The Velvet Glove

by Rebecca Stratton

  Tatlisu might have lacked size and modernity, but there were willing male hands soon available when the boat's owner called for assistance to get his passenger ashore, and Ian was half carried by two of the men, followed by a dozen more, solemn-faced and already involved in the rescue as far as interest was concerned.

  There was a brief discussion in Turkish while the two main members of the party gently carried Ian on their clasped hands, and without pause they all trooped in the direction of a house that stood at one end of the village, a slightly larger house than the rest, but with the usual outside staircase and squat tiled roof.

  It was the doctor's house, Laurette assumed, and the ceremony of knocking was dispensed with. The door was simply pushed open and the whole party went inside, closing the door behind them, leaving Laurette on the outside. It was the normal thing to do, of course, the men would not even think about Ian preferring her to be there too, women had no place in this particular episode.

  There were women about, naturally curious, but they satisfied their interest from a distance, dark-eyed looks directed at her from above the illegal but still widely used veil. It was not a veil strictly speaking, but simply an extension of the headcloth worn by the women, drawn across the lower half of the face, so that it was difficult to tell who might be smiling without being able to see their mouths.

  A large and bony dog showed an interest, sniffing around her ankles, and a small boy hurled a handful of dirt from the road to discourage it, a gesture that seemed to spark sudden life into the watching women. One of them came forward, younger than the rest, Laurette thought, letting the concealing cloth fall from her face as she came and smiling, her large dark eyes shyly friendly.

  'Müsade edin, hanim, I have English a little. May we offer you çay?'

  Laurette smiled gratefully. Whoever had said that the English are the race who solve all their problems with a cup of tea had never visited Turkey! The offer of tea was inevitable, like the hospitality that prompted it.

  'That's very kind of you, thank you.' She repeated her thanks in Turkish, and the woman looked delighted, as if she had paid her a personal compliment, remarking on it to her friends. 'But first,' Laurette went on, wondering just how good the woman's English was, 'I must find a telephone. Telefon etmek istiyorum—I have to make a telephone call.'

  'Telefon?' Her informant looked vaguely puzzled.

  She had never used the instrument herself, nor had any of her friends. 'The house of the doktor has the telefon, hanim.'

  It made sense, of course, for who else in a village this size would have need of such sophistication? Laurette glanced over her shoulder at the doctor's house, which must already be full to overflowing with Ian and his rescuers, and pulled a face. 'Then I'm going to have to ask the doctor if I can use that one.'

  Obviously the idea caused something of a stir among the women, for they were looking at her curiously, and rather as if she was some kind of privileged person. 'You can use telefon, hanim?'

  Laurette did not look forward to making her way through a crowd of men to do so, but she had no choice it seemed, and she smiled ruefully. 'I have to,' she said, and hoped the doctor proved sufficiently enlightened to allow her the privilege. 'But I'll be very grateful for that tea when I come back.'

  'Evet, hanim.''

  Clearly her bravado intrigued them, for they watched her all the way to the doctor's house, where it sat in the shade of a plane tree, closed and seemingly silent until she first knocked tentatively and then pushed open the door. At once a deep rumble of male conversation met her, ceasing abruptly when she walked in.

  Ian must be alone with the doctor somewhere, for there was no sign of him among the group of men who turned as one and regarded her curiously. Putting on a bold face, she sought and found a door with a neat brass plate that spelled out klinik, which was as near to surgery as she was likely to get, she thought.

  Her tentative knock was answered after a second or two by a young man in a white coat, who looked at her for a moment as if he did not quite believe he was seeing her. Recalling himself suddenly, he smiled and inclined his head, inviting her in.

  The surgery was neat and spotlessly clean, and surprisingly well equipped, smelling of die same curious mixture of smells that surgeries anywhere in the world smelled of. She stood for a moment, her expression showing her surprise, and aware that the doctor was regarding her in a way that seemed to suggest he recognised her. Though how, she could not imagine.

  'You seek reassurance, hanim?'

