Black Amber

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  “Then you’re not buying these things for yourself?” Tracy asked.

  Mrs. Erim made a deprecating gesture. “No, no—these are made by people of the villages where I am trying to encourage more craft work for export. They know I wish to help them and that I can find buyers abroad for some of their work. This saves me the cost of sharing with an Istanbul dealer. It is not a business with me, but a small contribution to my adopted country. However, I have not invited you here to discuss inconsequential efforts. Bien—here is our tea. We may refresh ourselves as we talk.”

  Ahmet came in bearing a brass tray on which was set a small samovar and two glasses resting on delicate china saucers. There was a dish of lemon slices and a plate of tiny cakes. Unsmiling, almost sullen in his manner, Ahmet took a small teapot from the rack atop the samovar and held it beneath the spigot. When the water, already heated by the tube of charcoal inside, had steamed onto the tea leaves in the pot, he set it back upon its rack to keep warm while it steeped. He brought a small plate and napkin for Tracy, and then Mrs. Erim waved him away. Though he obeyed her gesture, he glowered as if he had a wish to stay, and Mrs. Erim sighed as the door closed after him.

  “Ahmet Effendi’s disposition does not improve with age. But what is one to do? He was a servitor in my husband’s family and is very loyal to us. He is difficult at times, but he knows our ways and is devoted to all who bear the Erim name. Now you must tell me about yourself, Miss Hubbard, and about why you are here.”

  Tracy explained as best she could, while Mrs. Erim poured the steeped tea into small glasses and passed the plate of cakes. As Tracy concluded, she nodded thoughtfully.

  “It was not, I fear, a sensible plan on the part of your Mr. Hornwright. You will forgive me if I say that you are young and inexperienced for this work. Your use to Mr. Radburn can only be negligible. Is this not true?”

  “I don’t expect to be of much use to him in actual work on the book,” Tracy admitted frankly. “Mr. Hornwright thought I might go through the material he has collected and find out exactly what remains to be done. Perhaps to sort and file will be the best service that can be offered Mr. Radburn at the moment.”

  Mrs. Erim’s soft laugh had a ring of sympathy. “Files and order are, I fear, foreign to Mr. Radburn’s nature. He will not welcome one who comes to tamper with his books and papers and sketches of mosaics.”

  “Perhaps tamper isn’t the word I’d use, but I am here to sort through this material.” Tracy’s brows drew together in a frown of resistance. She must not permit herself to be swayed from her purpose.

  The blond woman on the divan studied her frankly for a moment. “What you suggest is futile. The task would never end. But perhaps this is something you must see for yourself. It is possible that I can arrange for you to remain here for a week, at least.”

  “I’ll need more than that for the job,” Tracy said firmly.

  Mrs. Erim’s calm remained unruffled. “Perhaps I can arrange for you to remain a week,” she repeated. “In that time the truth of the matter should be obvious to you. You will be able to report the hopelessness of this task to Mr. Hornwright. It will not be your failure, or the failure of anyone he might send, but simply the fact that Mr. Radburn does not wish to complete this book. When I invited him to come here to work, I had hoped that he would make this important contribution. But I am a realist, Miss Hubbard. I no longer have confidence that this is true.”

  Such a belief was not Mr. Hornwright’s, Tracy knew, and she had no intention of accepting it herself.

  “When may I see him?” she asked bluntly. “Does he know that I’m here?”

  “Not yet. He is away and we do not expect him home until tomorrow. Perhaps then I can prepare the way a little. He has gone to the Istanbul side to visit a small mosque where the tilework is especially beautiful. Always he goes off on such trips. Always he collects more and more information, makes more and more sketches of mosaics. There is no end to this, though it is not necessary to represent the tilework of all Turkey in his book. A sampling from the various periods of history would seem sufficient. Your editor made this clear when he visited us. But tell me, my dear—why did Mr. Hornwright choose you in particular to come on this errand?”

  Tracy answered carefully. “Mr. Hornwright thought I’d be useful at the moment. That is, if I can persuade Mr. Radburn to accept me.”

