What Casanova Told Me

by Susan Swan

  “Do you put lead in the gas here?” she asked, and he nodded.

  “Cars come, factories come, so progress equals pollution.” Aziz shook his head mournfully as he led her to a table. When she had seated herself, he asked if she would like him to take her to Topkapi Palace.

  “You will need a guide. The men in Istanbul are bad, very bad! You must be protected.”

  “I think I can manage on my own,” she said, thinking it was a good thing that Lee hadn’t come with her. The constant pestering of female tourists would have made Lee irate.

  “No, no!” Aziz said. “You don’t know Istanbul. You need a man at your side.”

  “But you have a job to do at the hotel,” she protested.

  “Today I am sick with cold, too sick to work. So I can take you to Topkapi. You cannot go there without man,” he said.

  Luce heard someone laugh good-naturedly.

  “Ah, come now, my friend—chivalry is a protection racket,” said a male voice speaking in an East Coast accent. She turned and saw a tall young man standing behind her. His handsome face behind a pair of oversized black glasses was thin and refined. Despite his unmistakably American voice, he looked Turkish to Luce or possibly Israeli. Ignoring Aziz, he asked, “I hope I have the right person? Luce Adams? I was told I would find you up here. My name is Ender Mecid.”

  “You’re Theodore’s friend?” Luce said, rising to her feet.

  “Yes, he and I were boys here in Istanbul. I live in Boston now.” Ender Mecid spoke Turkish to Aziz who glowered up at him.

  “I told him you and I would like some tea,” he explained as Aziz hurried sullenly into the kitchen. “And to stop bothering you.”

  They stood looking at one another uncertainly. There was so much to tell him, she wasn’t sure where to begin.

  Ender picked up the old leather-bound manuscript that Luce had fetched from her room and ran his hand along the strange, incised indentations on its leather cover. They had moved to a table under the branches of a large plane tree, so that he could examine the document without the sun falling on its pages. He flipped through it once slowly; then he lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

  “So what do you think? Can you translate it for me?” She tried to keep herself from sounding impatient.

  “Yes, I think so. It’s written in the Ottoman language, the basis of modern Turkish. And like most old Turkish texts, it starts here.” He opened the document at the back and pointed to an inscription. She stared at the roiling curlicues and loops.

  “The script is Naskh, whose flowing lines are said to evoke a walk in the country …”

  “How lovely!” She smiled and he nodded.

  “Naskh is the script that’s often used to transcribe the Koran. And it notes here that the author is an Ottoman scribe writing to his sultan, Selim III. The scribe’s name is Sari, an Ottoman word for a fair-haired person, and look, this is interesting—his father’s name was George Campbell. We’ve got a Scottish, or half-Scottish, Ottoman bureaucrat here, from the looks of things. And there’s mention of a foreign woman. Someone called Asked For? The last name is Adams.”

  “That’s her,” Luce said excitedly. “She’s my ancestor.”

  “How fascinating! Do you want me to try doing the first few pages for you now? It will be rough, but it will give you some idea of what we have on our hands.”

  “I do. Oh, yes!”

  “Professor Mecid at your service. Only now you must wait.” Ender gave her a mock-ironic bow. Then he pulled a notepad from his pocket and began to scribble a few words. She sat quietly, reading her guidebook so she wouldn’t disturb him. From time to time, she glanced up to make sure he was holding the manuscript by the edge of the pages so he wouldn’t leave fingerprints on the paper. There was no need to worry. He only touched the document in order to turn a page and he was absorbed now in his work, mouthing words to himself and then scribbling intently.

  Aziz was setting the tables for lunch when Ender looked up and nodded at Luce.

  “I have done a few pages. It’s hard going sometimes.” A nervous, frowning look passed across his face. “I used to translate more quickly. But you know …” He gave Luce a sheepish glance. “My Ph.D. interfered.”

  “Please don’t apologize.” She smiled back, startled by the concentration of his gaze. “Take all the time you need.”

  “Yes. I may need a few days to do this. I don’t want to give you a careless translation, you understand.”

