Black Amber

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  She slept heavily, wakening only now and then to strange sounds from the watercourse that flowed beyond her doors. Then waking not at all until the vociferous crowing of what seemed a thousand roosters began at the break of day.

  3

  For a little while Tracy lay beneath blankets and stared at a liquid shifting of patterns upon the diamond design of the ceiling. Through the opened slit of the veranda door a flickering snake of watery light made its way into the room and told her the rain was over, the sun up and shining upon the Bosporus. She lay still a few moments longer, listening to crowing cocks and bleating goats. Then she slipped out of bed and went to look outside.

  The hills of the opposite shore were newly green after the rain, and the Bosporus was a dark deep blue beneath a lighter sky. In coves across the water streamers of mist drifted, thinning as sunlight reached them. She could see the weathered wooden houses of a small village opposite climbing steeply upward. Across the strait in the direction of Istanbul, a great triangle of stone walls with a huge round tower at each apex mounted the steep pitch of hillside—apparently a medieval fortress.

  But the morning air was cold and she soon closed her doors upon the brightening scene. The sun would help. Already its light restored her lagging courage, steeled her in a sense of purpose. Soon now she must face Miles Radburn and this morning she would be ready for him. She must be ready for him.

  Halide brought her breakfast tray, with rolls and syrupy black Turkish coffee. Tracy sat in bed against plumped pillows with the table over her knees and breakfasted in unfamiliar luxury, regretting only the continental meagerness of the meal. This morning she could have managed the pancakes and bacon and eggs of a good American breakfast.

  The room no longer seemed haunted and the white cat was not there to lend a slightly melancholy presence. She had difficulty accustoming herself to the room’s vast expanses, however. The modern furnishings did not really suit the room, and she wondered if Anabel had chosen them, along with the gold carpet, in order to brighten its shadowy gloom. She and Miles Radburn seemed to have lived here for some time as permanent and privileged guests. Quite evidently Sylvana Erim regarded herself as a patron of the arts and she apparently had the wealth, thanks to her Turkish husband, to indulge her whims on this score.

  By the time Nursel Erim came to fetch her, Tracy had put on a gray-blue frock, simply cut to her small waist and slim figure. Her one ornament was again the gold pin that was something of a talisman. She had brushed her brown hair to the shining perfection that was her one pride, and swirled it into a high coil on the back of her head. She looked neat, if not gaudy, she decided—and promptly felt like nothing at all the moment she beheld the vision of Nursel.

  This morning’s version of the Turkish girl was simpler as to coiffeur and her heels were not so high, but she was no less smartly dramatic in tight black Capri pants and a blue Angora sweater that set her off to good effect. The sultans, Tracy recalled, had liked their ladies generous of curve, and while the dress might have changed from pantaloons to pants, the ample flesh was there and roundly enticing.

  “Mrs. Erim wishes to speak with you,” Nursel said. “She awaits you in Mr. Radburn’s study.”

  “Is—is he there?” Tracy asked.

  The other girl shook her head. “Always he goes for a long, very fast walk after breakfast. It is a British custom, I think? Soon he will return, but Mrs. Erim will see you first.”

  Miles Radburn’s rooms were also on the third floor, overlooking the land side of the house across the drafty gloom of the big salon. Nursel escorted her to the door of the study and opened it for her. Beyond the expanse of a walnut desk piled high with books and papers Sylvana Erim sat in a leather chair. She said, “Good morning,” pleasantly and indicated a chair. Then she moved a commanding finger that caused Nursel to close the door and obediently vanish. Mrs. Erim was accustomed, quite evidently, to a well-trained household. Tracy found herself wondering if tradition had trained Nursel to meek acceptance of this dowager rule. Away from Sylvana, the girl appeared to have more spark of her own.

  “You slept well?” Sylvana asked of Tracy, and went on without waiting for an answer, gesturing, widely with her hands. “You see? This, my young friend, is what you have come to contend with.”