  “I like those who are open with me,” Mrs. Erim went on. “It is possible that I may be able to smooth your way so that you may remain, as I say, for a week. I can promise no more. But that is something, is it not?”

  Tracy could only nod. She did not know whether this woman was on her side or not, and she wondered about her claim that Miles Radburn did not want to finish his book.

  “Tell me, Miss Hubbard,” Mrs. Erim inquired, “do you know Mr. Radburn’s paintings?”

  “Yes, of course,” Tracy said. “I’ve seen them many times in exhibits at home.” She must be open, yes. But not too open. She was on uneasy ground here and she did not wholly trust this woman’s calm and candid air. “Mr. Hornwright says he doesn’t paint any more,” she added.

  The deeply blue eyes clouded for a moment, then were once more serene. “That is true. A sad and wasteful thing. But perhaps it will pass as all things pass with the healing of years. I too have lost those dear to me.”

  Tracy stirred her glass of tea with a tiny silver spoon and said nothing. Mrs. Erim had partaken of none of the sweet cakes, but she sipped the lemon-flavored brew and allowed silence to envelop the room. Only a spattering of rain against glass broke the quiet. Sylvana Erim, while she gave the impression of potential vitality held in check, did not waste her energies. Because of her ability to be still without being placid, she cast an atmosphere of tranquillity about her. Yet Tracy found herself increasingly on guard. She wondered what would happen if this well-controlled woman were angered, or severely crossed. She would not, Tracy thought, like to be the one to oppose her.

  Mrs. Erim replaced her glass and saucer on the tray and moved slightly against her cushions. “Tell me—you are comfortable in the room you have been given in the yali?”

  “It is a lovely room,” Tracy said, her eyes lowered. “Thank you for inviting me to stay here.”

  “The water sounds will not disturb you or keep you awake?”

  “I’m sure they won’t,” Tracy said.

  “Good! Myself—I cannot endure the mooing of horns, the whistling of passing boats, the voices that carry across water. That is why I persuaded my husband to build me this house in the woods, where I can be quiet, undisturbed. Let us hope you will sleep well tonight. And do not worry about tomorrow. I myself will have a small talk with Mr. Radburn.”

  “You’re very kind,” Tracy said.

  The interview had come to an end. She murmured that she would go to her room to unpack a few things, and took leave of her hostess. Mrs. Erim did not accompany her to the door, but somehow the houseman, Ahmet, was there, ready to open it as she went out. Silently he led the way back through the covered passage to the yali and saw her to her room. When she thanked him, he bowed his head and went away, moving rather like a shadow in his dark, ill-fitting suit, quickly lost in the gloom of the big salon. It was rather a shame, Tracy thought, as she went into her room, that Ahmet was too late for the days of the Ottoman Turks. He would have looked well in a turban and flowing robes.

  After her visit with Mrs. Erim, she felt slightly more encouraged about remaining at least for a week. She could not fathom the woman, or understand why she had aligned herself on the side of a stranger who had little that was practical to offer. But the fact that she appeared to have done so was a step in the right direction. Granted one week, it would be necessary to find a way to stretch it to two.

  Tracy opened her suitcase and began to hang up a few things in the cavernous wardrobe of dark walnut that was the single out-of-harmony note in the modern bedroom. The white cat had not stirred from its chair. As she moved about, it opened sleepy ey
es to stare at her briefly, then seemed to dismiss her as a person of no consequence, and went back to sleep.

  Before Tracy had finished unpacking, Halide came, lending a bright splash of color in her red clothes.

  “Hanimefendi,” she said, and added one of her few English words, “please?” as she indicated that she would take Tracy’s things away to be pressed. She admired each article of clothing before she flung it over her arm and was interested in everything.

  When the girl had gone with the few things Tracy had to give her, she opened veranda doors and went outside. The rain had lessened to a drizzle and in the dusk lights were coming on, climbing the hills of the European shore across the Bosporus, and marking the outline of a passing freighter. The strait was narrow and winding in this section, more like a river than an arm of the sea. Now that the last traces of daylight were vanishing over Thrace on the European side, the Bosporus looked like black marble, with light breaking its surface in oily swirls.

