited enough with Monsieur Boucher. I have said to you often. You will be talked about.’

  ‘And I am not talked about already? I’m enjoying seeing so much of your beautiful city. You would not deny me that, surely?’

  ‘Of course I would not. It is wonderful that you love Constantinople. And love the palace and your pupils. But you must show discretion. I worry for you. Stay with me today and we will finish your purse together.’

  She took Sevda’s hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘What harm can come to me?’

  ‘There are bad forces.’ Then when she saw Lydia smile, she said, ‘You are a stranger here. You cannot know. Visit these marvellous places but take with you your slave.’

  ‘Naz, you mean. Naz as my chaperone? I really don’t think so, Sevda.’

  The girl sighed and disappeared, no doubt hurrying to receive her orders for the day from Sultan Rahîme. Lydia was glad. It was as well she would be alone with Paul today. She needed to step up her campaign. Six weeks of flattering and cajoling had so far got her nowhere. This morning she must try a good deal harder.

  They had arranged to meet outside the harem entrance, but instead she hurried through the marbled gateway, into the third courtyard and went directly to the administration wing. She was earlier than they had agreed and was hoping to find the office empty. She was fairly sure that Paul’s clerk did not work on a Saturday, and Paul himself could be elsewhere in the palace delivering his mountain of paper. It had to be worth a try.

  She was in for a disappointment. He was seated behind his desk and looked up, surprised to see her. ‘I thought—’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘I woke early and thought it would be good to leave before time. I’d like to spend as long as possible in the Bazaar.’

  He put away his pen, shuffled the papers he had been working on and locked them away in the top drawer of his desk. Over the weeks, she had worked out that the drawer was the only part of the office that was constantly locked. The clerk seemed to have no key for it, which meant that whatever the drawer contained was highly confidential.

  He came to stand beside her, his glance appreciative. ‘As always, Lydia, you look most charming.’

  ‘Thank you, kind sir.’ She bobbed a pretend curtsy. ‘I have to look charming – I am to be escorted by the most attractive man in Constantinople.’

  He pulled a face, but she knew he was pleased. Flattery was the easy bit. He locked the door behind him and together they walked to the palace gates where he hailed a carriage for the short drive.

  They were rumbling over the cobbles when she said, ‘I wasn’t the only one to wake early today. You were already in the office.’

  ‘There is always so much work to do.’

  ‘Perhaps you should tell your father you need more help.’

  ‘I have Ibrahim, but he is lazy and makes mistakes I have to put right.’

  ‘Then tell him to leave – and find a clerk who is industrious and doesn’t make mistakes.’

  ‘I cannot do that.’

  ‘Why not, if he fails to do his work properly?’

  ‘There are reasons,’ he said evasively.

  They stopped talking while the carriage manoeuvred its way through carts and pedestrians and wandering animals. The streets seemed exceptionally busy this morning.

  She wondered what those reasons were. Some kind of obligation to Ibrahim, some devious arrangement his father had made? When she had finally learned from Ismet the secrets she must seek, she had been shocked. Thoroughly shocked. The school that Herr Meyer had waxed so lyrical over had been built with blood money. The Sultan had donated a large sum that Boucher was to administer, but most of the donation had found its way into his pocket. The documents that Ismet needed, the sparse file from May of last year, contained details of contracts raised for the project. Each contract had been authorised by Boucher, but for far less than should have been the case. He had creamed off the remainder of the money yet gained the prestige of founding a school for poor scholars.

  And it got worse. The school was built on land owned by a young man who had inherited from his grandfather. This poor man had died prematurely, falling from a ladder and breaking his neck. But apparently every contract in that ledger showed a date before the grandfather died. Had Boucher anticipated the accident – or ensured it? The anomaly might have gone unnoticed except for the fact that the young man, the new owner of the land, refused to sell to Boucher and he, too, had ended in the graveyard. Another accident? Ismet suspected murder and, when the young man’s sister brought him a letter and then fled, he was convinced. The letter was from Boucher to her brother threatening him with reprisals if he continued to refuse to sell. The price named was way below the land’s worth. This letter, together with the file, Ismet had said, would be indisputable proof of Valentin Boucher’s criminality.

  ‘We are here.’