  Tracy saw. She did not sit down at once, thus opposing herself in a small way to Mrs. Erim. It was better for her own courage if she did not give in too easily to this autocratic woman.

  The huge room was no more tidy than the desk. Wall shelves were packed with books that lay in disorder, sometimes propped one against the next, sometimes in leaning stacks. In one corner stood a refectory table piled high with a conglomeration of papers and books, folders and portfolios. A large armchair of red damask held more of this hodgepodge in its stolid arms. The only oasis in the sea of disorder was a drawing table with slanted board that stood near veranda doors, a piece of work in progress upon it. At least the room boasted a tall, elaborate white porcelain stove that gave off a more comfortable warmth than that provided by an electric heater.

  “I can see what Mr. Hornwright meant when he spoke of a housekeeper being needed,” Tracy said wryly.

  Mrs. Erim stiffened as if the words were a reflection upon her establishment. “He will allow the servants to touch nothing, you understand. He does not mind dust if it is not upon his drawing board. We manage to come and go behind his back, but you can see the difficulty.”

  Tracy could indeed. The task looked monumental in its most elementary steps, and, with the master of this confusion set in opposition to order, she had no idea of how she might proceed. Moving about the room, she paused before the drawing board where a long strip of cream-colored paper bore decorative Turkish script done in India ink.

  Mrs. Erim noted her interest. “That is ancient Turkish calligraphy. Mr. Radburn has taken great interest in mastering the art of copying such script. Though, of course, he does not read it. But come—sit here, if you please. He will return soon and we must discuss this matter a little. I do not have good news for you.”

  Tracy sat down and looked at her hostess. Mrs. Erim had discarded her flowing robe and wore a gray suit that bore, like Nursel’s clothes, the stamp of Paris. Her long golden hair was caught into a coil on the nape of her neck and held by a silken snood. In the morning light her complexion seemed more glowing than ever. Again an air of calm assurance lay upon her. Clearly she expected those about her to fall in with her ways and Tracy braced herself a little. She must not let this woman intimidate her, or defeat her purpose in coming here.

  “Last night I talked to Mr. Radburn after dinner,” Mrs. Erim said. “He does not wish you to remain. He will not allow you to touch one paper of his material. But he agrees to speak with you. This, at least, I have arranged. When I asked that you be permitted to stay a week, he would not listen. The mood of the bear is upon him—and what can one do?”

  Had Mrs. Erim worked for her or against her in this paving of the way? Tracy wondered. She did not trust the woman at all.

  “Then I’ll have to talk to him myself,” she said, attempting a confidence she did not feel.

  Mrs. Erim regarded her in silence for a moment. Then she rose in her graceful, unhurried manner and crossed the big room to the closed door of an adjoining room.

  “Come,” she said. “I have something to show you.”

  She opened the door upon what was obviously Miles Radburn’s bedroom and stepped aside for Tracy to see. Here there was no confusion. The room appeared lived in, but crisply in order. The veranda shutters had been set ajar and morning sunshine poured in from a woodsy hillside beyond, warming the air a little and stage-lighting the room with a bright shaft that fell upon the bed.

  Tracy spent no more than a glance upon the room itself, for her eyes were caught at once by a picture that hung above the carved headboard of the wide bed. It was the portrait of a young woman painted in a high, soft, silvery key—a little misty in its execution, except for the face which had b
een presented in slightly exaggerated focus. Tracy’s fingers curled about the lower rail of the bed and she stood braced against the flood of emotion that washed over her. Somewhere, sometime, in one way or another, she had known the moment would come. Now it was here. From the wall her sister’s face looked down at her, as elusive, as secretive, yet as strangely appealing as Tracy remembered, and almost as real as a living presence.

