Black Amber

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  They slowed for the bridge traffic, and Nursel identified a structure here and there. To the left, near Topkapi Palace, which the French had called the Seraglio, rose that marvelous structure built by the Emperor Justinian in the year A.D. 537—the divine St. Sophia, once a church, then a mosque, and now a museum to house the relics of its own great history. Somewhat higher was the Blue Mosque, while nearer the center was a far vaster building—the mosque of Suleiman the Magnificent.

  They were on the bridge now and traffic ran bumper to bumper, with a stream of pedestrians crossing by means of the walks on either side. The waters of the Golden Horn were filled with boats of every description. Below the bridge on the right ran what seemed to be a street paralleling the bridge at water level. Here fishing boats were drawn up and men peddled their fresh wares to purchasers on the bridge.

  “A portion of the Galata floats on pontoons,” Nursel explained. “It is opened only once each day. At four o’clock every morning it swings open to let boats in and out of the Golden Horn. Two hours later it is closed again and traffic is once more allowed to cross. To see the bridge at dawn when it is open, to see it close and the traffic flow across again is a wonderful thing. Once my brother brought me here for the sight.”

  On the far side as they left the bridge, the narrow cobbled streets of Stamboul, as the British had called the old quarter, swallowed them and it was necessary to drive slowly, for now there were donkeys and peddlers and pedestrians crowding every thoroughfare. Yogurt sellers, candy peddlers, purveyors of drinking water vied with each other for the right of way. Boys, with brass trays hanging from chains and laden with tiny coffee cups, ran about skillfully without spilling a drop. Nursel drove into the maze of streets and up the hill to find a place to park.

  “We are near the Covered Bazaar,” she said. “We will go there first and I will complete my errands.”

  Once they were on foot in the steep, cobbled streets, Tracy caught the smell of dust that was the smell of Istanbul. The slightest stirring of air sent the dust that lay between cobblestones and along every ledge and gutter edge into a swirling dervish dance.

  They crossed the courtyard of a lesser mosque where pigeons thronged, being fed by passers-by. Beyond rose the arched entryway to the Covered Bazaar. Set in stone above the pointed arch that gave final entrance to the bazaar was the insignia of the Ottoman Empire, with its emblem of crossed flags. The stream of men and women that went in and out of the entrance wore European dress for the most part, and the faces were those of any cosmopolitan city where races mingled. Here and there Tracy saw men carrying tespihler in their hands, or with strands of beads hanging partially out of pockets.

  Once through the arch, they were in the maze of the bazaar itself. It was, Tracy found, a city of tiny shops gathered beneath arching stone roofs that had been stained and weather-beaten by the years. At intervals high windows let in a watery semblance of daylight. For the most part, however, the lighting was by electricity, and the small glass window of each shop glowed with warm light. Off the first stone corridor other corridors opened, and still others upon those, until Tracy was soon lost in the web.

  The shops were apparently gathered into communities, each group selling one type of goods. They passed window after window heaped high with gleaming golden bracelets—vastly popular with girls from the villages, Nursel said, since they still counted their worth as brides by the number of gold bracelets they might string upon their arms. There were shops where nothing but slippers and shoes were sold, and where the smell of leather was strong. There was a street of copper shops, another that sold only brass, and there were endless rows of small jewelry stores.

  It was into one of these that Nursel went on her first errand. So small was the shop that its exterior consisted of no more than a narrow show window and a door. Inside was a small counter behind which there was room for a single shopkeeper. The space before the counter could hold no more than two customers comfortably at one time. The young man behind the counter greeted Nursel by name and at once brought stools for his guests. He was tall and well built, with bright, intent dark eyes and a smile that showed the flash of fine teeth.

  “This is Hasan Effendi,” Nursel said.

  The young man bowed gravely and murmured in English that the hanimefendi did his shop honor.

  Tracy sat upon her stool and studied the fascinating array within. Every inch of the tiny space held shelves on which were displayed beads and brooches, rings and amulets and tiny ornaments.