  He would know she had been left outside, of course, but he understood how she felt, which the men outside probably did not. 'I wondered if—I'm sorry, doctor, I should have introduced myself. My name's Laurette Kearn.'

  'Ah, yes, of course—Miss Kearn!' He spoke excellent English and offered his hand. 'I am Sadi Teoman, Miss Kearn.'

  Ian had. evidently given him her name, and she thanked heaven he was apparently very progressive. His handshake and his smile were both friendly and uninhibited, and she was grateful for it. 'I'm so glad you speak such good English, doctor.' She laughed a little uncertainly and glanced at Ian on a small bed that evidently did service as an examination couch. He appeared to be too ill to take any interest in her sudden appearance, and she felt more concerned than ever. 'How's Ian?'

  'My patient?' The doctor smiled reassurinigly. 'Oh, he'll be fine in a few days, though he is not feeling very good at the moment, I am afraid.'

  'Poor Ian.' She smiled at him gratefully, though she was still puzzled as to why an apparently well educated and progressive man should choose to bury himself in a village the size of Tatlisu. 'I'm thankful he's in good hands, doctor.'

  His eyes had a darkly mischievous look that was very attractive and he showed excellent teeth in another smile. 'But it surprises you to find such—good hands in a village like Tatlisu?' He obviously enjoyed her surprise and made no secret of it. 'I was trained in a London hospital, Miss Kearn, but I was born not far from here. I was one of the lucky ones, and I am here because I am grateful for that.'

  'Oh, I see—well, it's lucky for us that you are here, doctor. But I wonder if I could impose further on your time by asking to use your telephone. It's the only one in the village, I believe.'

  'Oh, but of course! Will you come with me?'

  The telephone was in another room, one that appeared to be used as an office, and led off the surgery. He indicated the instrument standing on a desk by the window, but did not leave her, as she expected. Instead he was regarding her curiously. 'Forgive my curiosity, Miss Kearn, but you are the lady who is—in the care of the Kayaman family, are you not?'

  His knowledge was unexpected, and his delicate wording of her position in the family was typical of someone uncertain of his ground, so that she looked at him for a second or two before she replied. 'I'm Refik Bey's foster-daughter, in fact, Doctor Teoman. Do you know him?'

  The doctor nodded, one finger rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 'I know Refik Bey slightly—I know Nuri Kayaman better; we were at university together and we still have contact quite frequently.'

  'Oh!' Heaven knew why she coloured up the way she did, but the doctor noted the fact with interest, she thought. It was ridiculous how sensitive she had become about Nuri lately. 'I didn't realise that.'

  'It is quite possible,' Doctor Teoman acknowledged, with a smile for his country's traditions. 'Nuri's sisters would know few of his male friends, even his foster-sister.'

  'That's true.' She put a hand on the telephone, recalling her need of it. 'I want to call Yarev, actually, and get someone to come and fetch us. I thought it was a better idea than letting Ian struggle on and off a boat, the way we came.'

  'Much better,' the doctor agreed, his dark eyes frankly curious. 'I am sure that Nuri would be only too pleased to drive you—and your friend—home.'

  'Ian's my cousin.'

  'Ah!' He smiled and touched his own dark hair. 'The red hair—it is very distinctive.'

  'We only recently met,
and discovered each other. Three nights ago, in fact. It was rather exciting to find I had someone of my own.'

  'Naturally. I was rather surprised when I learned who you were to see you with a young man.' He was smiling; a nice, friendly, but unreservedly admiring smile that brought a faint flush to her cheeks. 'My friend Kayaman is quite right—you are a very lovely young woman, they have need to take good care of you.'

  The flush in her cheeks became a bright pink warmth there was no concealing, and she hastily avoided the doctor's speculative eyes. 'Nuri—said that?' - Doctor Teoman was smiling, she could tell from the sound of his voice, even though she did not look at him again. 'I have been indiscreet,' he mourned. 'I hope you will not let Nuri know that I have what your countrymen would call—put my foot in it. You will not give me away, hmm?'