  Paul was offering his hand to help her from the carriage. She had bee
n sunk in thought and hardly noticed where they were driving, only that they’d stayed within the walled city. Now she saw they had stopped at an impressive gateway, a stream of humanity passing back and forth beneath the square coat of arms that dominated an arch of marble.

  ‘The Nuyr Osmaniye Gate. Prepare for a good deal of walking,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘I’ve heard the Bazaar stretches for miles.’ Climbing down from the carriage, she clung to his arm a little longer than was necessary.

  ‘There are over sixty streets and thousands of shops. You will enjoy yourself!’

  ‘What shops in particular?’

  ‘Goldsmiths, jewellers, carpet shops, leather goods. Whatever you want. Until recently families could purchase their entire wardrobe here, and all their furnishings and household linen. Everything under this one roof.’

  ‘Is it one roof, in fact?’

  ‘Absolutely. Its Turkish name means a covered market. It is the oldest shopping centre in the world.’

  They were through the arch and into a long narrow street. For a moment, she forgot the reason she was here and stood entranced. But Paul was eager to move on. ‘This is the street of the Calligraphers – each trade or guild has its own street. Maybe this is not interesting to you.’

  She crossed to look into one of the shops. ‘You’re wrong, I find it fascinating. Look how fine the work.’ There were cards, and book covers, invitations, and what looked like framed samplers.

  ‘The next street belongs to the Book Dealers and after that the Quilt Makers. There is an enormous amount to see so don’t let’s linger.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Because I want to show you something special, and for that we must penetrate further into the labyrinth.’

  ‘Then I will come back to this place. I shall buy a piece of calligraphy for my sister. It will be far easier to pack than a quilt, though they are very beautiful, too.’

  He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and marched her through the street of the Quilt Makers at a rapid pace. The smell of spice had been growing ever stronger as they moved deeper into the mass of winding streets that made up the market: cinnamon, mint, sumac, sesame. She breathed in the aroma, loving it and wanting more. If they branched leftwards, she was sure they would come upon the Spice Merchants’ street, but the opportunity was lost. Paul had her in a strong grip and strode on.

  The crowd was immense in these vaulted passages and he took the opportunity to keep her close, so close she could feel the heat of his body through the wool dress. She wriggled away a little. ‘Is it always so busy?’

  ‘Pretty much. The market isn’t only somewhere to buy and sell. It’s a meeting place, too. One of the few places ladies can be comfortable outside the home. And where, if they’re lucky, they might see members of the Imperial Court. Even talk to them.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that happens often.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘There is always the chance. It’s a tradition that has grown over time. The Bazaar has been here for four hundred years or more. Not in this form, of course. It’s had to be rebuilt several times – because of fires and earthquakes – and in the process, it’s grown hugely.’

  They were now in the street that sold carpets and rugs and were followed its entire length by calls to take a look at this or that shop, the salesmen’s voices hoarse from competition. Paul appeared unmoved by the magnificent display literally hanging from the walls, but one rug in particular caught Lydia’s eye. It was oblong shaped, with a geometric pattern woven in red and gold and with the slightest hint of olive. If she were staying, she would love it for her room. But was she staying? Her future was in doubt, she realised, and the man walking beside her might be the one to decide it. If she took a wrong step…

  She went over to the shopkeeper and asked him for his price. Paul followed, tugging at her arm. ‘That is far too expensive,’ he said, when he heard what the man was demanding. The shopkeeper called after them as they moved away, ‘Carpet very old,’ then named a much reduced price.

  ‘Let’s not get involved, Lydia. We have several more streets to negotiate.’

  Reluctantly, she allowed him to steer her away. She would have liked to possess the rug even for a few weeks, but she supposed he was right that it was too expensive. Why did he have to be so sensible, and why did she have to follow suit?

  ‘This is the Eski,’ he announced after another long walk. They seemed at last to have arrived where he wanted. ‘It is where the most valuable items in the market are found. The merchandise used not to be on display – it was kept in cabinets. Then after the earthquake ten years or so ago, the market was rebuilt, and now the Eski has the same kind of shops we have in the western world.’

  The street was a magnificent sight. Stall after stall of shining gold stretched into the distance, its shimmer reflected in the golden tiles of the ceiling. ‘It’s amazing,’ Lydia murmured. ‘And these are beautiful.’ She stopped at a counter and picked up a thread of amber prayer beads.