  “You have the tespih for my brother, Hasan Effendi?” Nursel asked.

  The young man reached into a drawer behind him and laid upon the glass counter a tespih strung with beads of fine green jade. Nursel studied them with interest.

  “Murat will be pleased,” she said and gave them to Tracy to see. “These will be a valuable addition to my brother’s collection.”

  The string was like others Tracy had handled yesterday—a short string with finial beads and no clasp. In her fingers the jade felt exquisitely smooth and was cool to her touch. When Nursel took them back and asked the price, a gentle, almost teasing bargaining began between buyer and seller. The good-natured banter quickly concluded, Nursel paid the sum agreed upon and put the small package in her handbag. Then she spoke to Tracy.

  “You will excuse us, please, if we speak in Turkish? Hasan Effendi is the son of Ahmet Effendi and I have a message for him from his father.”

  While they spoke together, Tracy studied the young man with new interest. His good looks and well-built frame held little resemblance to the wiry Ahmet. Until he began to frown. Then they seemed kin at once. She did not like the way he scowled, or the somewhat harsh note that came into his voice. Once more Nursel cast down her eyes in the old meek way, though this seemed a little strange when the man on the other side of the counter was a shopkeeper and the son of a servant in the Erim household.

  It was possible that he sensed Tracy’s surprised interest upon him, for he suddenly broke off, smiling, and reached into a box beneath the counter.

  “Perhaps you would like to see the tespihler I will soon send to Mrs. Erim, hanimefendi,” he said, and cast a handful of bead strands upon the counter before her.

  Tracy leaned closer to see the colorful array. Automatically she looked for black amber, but there was none in this collection. Nursel, after a glance, seemed to dismiss the display with indifference.

  “I am sure Mrs. Erim will be pleased to have them, Hasan Effendi,” she said politely. “She is eager to assist you in the success of this shop, just as she is eager to help her villagers.”

  The look of Ahmet was in the son’s eyes again—a little sullen, darkly resentful. But he did not, answer. As they left the shop, he came with them to the door and stood looking after them as they walked away.

  Once they had turned a corner and were out of sight of the shop, Nursel flung off her air of meekness and became herself again.

  “It is very difficult for Hasan Effendi,” she said. “Our elder brother sent him to school for a time, but after he died Murat did not wish to continue Hasan’s education, for there was so little money. Nor is Sylvana interested in spending the money—though she could afford to. So this young man is forced to work in a small shop. He is ambitious, however, and perhaps he will one day finish his education and become an attorney.”

  “He seemed angry with you when we left,” Tracy said, probing.

  Nursel seemed undisturbed. “It does not matter. It is nothing. The behavior of Mrs. Erim infuriates him. Perhaps this is a good thing. Come—we will go this way. I have now an important purchase to make for Sylvana.”

  As they walked down still another corridor, Tracy saw that along the edge of the walk marble heads and busts, a broken pedestal or two, portions of a marble pillar had been piled carelessly—all fragments with the stamp of age upon them.

  “Shouldn’t some of these things be in a museum?” she asked in wonder.

  Nursel’s shrug was expressive. “Who i
s to know how such things find their way into the bazaars of Istanbul? All through Turkey there are ancient ruins still to be excavated. Undoubtedly pilfering goes on. Ah—here is the place I am looking for.”

  She had stopped before a shop that was larger than the others, perhaps a combination of three or four thrown together. The show windows were dusty and far less cluttered, displaying only a few fine articles of silver, copper, and brass. It was as if this shop knew its own worth and was above tawdry commercial display.

  As Nursel entered, the shopkeeper came respectfully to greet her. He signaled to a boy to bring wooden chairs for the guests, and they were seated in the bare main aisle. The shop was rather dark and the smell of dust lay heavily upon it, yet Tracy sensed that all about were objects old and rich in value.

