by Ann Bridge
She was very careful, too, never to go down to the salon to sit with Réfiyé Hanim on the nights when he was out, when it would certainly have been realised that she was alone. She would dearly have liked to go, for those evenings were very long and lonely, and she had not been brought up to loneliness. And the solitary evenings became more and more frequent as the autumn wore on—Orhan never spent more than one night at a time at the yali. What Féridé did not know was that he now never slept two nights running under any one roof. The gang which he and one or two friends organised was one of the most audacious and successful units in the dump-robbing racket; he was suspected, and under constant observation both by the Allied agents and the Ottoman police.
A thing that Féridé could not prevent—and it worried her that she could not prevent it—was Dil Feripé’s constantly popping up to see her on those solitary evenings. She would come sidling through the door, sit down, and pour out a long stream of gossip about the small events and doings of the day, the household, the servants and their virtues or misdeeds. Mahmud Agha’s grandson had come to live with him, his mother being dead—“Yes, indeed; the Hanim Effendi (this was Réfiyé Hanim) said he should come; the air would be good for him, and he can be useful to the Agha.” F6ride, really glad of someone to talk to, asked how old Mahmud’s grandson was? “Eight, nine, ten!— what do I know? Very small, but a bright, a sharp little boy!” But oddly enough the old dadi, nowadays, never commented on Orhans absence, as she had done earlier; Féridé did not know whether to be relieved or worried by this. Had she, so to speak, given Orhan up as a bad job, or did she too guess? Anxiously, F6ride spoke to Orhan about his dirty clothes; and after that, at her suggestion, he took to keeping a dirty suit in the caïque-han6 at the end of the garden, changing when he went out, and changing back into a tidy one on his return. And again he said nothing, only gave her a deep smile, and a long kiss.
By day, though, Féridé often went down and sat with her grandmother. A couple of months after their marriage it would have been normal for a young couple, living as they did under the family roof, to begin attending the family meals, and to some extent sharing the family life; since Ahmet’s departure Nilüfer did so. But it had been tacitly accepted that Orhan and Féridé had not done this—with the complicated and difficult relations obtaining between them and the Pasha, it was obviously much better that they should not. With Réfiyé Hanim, however, Féridé felt no sense of strain; in her constant anxiety she found immense relief merely from sitting in the old woman’s presence, and sheltering, as it were, under the strong wings of her calm, her wisdom, her goodness. They were always happy together, those two—Féridé often thought it rather wonderful that they were still so happy and at ease, for Réfiyé Hanim’s ideas were generally speaking those of her son, the Pasha, on all the subjects which divided him from Orhan and her, Féridé; the girl divined dimly that love was what worked the miracle, and created such peace around the old woman who stood half-way between the points of view of her much-loved son and her worshipped grandchild.
And she divined aright. Réfiyé Hanim loved Ahmet dearly, and was fond of Niliifer—but her heart was Féridé’s. In Orhan she discerned the promise of great things, and, in any case, she accepted completely the necessity for his wife’s unquestioning loyalty to him. It was a long time now since, at her suggestion, he had called her Nine She asked no questions, and though she received confidences, she did not make many to Féridé, save on trivial matters.
A few days after the changing of Orhan’s clothes had been organised, Réfiyé Hanim said casually to Féridé, as they sat together one morning, “I have decided to send Dil Feripé over to Chamlidja for a time.”
“To the vine-house? Why, Nine? Is not the grape-gathering nearly over?”
“Yes, but there is the drying of the grapes, and of the late plums, and the digging and so on. Silan is getting old, and I think he may be careless. It is better that Dil Feripé should be there.”