  'No, of course not.'

  He did not really expect her to, she thought, but the idea of Nuri talking about her to his friends gave her a curious feeling, and she was not sure whether or not she liked it. His description of her had been flattering, at least according to the doctor, and that was something she could not take exception to—in fact she rather liked the idea of that.

  She found the matter more immediately compelling than making her call, and Doctor Teoman was watching her closely from the other side of the desk, obviously sensing something of what was in her mind. 'Turkish men are not so very different from Englishmen, Miss Kearn. When we are together we discuss women. Among other subjects, of course,' he added with a wry smile. 'But I promise you that you have never been the subject of any—uncomplimentary or improper conversation.' The dark eyes held hers steadily for a moment, and were too honest and too unwavering not to be believed. 'Your foster-brother is very—fond of you, of that I can assure you.'

  'I know.' Laurette hastily avoided his eyes and lifted the receiver from its rest. 'I'll see if someone can come and fetch us—if Nuri has arrived home by now, he might come.'

  'And if he does, you will not tell him that I have been indiscreet?'

  Laurette was not sure just how serious his plea was, but she smiled at him reassuringly and shook her head. T promise.'

  Knowing that Ian was in good hands with Doctor Teoman, Laurette had no reason to worry about him for the moment, so while she waited for Refik Kayaman to come for them in a car she took advantage of the offer to have tea. She had never yet visited a house in a real country district, and she quite looked forward to the experience.

  Her hostess, as it turned out, lived in one of the larger houses. It was double-storied, not single, and little more than a hut, as some of them were. It stood in the centre of the village, not too far from the doctor's house should she be needed, and had the usual outside staircase giving access to the upper floor where the living quarters were.

  It was to be a party, it seemed, for several of the other women joined her and her hostess, all removing their shoes in the customary way before entering. Her hostess, she learned, was called Suna Melen and her husband, Ismail, was among those at the doctor's house. He was, so Suna confided with some pride, a progressive man who allowed her more freedom than most of the men allowed their wives, an opinion that none of the other women saw fit to debate, so it was probably true.

  Laurette was solemnly introduced to the rest in strict order of seniority as was customary, and they seated themselves in a circle around their guest. The room was neat and clean, and furnished with hard, flat cushions set on the thinly carpeted floor; cushions that Laurette found much less comfortable than the fat feathery comfort of the ottoman at home. Wooden chests standing around the walls contained the family's bedding, neatly stored away for the day, and the room was surprisingly cool considering the wood-burning stove that gave off a smoky and slightly perfumed smell.

  The traditional round tray-like table set on low legs was brought and set in the centre of the group of women, but talk was sparse at first. Only one other beside Suna Melen spoke a little English, and the ones who did not were too polite to converse in their own tongue when their visitor could not be included in their conversation.

  It caused them no frustration to sit silently, however, for they were accustomed to doing so whenever their menfolk talked together, and a great deal could be conveyed simply by using their expressive dark eyes and a series of vague fluttering gestures. It was a form of communication that reminded her in some way of Halet and her sisters, and it occurred to her that possibly it was one developed by generations of women who spoke only when they were spoken to, and then softly and briefly, so as not to intrude.

  Veils were lowered in the house where there was no one but women, and Laurette set the conversational ball rolling by asking about the tea they were drinking and the method of brewing it. At Yarev she was accustomed to a samovar being used, but here it was different. The tea had a curious herbal taste that she was told came from the leaves of the linden, called thlamur, and it was brewed by placing a small kettle containing the tea on top of a large enamel one, where the lid would normally sit.

  It was almost a ritual, as so many Turkish pleasures were, and the finished brew, served in their hostess's best glass goblets and thick with sugar, was definitely an acquired taste. With the serving of tea tongues were loosened, and questions began, tentative at first in the polite Turkish way, and then increasingly searching when the subject showed no sign of resentment at their interest, and all very formally translated by Suna Melen, whose English, it appeared, was rather better than it had seemed at first.