  The boy who had brought the chairs disappeared, to return shortly with a copper tray on which were set small cups of Turkish coffee. Tracy sipped the thick, bittersweet brew determinedly.

  When they had been refreshed and Nursel and the shopkeeper had exchanged courtesies, he brought out the treasure for which she had come. The object was large and fairly heavy and he bore it before him with a ceremonial air. A sharp word to the young boy sent him scurrying to fetch a table upon which it could be placed and a cloth with which to dust it.

  Tracy saw that it was a very grand and dignified samovar. Its copper luster was tarnished and dull, but beauty of form remained. Above the large water compartment rose tiers or racks and lids and a tall copper chimney. Below was the curving base on which the whole thing rested. A handle over the spout was fanned and ornamentally embossed, fancy as a peacock’s tail. On either side of the tank were strong handles by which the heavy piece could be lifted.

  The boy handed the dustcloth to his master, backed fearfully away from the copper beauty, and bolted to the rear of the shop.

  Nursel smiled. “He is afraid. He knows the story of this samovar. It is perhaps more than two hundred years old. In the old times the finest samovars came from Russia, but this was made in a village in Anatolia. You can see how beautiful the workmanship is. Always we Turks have valued artists and, when the Sultan of that day found so fine an artisan in a small village, he brought him and the samovar he had made to Istanbul. There the man was given an important place at court and encouraged in his work. Unfortunately, he was one who enjoyed intrigue. Perhaps he was not as clever at court affairs as he was clever with his hands. It seems that he came to a sad end and his head floated down the Bosporus in a basket.”

  Nursel walked around the samovar, touching it respectfully now and then.

  “The most romantic part of the story comes later,” she went on. “The samovar was given at last to the Sultan’s mother, the most powerful woman in the Empire. For many years it graced her summer palace on the Bosporus. Unfortunately, she was stabbed to death and the samovar outlasted her. Later the samovar was placed in the Topkapi Palace museum. Many years ago it was stolen from the museum and disappeared, only to come to light recently in Istanbul’s bazaars. What a marvelous treasure for Sylvana to own, though I wish that Murat had found it first.”

  Tracy regarded the samovar with interest. “Won’t it be returned to the museum?”

  Again Nursel made her graceful little shrug. “Perhaps it will be. But for now Sylvana may enjoy it and she will also enjoy making Murat envious.” She sighed as though she foresaw further tensions at the yali with the coming of the samovar.

  There was no bargaining here. Apparently the price had been arrived at between Sylvana and the shopkeeper, and Nursel had only to pay him the not inconsiderable sum.

  When they returned to the car, the shopkeeper accompanied them, bearing the treasure wrapped carefully in Turkish newspapers and tied with string. The boy, it seemed, would not carry it. He had run away to hide until the samovar was gone from the shop.

  When the large package had been placed in the back of the car, Nursel suggested that there was time for Tracy to see the Blue Mosque before lunch. They drove a short distance and then parked again.

  “I am sorry I cannot go in with you,” Nursel said. “I must not leave Sylvana’s treasure alone in the car. But you may enter and look around as long as you wish. I am content. There is no hurry.”

  The great mosque was a pyramid of domes rising upon domes, with the largest one crowning the top. At each of the mosque’s four corners rose a slender minaret, encircled by small bands of balcony, as rings might encircle a finger. The two extra minarets—six was a greater number than any except those possessed by the great mosque in Mecca—stood somewhat to the side.

  Tracy’s eyes were filled with the soaring grace of the architecture and she stood looking up at the domes for a long while before she walked across the wide courtyard to the entrance. She had read that Sultan Ahmed had so admired Justinian’s St. Sophia that he had copied the outer form of it in this mosque.