  The picture showed a slender girl in a lacy white gown, her fair hair drawn loosely from her forehead and tied at the back of the neck with a silver ribbon. The curved cheek and jaw line of the partly turned head revealed a breathtaking beauty. The mouth had been touched with pale color, unsmiling and wide, but not too full of lip. Only the eyes had been emphasized to the point of distortion. They seemed closed, and dark lashes lay smudged against pale cheeks. One saw at second glance that they were not wholly closed. The girl in the picture gazed from beneath lowered lids, a faint, green-eyed gleam just showing. It was a face that hinted of tragedy, yet all in the same instant perversely promised joy. It was a young face, yet never carelessly young, the whole done with misty fragility—from which the dark smudging of the eyes stood out in vivid, unsettling contrast.

  “That is Anabel,” Mrs. Erim said. “His wife.”

  Tracy stared at the picture and waited for the room to settle. She had known this intensity of feeling must come, but she had not expected the portrait, had not been braced for it.

  “She is the reason why this book will never be finished,” Mrs. Erim said calmly. “Only three months ago she died tragically, as you may know, and the shadow of her suicide lies heavily upon all of us. Your Mr. Hornwright thinks only in practical terms of how many pages of script, how many prints must be made from Miles Radburn’s drawings. To persuade Mr. Radburn he speaks of the healing value of work, but he does not understand the evil truth about this shadow.”

  Tracy drew her gaze from the portrait abruptly. The room had steadied, her vision cleared. “What do you mean by the truth?” she asked.

  “This is not your affair.” Mrs. Erim spoke with calm assurance, as though she reproved a child. “Your duty is to return home and make Mr. Hornwright understand that there will be no book. Nothing else concerns you here.”

  So this was why she had been invited to the yali. If permitted to remain, this was to be her accomplishment.

  “You are against this book, Mrs. Erim,” Tracy countered. “Will you tell me why?”

  The Frenchwoman shrugged. “As I say, I am a realist. I have a practical nature. To a man who was once a fine artist, this work is a method of burying himself alive. It is a ridiculous thing that a child like yourself has been sent to deal with such a problem.”

  Tracy looked again at the picture. “Do you mean that he loved her so much that he can’t bear to live without her? That all work has become meaningless to him?”

  The veneer of calm flickered for an instant and threatened to crack, while the bright color in Mrs. Erim’s cheeks flamed more intensely.

  “What absurdity! You do not understand. Certainly he had no love for her in the last years of their marriage. She was wicked, depraved, beyond hope. At the end he despised her. But it is difficult for him to face this thing in himself. This is why he prefers not to be alive. He buried himself in such meaningless work as he does now long before her death.”

  This was not the first time Tracy had heard her sister spoken of in scathing terms. Yet even after Tracy Hubbard had ceased to be an adoring small sister and was old enough to face the fact that Anabel was sometimes less than perfect, she had never wholly accepted this verdict. The enigma of her sister still troubled her, as well as the question of whether there was more she herself might have done; whether some action of hers might have averted the final tragedy.

  “Why did she die?” Tracy ventured. “Why would a girl who had so much take her own life? A girl who was so beautiful!”

  The moment the words were spoken she saw that she had gone too far in pressing for an answer. She had forgotten the need for caution. There was sudden wariness in Mrs. Erim’s eyes.

  “It is a childish thing to parallel worldly possessions and beauty with happiness,” Sylvana Erim said virtuously, overlooking the fact that her own manner of living seemed to contradict this tenet. “You will do well to content yourself with the task for which you have come. I must remind you again that Mr. Radburn’s private concerns are not your affair. This is true, is it not, Miss Hubbard?”

  The time had come to step back from the line she had overreached. “Of course they’re not my affair,” Tracy said meekly. “It’s just that you showed me the portrait and my interest was aroused.”

  “I show you the portrait only that you may understand the folly of your errand. You will be wise not to mention to Mr. Radburn that you have seen it.”

  Tracy could feel the warmth in her own cheeks. Once more she felt like a child who had been disciplined and did not dare to answer back. Before she could attempt a reply, there was a knock on the study door and Halide’s voice called urgently in Turkish.

  At once Mrs. Erim led the way back to the study, closing the bedroom door behind her. “He is coming now. I will wait to introduce you, then leave you in his hands. When you wish to arrange your plane reservation home, I will be glad to take care of it for you.”