  Without warning, as she stared at the water, pain swept through her—the aching of a wound too new to heal, and the hurt as well of an old, disquieting memory. Below the balcony dark water swept softly past, treacherously deep and strong in its currents. All through Turkish history these very waters had reflected the wickedness of Constantinople—a city that raised spires to God and cast loathsome secrets into the water that flowed at its feet.

  She withdrew her eyes from the hypnotic play of the moving surface and turned her attention to a lighted area below the jutting balcony. It was stone-flagged, with stone steps running down to the water. Beside these steps stood Ahmet, with a boat hook in his hands. As she watched, Tracy heard the sound of a motor-driven craft turning from the main channel to come toward the yali. She could see the boat clearly as it neared the lighted landing. It was a caique with a high curved prow, decorated in a design of bright colors. Above the center portion of the boat an oblong of white canopy with gaily scalloped edges sheltered seats from the rain. A boatman stood in the stern, steering his craft toward the landing. Beneath the canopy sat a passenger, only his legs visible.

  With well-practiced skill, Ahmet reached out with his hook, the caique was made secure with a tossed rope, and the passenger beneath the canopy stepped lightly from boat to landing. For an instant Tracy’s fingers tightened on the damp railing of the balcony. Then she stepped back into shadow where she could stand unseen. As he crossed the paved area he glanced up at the house and light fell upon his face. It was a somber, rather craggy face with a dark, well-shaped head, the sides touched with early gray. Tracy had seen his photograph more than once and she had looked it up again before she left New York. The man was Miles Radburn. Did this unexpected return mean that she must face him tonight? At dinner, perhaps? Earlier she had been keyed to this confrontation, but now she shrank from the finality it might bring. Tonight she wasn’t ready. Mrs. Erim had dissipated the need for immediate courage, and she was no longer braced for the ordeal of meeting him. Had that perhaps been the woman’s intent, with her tranquil manner that seemed to dismiss the very thought of struggle as needless waste?

  When Radburn had disappeared into the house below, Tracy returned to her room and closed the doors upon chilly dampness and the dark smell of the water. She could not settle down now, but paced the great expanse of gold rug, while the white cat opened its eyes and stared at her without expression. The room was growing colder in spite of the glow of coals in the mangal, and she turned on the electric heater and sat within the range of its radiance.

  A knock on the door sent her flying to answer, anxious to know how soon the meeting would be upon her.

  Nursel Erim came into the room, moving gracefully on her high heels, a touch of exotic perfume floating about her.

  “I am sorry to disturb you,” she said. “Mrs. Erim sends me to ask if you will mind having dinner in your room tonight. Then it will not be necessary to tell Mr. Radburn of your presence at once. A quiet talk this evening will prepare him for your appearance tomorrow morning. You do not mind?”

  Tracy did not mind, and said so in relief.

  The Turkish girl lingered, apparently unwilling to leave at once.

  “You have all you wish?” she asked. Though she glanced about the room, her words had an absent sound as though they were an excuse for her lingering, rather than the reason for it. When she spoke it was almost as if to herself, as if Tracy’s presence here were incidental and of no consequence.

  “I have not entered this room for several weeks. Always the room saddens me. It is as if something of Mrs. Radburn remains. I feel angry when I come here. Angry because this very carpet, which my friend chose herself from a shop in Istanbul, should remain while she is gone.”

  Tracy heard her in silence. The girl stepped to shuttered doors and peered out into the rain. “Always she loved the water. Sometimes we ran off together and made boat trips so we might laugh and be foolish, with no stem looks to tell us we were not children. But there is no laughter left in this room. It is too close to the water she loved, water that betrayed her.”

  “She drowned, didn’t she?” Tracy asked in a low, tight voice.

  “Yes.” Nursel nodded. “Out there within full view of the yali. Had anyone known, had anyone been at the windows to see, perhaps it might not have happened. It was on a gray evening such as this. Perhaps that is why it seems that this room is haunted by her presence whenever it rains.”

  Tracy must have made some small sound, for Nursel returned from her dreaming to look at her curiously.