  “I do. But can you tell me what you have done so far?” He nodded and then began to read with such a grave look of anticipation that she had to turn slightly away so he wouldn’t notice how excited she was by his interest in the manuscript.

  Warrior for the Faith, Custodian of the Sacred Relics, Protector of the Pilgrimage, Servitor of the Two Holy Cities and Caliph, I, Sari Mustafa, son of Mustafa the Scotsman, am a mere scribe, yet it brings Your servant great happiness to acknowledge your request concerning the American-born Giaour, Miss Asked For Adams, and her travelling companion, the Chevalier de Seingalt, cited for treason in a letter by Kabasakal Edib Efendi.

  As I write, I have before me the foolish and dangerous words of my enemy, and although Kabasakal Edib Efendi does not mention Miss Adams by name, I respectfully suggest his phrase “self-admitted sensualists” refers only to her companion. The Chevalier de Seingalt, as he made himself known, exhibits certain Giaour characteristics of a pleasure-loving sort, while Miss Adams possesses a steadfast character even if she engages in the pursuit of freedoms unbecoming to women.

  As Your Majesty knows, the actions of foreign women do not reflect on us the same moral obligations as do those of our own women, but to answer your question, “Will the Giaour Asked For Adams give ammunition to my enemies opposing reforms after the Frankish model?” I willingly submit the following report analyzing the danger Miss Adams represents to Your Imperial Court, along with my final recommendation that I trust will please Your Majesty whose superior understanding is second to no servant of God the Almighty.

  The meeting of your brother Prince Mahmud with the Giaour, Asked For Adams, took place in Salonica three moons before the Holy Month of Ramadan in the year 1212 of the Hijrah of the Prophet. Miss Adams came down the gangplank of the sailing ship in a man’s clothes, so at first, Your Majesty, we did not realize the tall youth was a foreign woman. The youth, who was wearing a turban that resembled a loose-fitting sack, had a bandaged hand and was carrying a small dog. An old European gentleman followed her, brandishing a tasselled walking stick at anyone who stood in the way.

  As they walked among the unbelievers, the Giaour’s dog disappeared yapping into the crowds. When she ran after the little dog, her turban blew off and out fell her long, auburn hair. Prince Mahmud and I were both impressed by the sight she made with her great height and long, womanly tresses. After assessing the circumstances, the young prince set off to help Miss Adams, his heart overflowing with curiosity over the beauty of a woman who travels as freely as a man in our lands.

  He found her little dog trapped by the hounds of Salonica who, like the dogs of Constantinople, are wont to surround the animals that venture into their territory. Some say our dogs do it to protect the newcomer and lead it home. Others say our dogs trap the newcomer to kill it. But that afternoon on the wharf, Prince Mahmud gave the dogs of Salonica no chance to show their hospitable nature and snatched her pet from its tribunal of curs. When he presented it to Miss Adams, she was greatly pleased, and she and the aged gentleman invited us to sup with them that evening.

  I saw no harm in the prince accepting their invitation, Your Majesty. In order not to attract attention to ourselves, we were travelling in the garb of commoners, thus, to her mind, Prince Mahmud was only a Muslim boy returning with his tutor from his studies in calligraphy at the school in Belgrade, and possessing a welcome knowledge of French. And my own fluency in English was most welcome. If I may humbly say, Miss Adams laughed merrily at my Scottish brogue. And thanks be to God Almi
ghty, I, too, was happy to meet someone who could speak English.

  As one with hair the colour of fire (the heritage of our redheaded chief whose bright hair lives on through his descendants), I was only too glad to explain how different the fate of my father, born George Campbell in South Uist, Scotland, would have been if Baron de Tott hadn’t interceded on his behalf and brought him to the gracious Sultan, Abdul Hamid, May He Rest in Peace. (My father’s head would have ended on a spike at the Tower of London, or in a lifetime of indentured work in the Colonies—of this I can be sure.)