  Near the entrance an aged Turk pointed to large soft slippers she could put on over her shoes, and held out his palm for her tip. Shuffling in the ungainly coverings, she stepped into a world of flying arches and vast domes, all floating in a shimmer of blue light. Far above, high windows circled each dome and graced each arch, flinging sunlight into the heart of the mosque, only to have its gold transfused by the expanse of mosaic until the air seemed blue as an undersea cavern. Tracy stepped onto soft layers of carpet, dozens of which were arranged in orderly rows, covering every inch of the floor. A sense of spreading, soaring space was all about her, not only overhead, but all round at floor level. There were no pews to break up space as was the case in a Christian church. The carpets were there to be knelt upon, and only four enormous fluted columns interrupted the open vista.

  So varied was the decoration of tilework, with its flaunting of blue peacock tails, its stylized reproduction of blue roses and tulips and lilies, its giant inscriptions from the Koran that adorned pillar and dome and arch, that the eye soon wearied and Tracy ceased to see detail, but was absorbed into the vast blue atmosphere.

  The hour was nearing for prayer, and the Faithful, having performed their ablutions in running water outside the mosque, were coming in to kneel upon the carpets, gathering in a mass toward the front of the edifice. There were no women among the worshipers who faced Mecca. The men who passed Tracy paid no attention, undoubtedly accustomed to tourists and intent upon their own purpose. A low, carved stand in the form of a giant X held a huge Koran, its worn pages open to be read by whomever pleased.

  Overhead wires had been strung across the space, and from these hung glass lamps which had once contained oil and wicks for the lighting of the interior, but now boasted unromantic glass bulbs for electrictity. In her huge slippers Tracy shuffled beneath them toward one of the outer galleries, her senses dulled by the very blueness and the vast assortment of detail. The wall pulled in her perspective a little and she rounded a turn of the corridor to come to a surprised halt. A few feet away a man stood before an easel, intent upon his painting. She saw that it was Miles Radburn.

  She stood where she was, watching him, uncertain whether to advance or go quickly away before he saw her.

  7

  An uneasy prickling stirred at the back of Tracy’s neck and she smiled ruefully. Her hackles were rising, undoubtedly, at the very sight of this man. She moved nearer, trying to walk without scuffling, in order to see what he was doing before he discovered her there watching him.

  His dark, rather saturnine head was bent toward the work in progress on his easel. He was, of course, painting in blue—an assortment of blues that made up one of the far-flung peacock panels over his head. Meticulously he was filling in tiny wedges and feathery curves, and she marveled that he could do such work. Once he had been a painter of men and women, known for the swiftness with which he could cut through exteriors to the essence of his subject in quick strong strokes. He had done just that in his painting of Anabel. How could he turn now to this painstaking detail, so lacking in any human quality?

  He must hav
e sensed her presence, for he looked around and recognized her without welcome. Tracy braced herself. She did not like the uneasiness she felt with this man, the inclination to flee from something half feared and not understood. For this very reason she stood her ground.

  “Touristing?” he asked. “What do you think of all this?”

  She did not believe he really cared what she thought, but she tried to give him a true answer. “It overwhelms me. I get tired of trying to look at it all at once. I suppose I keep wanting to see a human face somewhere in all that sea of abstract design.”

  “The Moslem religion forbade the depicting of humans or animals,” he reminded her. “Mustapha Kemal changed all this, but it’s why artists used to turn to architecture and mosaics to express themselves. They produced some of the finest work of this sort that’s ever been done, as a result.” He waved a hand toward the interior of the mosque. “Of course a lot of what you see there now is stenciling. Unless you look closely, you can’t always tell it from the real tile. Many of the less famous mosques have finer work preserved in them.”

  He turned back to his painting and she watched him for a few moments longer. When it appeared that he had nothing more to say to her, she intruded upon his silence.

  “Did you happen to go into your study before you left this morning?”

  He answered carelessly. “Only when I first got up. I had no time after breakfast. My stuff was in my car and I wanted to get an early start.”

  “I went in,” she said quietly. “Someone had gone through the sorting I did yesterday and whipped everything into complete disorder.”

  She had his attention now. He stared at her, his face expressionless.