Many wealthy Turkish families in Istanbul had vineyards outside the city, up in the hills behind Scutari, where the small sweet grapes were grown that supplied their vast households, the surplus being sold, and where the vine-leaves, earlier in the year, were salted in brine, to wrap round the small pieces of meat before they were stewed, or grilled over red-hot charcoal. Aubergines were grown there, and gourds and tomatoes; such places were really small farms. But besides the farmer’s dwelling there was usually a little house where the owner could go and stay for a few days, he or anyone whom he might send to supervise operations; it was quite common for one of the kalfas to go out and superintend the salting down of the vine-leaves. And for some reason, these little dwellings were called “the vien-house” or “the house in the vine.” They were simple places, generally with whitewashed walls, a tiled roof, a sitting-room in which one also ate, and two or three bedrooms; they were almost completely inaccessible, as a rule, to any wheeled vehicle, and could only be reached on foot, or on horse- or mule-back—the produce came down in panniers to the main road or the ferry.
Féridé was a little surprised that Réfiyé Hanim should send poor old Dil Feripé to the vine-house so late in the season—and if it come to age, she was not so much younger than Silan! But she was still very active— and anyhow age was not one of the questions one raised with Niné! The thought just flashed across her mind that her grandmother, who had a way of knowing everything, might share her concern at the old dadi’s so often coming up to her rooms at night, when Orhan was not there, and might be sending her away to prevent her from chattering unwisely, and even dangerously. So she merely said that she thought it a very good idea, and then asked about Mahmud Aghas little grandson.
In fact Réfiyé Hanim was sending the dadi to Chamlidja because she recognised danger to Orhan—but it was not merely the danger of careless chatter which Féridé had suspected. The previous day the Pasha had come to her in a state of great concern, scattering with a glance the old kalfas huddled round the brazier, like hens huddling in shelter on a day of east wind. When they had gone—
“Ané, there is trouble about Orhan,” he said, sitting down.
“What trouble, my son?”
“It is known, or believed, that he is one of those who go and steal arms from the places where, under that accursed Treaty, we leave them in the care of the English; more, that he is a leader, an organiser, of those who do this!”
Réfiyé Hanim had guessed months ago that Orhan was doing this very thing—but all she said was:
“How did you learn this, my son?”
“Ané, a good friend told me, when I was in the Club, yesterday. He told me out of friendship. But the boy is in danger—great danger. He is watched: by our police, and by these miserable Allied agents. At any moment they may come here—here, to my house!”—said the Pasha, outraged at the very idea—“to seek for him, to apprehend him! And consider the penalties. They are terrible. He must be stopped. Think of Féridé—of our child.”
“My son, you are right,” said the old lady. “Something must be done.” She knew that it would be impossible to stop Orhan doing what he did, but did not say so. She had foreseen this; which was why she had imported the Mahmud Agha’s grandson—small boys of nine or ten could run about, unquestioned, even in the feminine parts of a Turkish household—they were like mice or ferrets.
“But what, Ané? You know what that boy is, neither to bind nor to hold! And Féridé is as bad.”
“My son, shall I see what I can do?”
“Yes, Ané; do what you can. You might bring Féridé to see reason, and she may ménager him, perhaps. But there is no time to be lost.”
What Réfiyé Hanim did was first to arrange to send Dil Feripé and an old servant to Chamlidja—that meant there would be a comfortable hide-out for Orhan on the far side of the Bosphorus, in the safety of the remote little “house in the vine.” She had a talk to Mahmud, and ordained that old Zeynel should sleep, for the present, in a small hutchlike room behind the doorkee
per’s lodge; she had a talk to Zeynel himself. Ahmet’s rowboat had been laid up for the winter; she made the faithful grumbling old man put it down in the water again, moored in the caïque-hané ready for use.
As for the tiny Ali, Mahmud Agha’s little grandson, the old lady made a great pet of him; he was forever in the house, trotting all over the place; several times he pattered up with some message or other to Féridé’s suite, so that presently he could find his way alone perfectly. And now, at night, last thing, Mdlee Marthe always slipped downstairs and unlocked and unbolted the door near the foot of the staircase which gave unto that covered passage at the back of the house, by which Fanny used to run in and out when her uncle brought her over from the pension. Having seen to all this, calm as ever, Réfiyé Hanim sat in her corner and waited, warming herself at the great brazier; it was late October now, and the weather was getting chilly.
She had not to wait very long. Murad Zadé Asaf Pasha’s position had kept the Ottoman agents off for a long time, but one night, the last week in October, it happened.