  Then she told us their tale while the Chevalier de Seingalt listened. He appeared tired and bewildered by their difficult circumstances. Nevertheless, he hung on her every word and she seemed equally fond of him, glancing his way lovingly as she described their rough sea voyage to Greece, and how on a hillside in Greece a man she assumed to be a friend, Domenico Gennaro Efendi, threatened her with the knife he used to cut canvas murals because she rejected his advances. As Your Majesty may guess, the way she defended herself greatly increased the young prince’s respect.

  “I demand an inspection of your weapon,” he said, using the democratic “tu” of the French Revolution to impress her. I whispered to Mahmud that he might offend our companions with his princely manner. But there was no reason to worry, O Glorious Master. The Giaour responded warmly, using the same intimate “tu” as Mahmud.

  “Comme tu veux,” she said, pulling a pistol from her pantaloons, and folded down the little bayonet on the pistol barrel. She handed it to the young prince. It is a dainty lady’s weapon with a tiny panoply of flags and a brass panel engraved with the flag of her homeland and the maker’s name, W.M. Howell of London. Mahmud made Miss Adams go over each detail of the shooting again and again, his eyes glittering, and if it please Your Majesty, I will briefly recount the incident here.

  After the man threatened Miss Adams, she shouted for help but the wind took her cries. She fled through the tall grasses, her steps on the crumbling clay sending up plumes of dust, and hearing the sound of his ragged panting drawing close. Caught in a gully and with nowhere to turn to save herself, Your Majesty, she was obliged to take out her father’s gun and shoot her attacker in the foot.

  The next morning she and the old gentleman fled Athens, because the man she injured threatened to pursue her in the courts. It is a sad story. The Giaour explained that a soothsayer had told them that morning that their happiness would not last the day. The aging gentleman noted that misfortune often befalls us after our happiest hour.

  Ender stopped reading. “That’s as far as I could get in the translation. If I continue, I may make many mistakes. But if you have time later this evening, I will leave more pages for you at your hotel.”

  “I am very grateful to you,” Luce nodded. He stood up smiling, then bent down and slowly traced his finger along the incised decorations on the leather cover of the document.

  “It’s amazing, Luce. These pictorial motifs are more commonly found on mystical writings. My guess is that these designs indicate a shared interest in Sufism on the part of our scribe and his sultan. Perhaps they had a personal relationship, which would have been unlikely then but not impossible. Selim III was a man interested in European ways and reform—as his question to the scribe indicates.”

  She peered at the dark brown cover. Its leather, she guessed, must have once been light brown. Ender turned the document over so they were looking at the design on its back.

  “This is both a picture of a man’s face and a symbolic representation of the Prophet Mohammed and his family.”

  “I didn’t think Islam allowed the making of images.”

  “The Koran doesn’t explicitly forbid it. I will explain it to you later when I have more time.”

  “Ender, I’m beginning to understand that I was lucky to find you. Thank you.”

  He gave her a quick, sardonic smile. “You don’t know how good it is to hear you say that. I’m afraid very few of our historians know much about calligraphy. It continues to be the black hole in Islamic art history.”

  “Is that your field of study?”

  “Not exactly. I will tell you more soon, but I have an appointment now, I’m afraid.” He shook her hand and left, the manuscript with the old Turkish writing carefully tucked inside the folder that she had provided. She watched him descend the stairs. Then she moved to the edge of the terrace and looked for him in the street below. She spotted the tall figure striding under the plane trees, realizing for the first time that she had seen him the day before when he delivered her note to the hotel. She watched until he was lost in the crowd of sightseers heading up to Topkapi Palace.

  Later that evening, when she returned from treating herself to a steam bath up a side street by the Santa Sophia, she found a large envelope with more translated pages waiting for her. As she began to riffle through them, an envelope fell to the floor. It contained a note from Ender:

  Dear Luce,

  From what I can tell, your document looks authentic. There is the date, the eighteenth day of November 1797. And the seal of the library at Topkapi Palace has the date of 1811. And the signature of “Mahmud II”—the Prince Mahmud of the document, and the half-brother of Selim who followed him to the throne. The second date suggests that Mahmud may have decided to move the document to the palace library when he became the sultan. You’ll have to have this checked out with someone more knowledgeable than myself, but I’m convinced. Will you have lunch with me tomorrow?