  Tracy could have wished for more time to recover from the impact of the portrait and from this exchange with Sylvana Erim. She felt as though the label of her identity had been stamped upon her, and she wished for Anabel’s well-remembered trick of gazing beneath lowered lids that never revealed all that she was thinking.

  The study door opened abruptly and a man stood upon the threshold. He was tall and leanly built. That he had once been a soldier was evident in the straightness of his back, the carriage of his shoulders, yet there was nothing in his bearing to suggest that he welcomed with interest what any new day held for him. His rather craggy face achieved that curious effect of being handsome which strong though ill-assorted features may assume in certain men. He looked older than his thirty-eight years and his face evidenced a somber quality, suggesting a loss of the ability to laugh.

  “You look well,” Mrs. Erim said. “It is a good morning for your walk. Miles, this is Miss Hubbard, the young girl who has been sent from New York to see that you proceed in your work with great dispatch.” Amusement lighted her eyes. “I will leave you to settle the matter between you,” she added and went to the door.

  Miles Radburn opened it in silence and closed it after her. Then he turned and looked at Tracy without expression.

  “Why Hornwright sent you, I’ll never understand,” he said, and Tracy noted that his years in America had not banished the British inflection from his speech. “Nor do I understand why you came on after I wrote you at the hotel. Perhaps you had better sit down and tell me what this nonsense is all about.”

  Tracy seated herself beside his desk, mentally rejecting the label of “young girl” that Mrs. Erim had placed upon her. Even as a child, she had sometimes felt herself older than Anabel. Miles Radburn stayed where he was, his hands busy with a briar pipe and pouch of tobacco, his eyes indifferent, no longer upon her. He had added up her sum total, found it of no consequence, and was already dismissing her. The very fact served to stiffen her spine still more. She must think only of how she could persuade this man to let her stay.

  When the pipe was lighted to his satisfaction, he shoved a heap of papers carelessly to one side and sat on a corner of the desk, swinging one long leg. The blue pipe smoke carried a not unpleasant tang.

  “Begin,” he said. “Recite your piece. I’ve promised Sylvana I would listen. Just that and nothing more.”

  She sat up resolutely and faced him. “Mr. Hornwright feels that you are doing an important and distinguished book. Turkish mosaics have a significant place in the history of the world’s art and—”

  “Spare me that sort of sales talk,” Radburn interrupted. “I know why I’m doing what I am doing.
I’m curious only to know why you are here. There was a Miss Baker whose name I suggested to Hornwright. Do you fancy that you can take her place?”

  She’d had enough of being talked down to—first by Mrs. Erim and now by this cold, rather frightening man.

  “You’re not ready for Miss Baker,” she told him heatedly. “She would take one look at this—this mess!—and go straight home. Do you think she’d be willing to sneeze her way through all that?” Tracy waved a scornful hand at the refectory table, where the pile had reached so dangerous a height that an avalanche to the floor was momentarily threatened.

  Radburn glared at her out of gray eyes that were without warmth, though he was clearly capable of anger.

  “I can find anything I want at a moment’s notice,” he said. “I want no one coming in and mixing things up.”

  “Mixing things up!” Tracy echoed, forgetting that she was here to placate, to coax and cajole, to somehow endear herself so he would allow her to stay. “I never heard anything so silly in my life. Look—look at this!”

  She left her chair like a small and impetuous cyclone and dived into the pile on the table with both hands. The avalanche tottered for an instant and then a good part of it went sailing off into space to scatter itself about the floor at Tracy’s feet. Her indignation left her as abruptly as it had risen and she found herself regarding in horror the destruction she had wrought. She did not dare to look at Miles Radburn.

  There was a long and deadly silence, broken by an explosion of sound. It was a sneeze. And having started, Mr. Radburn could not stop. He sneezed twice, blew his nose violently, unable to speak, and then repeated the explosion four more times in rapid succession.