Orhan was at home that night—for the first time for nearly a week. He and Féridé had come down and taken coffee with Réfiyé Hanim and the Pasha in the salon, and then went back to their rooms—dog-tired, as usual, Orhan suggested going early to bed, and was instantly asleep. Féridé lay beside him, but wakeful; propped on one elbow she watched, in the dim glow of the small night-lamp, his fair head on the pillow. How young he looked, asleep, almost a child!—all the swordlike intensity of his waking face gone. Their bedroom was at the back, looking onto the bushy cliff, and immediately behind the adjoining boudoir, which overlooked the water. Did she hear voices?—Féridé thought suddenly, as she lay there. Sofly she got up and crept to the window, opened it, and listened. Yes, away to her right there were certainly voices, raised by the Agha’s lodge, and then the sound of feet coming down the drive towards the taslik and the front door. She glanced at her watch—it was after eleven, an improbable hour for guests to arrive. Hesitating, she turned back towards the bed, where her husband still lay in that deep childish slumber—and at that moment there came a soft, mouselike scrabbling at the door into the boudoir, and then a small urgent voice—“Orhan Bey! Orhan Bey!”
Féridé went to the door and opened it, her heart beating violently— there stood Little Ali, rather out of breath, his eyes as bright as a mouse’s eyes.
“I have a message for Orhan Bey, Hanim Effendi.”
“What is it?”
“That visitors have come for him, my Grandfather said. He said to tell him at once, at once—visitors!” Féridé guessed immediately. “Thank you, Little Ali,” she said quietly —“run back now.” Then she paused. “Wait—how did you come?”
“By the big passage without the house, Hanim Effendi.”
“Very well. Go down to that passage, and wait there; and when none will see you, return to your Grandfather’s house.”
“Yes, Hanim Effendi. So he said I should do.”
“Run then—” and closing the door after the child she turned to the bed. “Orhan, wake!” she said, shaking him by the shoulder.
He woke at once. He had the faculty of coming out of the depths of sleep into full wakefulness in one movement.
“Orhan, they have come—they are here! You must go.”
Before she had finished speaking he was out of bed and into his dressing-room, and was pulling on his clothes. She followed him.
“Where shall you go?” she asked.
“To the caïque-hané, through the garden, and then row across to the other side.”
“But where will you go then? And you cannot manage the boat alone.”
“Zeynel will be there—and I shall go up to the vine-house. Oh, where in the name of perdition are my tennis-shoes?”
“Here”—she gave them to him—all sorts of doors were opening in her mind at once.
“Who brought word?” he asked, as he laced them up.
“Little Ali.”
“Ah—so the side door is open! But where are they now, do you know?”
Even as he spoke there came a noise of doors opening and shutting below, far away in the great house. Orhan stood listening, his head cocked intently, like a terrier’s.
“If they are our people, they will go to your Father, decently, and ask permission, and that will give time; but if they are the others, no—they will be everywhere at once,” he said. He went to the window, opened it noiselessly, looked out, and listened. “Blow out the light,” he said very low; she did so. He stood, measuring the distance between the window-ledge and the face of the cliff.
“Orhan, you cannot! You cannot get a run at it!”
He turned with a stifled laugh. “Oh, dji-djim, who but you would think of that? Cover yourself, Light of my Eyes, and run down and see if the way is clear to the side door. Forgive me that I ask this of you.”
Féridé flung on her dressing-gown and a scarf, and ran through her rooms and down the staircase which led up to the salon. At the bottom she paused—she could hear voices some way away, in the direction of the selamlik. She went on through a short lobby to the side door, and looked out—to right, to left. The covered passage had bare walls, with no obstructions; in either direction it ended, empty, showing a clear oblong against the faint star-shine without. Little Ali must have got home. She ran back, and upstairs; Orhan was in the upper hall.
“No one—the way is clear,” she breathed.
“It is well. Farewell, my treasure, my jewel.” He took her in his arms for a moment. “Lie in bed and feign sleep—God grant they do not search, but be ready,” he whispered, and ran down the stairs without a sound.