  Ender

  She let out a whoop. Unless Ender was mistaken, the document appeared to be genuine. And she would gladly go to lunch the next day. She wondered if her delight in the invitation suggested she had more than a professional interest, but she didn’t want anything to interfere with the translation of the old manuscript. And anyway, he had two strikes against him as far as she was concerned: his height and his looks. She wasn’t usually drawn to very tall men whose size felt like a physical command ordering you to take them seriously. And she didn’t trust handsome men with flawless, even features—too often they reminded her of the unanimated faces of dolls.

  She stretched out on her bed and turned to the newly translated pages.

  The gun Miss Adams used to shoot her attacker gave her a painful powder burn. Indeed, that evening, she still had a tiny piece of pistol wad embedded in her right palm. I was able to extract it with my penknife. As Your Majesty might expect, the way she defended herself greatly increased Mahmud’s respect. And since his own mother, the Most Illustrious Nakshidil Sultan, is of the French race, and with Your own interest in the wider world as an example, perhaps it is natural that the prince is curious about foreign women.

  When she explained that she had kept a faithful account of her travels but that her wounded hand made writing in her journal impossible for a few months, Mahmud suggested that I do this task for Miss Adams, to record her travels in our own country. She declined his offer, but kindly asked if I would demonstrate my skill in calligraphy. And so, of course, I obliged my prince, as I am wont to do. Crouching on the floor, I allowed my hand to fly across the notepad on my knee. I had not used my pens for two days because we had been travelling home by coach from Belgrade, and it is difficult to write under such conditions. If I may humbly say, Your Majesty, Miss Adams and the old gentleman were delighted by my brush strokes.

  The Chevalier de Seingalt considered my sketch of the dervish with a human face (Your Majesty’s favourite), and said he thought that the Qur’an forbids the representation of images. So I pointed out to my companions that they will not find unfavourable references in the Qur’an to the making of figures. And furthermore, I argued that the Prophet’s wife was allowed to make “a cushion or two” out of a curtain decorated with images. The old gentleman muttered a dismissive phrase about “Mussulmani nonsense.” As I will explain in my final recommendation, the Chevalier de Seingalt does not look upon our ways with the same interest as Miss Adams.

  Not one to be defeated
, I drew the four letters of God and showed him how cleverly the vertical strokes evoke the fingers of the human hand. And if I may humbly say, the old gentleman lost his tongue when I said it was his Western vanity that led him to think the Qur’an forbids image-making. Giaours believe the making of animate images is more natural than other forms of art, and so ignorantly conclude that there must be a decree against image-making if the people of Islam prefer composing abstractions.

  Greatly excited, I went on to describe the learning of Islam, and how our mosques and libraries made manuscripts available to the people long before the Giaours invented their printing press.

  She awoke an hour later to hear the wails of the muezzins calling out the evening prayer from the minarets of Sultanahmet. The pages of Ender’s translation were still in her hand. Sitting up sleepily, it struck her that Asked For Adams and Jacob Casanova would have heard these same sounds if they had managed to finish their journey and find Aimée Dubucq de Rivery. Her guidebook noted that contemporary muezzins used electronic megaphones, but the piercing voices she heard in the darkness must have sounded much the same to her ancestor. Soon the modern sound-and-light show would be starting at the Blue Mosque, and the neighbourhood dogs would begin to bark at the loud, disembodied male voices. She was becoming accustomed to the evening sounds of the old world, she thought as she turned back to Ender’s translation.

  The winds were very high that week in Salonica, and not expected to abate since this is the season of the meltem. The northerly wind meant a rough voyage so travelling overland was the best plan for us. Before we set out, Miss Adams accepted my help with her disguise—it was clear from what I saw in Salonica that she had not the slightest idea how to keep a turban on her head, so obeying my instructions, she wrapped her hair around the headpiece that serves as the turban’s anchor. Then she fashioned a moustache out of her own curls and pasted it on with gum arabic. The neat appearance of her turban along with the false moustache gave her the look of a tall youth smirking at his elders.