  The Turks were a very sociable race and in this little out-of-the-way village there would seldom if ever be a stranger to break the monotony of the everyday round.

  One of the older women asked something and Suna Melen translated it solemnly for her.

  'Nilufer Hanim asks if your brother is very ill, hanim.'

  Laurette smiled her thanks for the enquiry, fully aware that such an assumption was inevitable in the circumstances, and would not be as straight forward to deny as might be supposed. 'Oh, he has only a touch of sunstroke. Günes çarpması—he'll be better in a few days, thank you. But he isn't my brother, he's my cousin —kuzen.'

  'Not your brother?'

  It was clear that her interpreter hesitated to pass on such a surprising piece of news, and Laurette could feel shrewd dark eyes questioning the delay. Another question prompted her and was answered at once, the news that Ian's illness was not too serious, apparently, since the old head nodded satisfaction.

  The situation was different, however, when more slowly and with obvious hesitation, the rest of the information was passed on, and the older woman frowned at Laurette curiously, unwilling to believe what she heard, it seemed.

  'Nilufer says that she can then assume you to be betrothed to the man with red hair, hanim.' She hurried on, as if she feared Laurette might think her as un-progressive as her neighbour. 'The older women do not have the understanding, you see, hanim.'

  'No, of course they don't.' Laurette was determinedly casual about it, but she suspected that even the progressive Suna was a little taken aback at such boldness. 'It's quite normal among my people for men and women to go about together, but tell Nilufer Hanim that I belong to—that I live with a Turkish family, and I understand her reaction.'

  The message was passed on and the old woman once more expressed surprise, but the question Suna Melen asked next was to satisfy her own curiosity, Laurette thought. 'You live in Turkey, hanimi You like our country?'

  A Turk always knew the answer to that one, but Suna Melen waited smilingly for it to be confirmed. 'I love it,' Laurette said sincerely. 'I live in Antalya with a family called Kayaman and I've been with them for so long now that I feel myself Turkish by now.'

  It was a compliment that Suna appreciated and translated willingly for her friends. There were smiles all round, with one exception—the old woman, Nilufer, who was still not satisfied and made little attempt to conceal the fact. It seemed the name Kayaman meant something to her too, which was not really surprising, fo
r the family firm was well known in the area and could easily have reached this village too, but whatever she said, Suna Melen was obviously less pleased to translate.

  'Is something wrong?'

  Laurette asked the question to ease the way for her interpreter, for she was so evidently unwilling to pass on whatever it was the old woman had said to her. 'Such things are not for talk with strangers, hanim. I will not insult you by repeating them.'

  She looked so defiantly at the older woman, that Laurette was inevitably intrigued to know what was too awful to be translated for her ears. Her smattering of Turkish informed her that it concerned someone's cousin and the Kayaman family, but she could not be left in this unsatisfying state of limbo, and pleaded with her hostess to overcome her sensitivity and tell her.

  With much glancing at the old woman from the corners of her eyes, the reluctant Suna did so. 'Nilufer saye she has knowledge of the family Kayaman, hanim, through a cousin who has a friend in the house of Refik Bey as a servant.'

  From that somewhat complex situation Laurette gathered that the old woman's cousin had been gossiping as people do the world over, about her employer and his family, but what puzzled her was what she could possibly have heard that could cause the sharp look on that wrinkled brown face opposite. Something that Suna Melen was not happy about translating.

  She smiled, showing that she could think of nothing to arouse such untypical malice, and made her answer to Suna. 'Then Nilufer Hanim will know that I come from a very fine home and good people,' she said, an answer which Suna translated willingly. 'Perhaps I can hear what it is that's causing her such concern. Won't you please tell me?'

  She had a curious sense of anticipation in the pit of her stomach and waited. The young woman was not happy about it, but she could not refuse to oblige a guest and she did so in a low soft voice that made her dislike of the situation quite clear.

  'Forgive me, hanim, but Nilüfer is of the mind that you have—run away with this man who has güneş çarpması. Our men would not allow us to entertain a woman who has done this.'