  “This disturbs you? I am sorry. These matters are of no concern to you. There is no presence of Anabel Radburn in this room for someone who never knew her. You must rest now. Later Ahmet will bring you a tray. This is convenient for you? You do not mind?”

  “I don’t mind,” Tracy said. “Thank you.”

  “Then I will leave you here.” Nursel cast a last glance around the room and her eyes lighted upon the cat. “You do not mind if the cat remains? If you prefer, I will take it away.”

  “Let her stay,” Tracy said.

  She waited until Nursel had gone. Then she went to the balcony doors and pulled cords that swung thick draperies of gold damask across them. She did not want to look out at the water now. Not when the night was so cold, so depressingly gray. The cat sat up and watched her with a certain wariness in its eyes and she went to stand before the cushioned chair.

  “First of all,” said Tracy softly, “we will have to change your name. I should probably cry every time I spoke it. You would do much better with something that sounds more Turkish. Of course no Turk would give an animal the name of a friend. But since I don’t know anyone named Yasemin, perhaps that will do. How would you like to be called Yasemin?”

  The white cat mewed delicately, though whether in acceptance or repudiation Tracy could not tell. She moved toward it without suddenness and picked it up firmly in both hands. Then she sat down in the chair within the beam of the electric heater and placed it in her lap. Yasemin neither spat nor scratched, but neither did she settle down to purr. She merely tolerated, without acceptance. Tracy stroked the soft fur and found comfort in the warmth of the small living creature in her lap.

  Perhaps she and the eat both dozed a little, for when Ahmet knocked on her door, Tracy started up and found that an hour had passed. At her sudden movement, Yasemin leaped away and went to hide beneath the bed, as if she knew Ahmet Effendi of old and had no liking for him.

  The man set the tray upon a table, removed silver warming covers, and prepared her food with the expert movements of one long experienced. Apparently Ahmet could do everything. She tried to speak to him as she watched, but he merely shook his head at her words, indicating that he did not understand English. When he had gone, showing her first the bell she might ring when she was finished, she called Yasemin from beneath the bed, prepared a few tidbits for the cat, and then sat down before the tray.

  It was good food, attractively arranged. A small steak, whipped potatoe
s, buttered beans of a variety she did not recognize. Apparently Mrs. Erim’s household ate well, as the French knew how to eat. The short nap had refreshed her, Tracy found, and both she and Yasemin finished their dinner with good appetite.

  When Halide had taken the tray away and brought more coals for the mangal, Tracy let Yasemin out into the house, where she vanished at once in the direction of the stairs. In the bathroom hot water had been prepared and Tracy took a steaming bath in the big European tub.

  Returning to her room, hurrying, lest by some misfortune she meet Miles Radburn in the hall, Tracy meant to go at once to bed. But again the water drew her irresistibly. She slipped a coat over her nightgown, turned off the lights in the room, and parted the heavy draperies to step out upon the veranda. The landing area stood empty and quiet, water lapping gently against the steps. The rain had stopped, and in the stillness she could hear distant voices from a village on the nearby shore. A well-lighted ship went past, its engines throbbing as it made its way north from Istanbul toward the Black Sea and the ports of Russia. Overhead ragged clouds raced, a touch of faint moonlight breaking through patches of torn gray. The water drew her eyes—black and seemingly still on the surface, yet with those deep and treacherous currents stirring beneath.

  Somewhere in the village a man began to sing, and she heard for the first time the minor-keyed lament of Turkish music, repetitive and strange to Western ears, yet somehow haunting.

  Again a sense of isolation swept over her. She was out of touch with all she knew and was sure of, abroad upon currents that might take her almost anywhere. Mrs. Erim, for all her calmly authoritative ways, was a woman with depths not easily read. The younger Nursel was also a puzzle, with her devotion to Anabel and her slight air of reserve that overlay all small courteous efforts toward a guest. She had yet to meet Dr. Erim, the brother. And tomorrow there would be the man she had come to see—Miles Radburn. Loneliness and confusion engulfed her. Had she been right in this quest? Was there an answer to be found? She left the veranda door slightly ajar, turned off the heater, and got into the big comfortable bed, glad enough to be weary.