Féridé went back to their room, and glanced about it in the dim glow of the night-lamp. The bed was disordered, and Orhan’s slippers lay by the foot; she put them away, and straightened the sheets and the muslin coverlet. She took the lamp into the dressing-room—yes, there lay his pyjamas on the floor; these too she hid away in a drawer under the clean ones. All the time she was longing to go to the window, to listen—but she put all in order first; then, setting down the lamp by the bed, she stole into the boudoir, to the window, and opened it. There was, sure enough, the sound of oars, very faint above the dashing of the waves against the embankment; to her left a group of slender shafts of yellow light shone out over the darkened waters. She knew where they came from—through the pierced shutters of her Father’s study.
Another sound, nearer, made her start—someone was crossing the drawing-room. Closing the window she darted back into her room, threw off her dressing-gown, and lay down in bed. Oh, just Heaven, she still had her scarf on! She pulled it off and kicked it down to the foot of the bed. “In the bed they surely will not look,” she thought, and giggled a little, out of nervousness; then lay still and heard the thudding of her heart.
The door was opening. “Féridé?” said Mdlle Marthe’s voice.
The girl half-turned in bed, stretching out an arm, as one who wakes from deep sleep. “Ahh?” she muttered; and then—“What is it? Who is there?” she said sleepily.
“It is I—Marthe.” The Frenchwoman came in and closed the door; she wore a magenta flannel dressing-gown, and carried a small lamp, whose light gleamed on the curling-pins in her grey hair.
“Mais ma chère, what on earth do you want? Whatever time is it? Oh, mon Dieu, how sleepy I am!” Féridé now sat up in bed, stretched her arms, and gave an excellent imitation of a yawn.
“The agents have come; they are seeking Orhan. I came to prepare you.”
“Well, it is no good their seeking here; he went out the moment after coffee,” Féridé said, yawning again.
“My child, you had better rise—they are coming with your Father,” the old governess said.
“Indeed I shall not rise! I am sleepy! If they wish to have the impoliteness to search my room, they can do it while I am in bed,” said Féridé, and snuggled down again under the blankets.
Steps were heard outside—there ca
me a knock on the door.
“Who is there?” Féridé called.
“It is I—your Father.”
“My Father, I am in bed. But pray enter, if you desire to speak with me.”
The Pasha opened the door a crack, and spoke through it.
“My daughter, there are persons here who desire speech with your husband.”
“But he is not here. He left after dinner, as soon as we had taken coffee”—Féridé spoke loud and clearly. There was a murmur of voices outside, and then a strange voice, rather embarrassed, spoke through the door.
“Hanim Effendi, I regret it infinitely, but we have orders to search the house. If the Hanim Effendi would have the great goodness to rise, so that we may search the room.”
“My Father, is this essential? It seems to me most strange.”
“My daughter, it would be best.”
“Then ask them to have the goodness to wait while I dress. Ma chère Marthe, please to close the door, and light some candles.”
Taking her time, Féridé got up, put on her dressing-gown, and smothered herself in the black folds of her çarşaf; then she opened the door and followed by Marthe went out into the boudoir, where a group of men were standing, looking profoundly uncomfortable; the Pasha, in his dressing-gown and fez, sat in a chair, the picture of outraged dignity. He rose at her entrance. Ignoring them, Féridé addressed him—“I presume, my Father, that I can wait here while these personages do whatever they desire to do?”
One of the men, bowing deeply, made a number of apologies, to which Féridé only replied by an inclination of the head. “Do ask them, my Father, to complete their business quickly—I am tired and I am cold,” she said.
Awkwardly, the men stepped into the bedroom; one of them asked some question about the dressing-room door.
“Oh ma chère Marthe, do show him the dressing-room. My bedroom, boudoir, dining-room and salon he has already seen!” said Féridé impatiently. The Frenchwoman did as she was asked; after a few moments they all returned to the boudoir. The man who had spoken before, with more bows and more apologies, asked when she had last seen her husband?