  ‘This is even more beautiful.’ He almost dragged her across the narrow street, speaking to the shopkeeper with a few words of Turkish. The man bent down and lifted from a case a gold bracelet, set with sapphires.

  ‘What do you think?’ She wondered at his anxious expression. ‘Try it on,’ he urged. It looked far too delicate and far too expensive, but he insisted again, ‘Try it on.’

  ‘I had better not. I could not possibly afford it.’

  The stall holder edged up to her then and laid the bracelet against her wrist. The sapphires were the deepest blue and huge, and in between were gold links that looked as fragile as lace. It was light on her wrist and felt as though it had always been there.

  ‘It matches your pendant.’

  ‘It’s truly lovely, and, thank you for showing me.’

  He signalled to the man and the bracelet was whipped from her wrist and disappeared behind the counter. Her arm felt strangely bare.

  She smiled at him. ‘Shall we go back to the calligraphy? Or would you rather explore elsewhere?’

  ‘No, we can go back.’

  ‘Perhaps we might find a drink on the way. There must be a cafe nearby – off to the left, perhaps. I’m sure I can smell coffee.’ She sniffed appreciatively at the burnt fragrance drifting their way.

  ‘You did, but it’s no place for ladies,’ he said solemnly. ‘I am afraid we won’t find a drink in the market.’

  ‘But—’ she began.

  ‘The cafe is for men only – men with hookahs.’

  Men with hookahs sounded exciting, but she was evidently not to drink there. She drifted to the end of the street and into the next while Paul lingered behind. He caught up with her amid a sea of fabrics.

  ‘This is a flower garden of colour.’ She twirled round. ‘Just look at it! Every silk or satin or cotton you could want.’

  ‘There used to be a lot more stalls here. I can remember them. The street still sells expensive silk, but nowhere near as much fabric as years ago. We Europeans have ruined the trade, I’m afraid, with our mass-produced textiles. But you don’t wish for material, do you? Why don’t we return to the first street and buy your sister’s present?’

  He had been eager to plunge into the middle of the bazaar and was now eager to leave. If she could, she would have stayed the whole day, the whole week. There was so much of interest, so much that was different. But her job was to keep him happy, so she left the fabrics where they were and once more linked arms with him. She noticed how much he enjoyed people looking at them. He was becoming proprietorial and she didn’t much like it.

  As they neared the entrance, he said, ‘Maybe we should buy the calligraphy another day. When we have more time for you to choose carefully.’

  ‘I can choose carefully now. What’s the hurry?’

  ‘I should return to my office. I have left work that must be finished.’

  She wasn’t sure she believed him and when he said, ‘There is something I want to do
first,’ she was certain of it. She would have liked to have bought something for Alice. Her sister had been much on her mind lately and a small present felt right. But she hid her disappointment and went with him through the marbled archway to the forecourt beyond. Instead of hailing a carriage, though, he pulled her to one side and guided her into an adjoining tree-lined street.

  ‘Why are we here?’ She was annoyed that her visit to the bazaar had been cut short and seemingly for no reason.

  ‘I wanted a few quiet moments with you before we return to the palace.’

  Her stomach gave a little jump. He sounded serious and it worried her. Was he going to tell her that he had seen through her false friendship? That he knew what she was planning? She felt slightly sick.

  His hand went into his pocket and he brought out the box she had seen in the jeweller’s shop.

  ‘This is for you. Open it.’

  In a trance, she took the box and opened the lid. The gold and sapphire bracelet nestled amid folds of white silk. This was far worse than she could ever have imagined.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly accept such a gift, Paul.’ She was stuttering and tried to thrust the box back into his hand.

  ‘You must. You must wear it for me.’

  ‘I cannot. You must see that.’ She cast around for an excuse that would sound half believable. ‘Women can only accept presents from close relatives.’

  ‘I can’t be close,’ he said sadly. ‘We can’t be close – I have a wife. But it doesn’t stop me from having feelings for you. The bracelet is a small token to tell you this, that is all.’

  The sincerity in his voice filled her with shame. She had flattered and flirted with him and this was the result. It was one she would have done anything to avoid. Why, oh why, had she allowed herself to become involved in this tawdry plan? A little light flirtation, that was all it was supposed to be, but she was trapped now by her own success. She wanted nothing more than to walk away and never cross his path again. But she could not – Ismet had told her too much and she had given her word to him. Yet how could she accept such an expensive gift?