by Jenny White
Violet had charge of the purse. She was much better at keeping an eye on it in a crowd. The quay was crowded—boatmen, passengers, fishermen unloading their catches, buyers for the fish, and the usual street vendors, porters, and beggars. Violet kept hold of my arm as we pushed through the crowd, looking to hire a carriage to take us to Nishantashou. We were not on a main street. She pointed to a large carriage—really, much too large to have any business on that street—stopped right by the pier. We noticed it right away because the horses had such colorful traces—red and blue. The driver was short and powerfully built, with light-colored hair in tight curls, like the spring lamb Halil once bought to be slaughtered for our feastday meal. Dressed in ordinary working garments, he wore the black shoes of a Jew. Violet haggled briefly and then helped me into the box, while the driver climbed up front. I remember she was puzzled by the low price. “He wasn’t at all interested in bargaining,” she told me. “He looked rather like he was in a hurry.”
The carriage was very dark when I climbed in. When I turned to look for Violet a smell suddenly caught at my throat. The coach jerked harshly forward. Dark wings gripped me in the small space. I saw a flash and Violet flung into the light. Then only the light remained, then nothing.
THE LOW, PLAINTIVE call of the itinerant scrap merchant. It was so familiar; the drawn-out first letter, a rapid stutter of consonants, then the tail of the word, laid like a peacock’s fan over the street behind his cart. I was in my room at Nishantashou, waiting for Violet to draw the curtains and wake me. I began blissfully to stretch my limbs, but the dimensions of the bed were wrong, the covers too heavy.
I opened my eyes and saw an unfamiliar ceiling high above me, consisting of parallel rows of shallow arches. The tall windows were blocked with white-painted iron shutters, held shut by a heavy crossbar. I was in a narrow bed, covered by a heavy blue comforter. I was fully dressed, except for my shoes, feradje, and veil. I walked to a window, but the bar was locked in place. Street sounds penetrated faintly through the shutters—the rattle of a cart, vendors calling their wares, the sudden shriek of a child. I put on my shoes. My cloak hung from a hook on the wall. It had been cleaned and pressed. The yellow stains were gone. I moved quietly to the door. To my surprise, it was unlocked. I pulled down the handle slowly, opening the door only a fraction, then pressed my eye to the crack.
An old woman was sitting on a carpet on the floor, a copper bowl of aubergines between her legs. She took a vegetable in her hand, carefully cut off the stem, then skillfully cored it. Replacing the end, she laid the now-hollow eggplant into another bowl beside her.
“Come,” she said, without looking in my direction. I opened the door another fraction. Where was Violet?
“Come, come.”
I opened the door wide. There was no one else in the room. It was furnished with a divan covered not with silk and velvet cushions, but with colorful flowered cotton. The carpet was threadbare, but the broad wooden boards beneath it gleamed. The windows were open and a soft breeze carried into the room the sounds I had heard before. From one window, I saw the façade of another building through the lace curtains; from the other, the leaf-laden branches of a linden tree, wagging in the sunlight. The room was cool.
The woman looked at me and smiled. I could see that she was missing several teeth. “Welcome.”
I squatted on the carpet. She continued disemboweling the aubergines.
“Please, can you tell me where I am? How did I come to be here? There was another young woman with me. Where is she? Do you know?”
The old woman laid aside her knife, wiped her hands on a cloth, and stood. She adjusted the wide white apron attached to the front of her dress. I recognized the style. She was Jewish.
“Come, sit over here,” she said, pointing to the divan. Her Turkish was lightly accented. I climbed onto the flowered cushions, tucked my legs under me, and waited in the dappled light. I felt unaccountably peaceful, given the situation. What was the situation? Had I been kidnapped?
The woman returned with two glasses of tea on a gleaming silver tray with ornate handles, the only item of luxury I had seen. I thought: from her dowry.
We sat in silence for a few moments. Her face was serious, but her rheumy blue eyes regarded me kindly.
“I cannot tell you my name and I do not know yours,” she began, in her lilting accent. “It is safer that way.”
“Am I in danger, then?”
“I understand you are in very grave danger. That is why you were brought here.”
I was stunned. “What danger am I in? And who brought me here?”
“It is better for you not to know right now. My son understands these matters. I don’t interfere.” She regarded her tea glass. “Although I am not in agreement. It’s much too dangerous.” She looked at me so that our eyes met. “He is my only son.”
“It’s generous of your son to help me. What is his name?”
She examined me cautiously, then looked away.
I was suddenly anxious. “Violet? The young woman who was with me at the pier?”
The old woman frowned. “Your maid ran away. This creates a dangerous situation for us. She will raise the alarm and they will try to find you in Beshiktash.”
She looked at me questioningly. I nodded in agreement. She added thoughtfully, “But they should have no reason to widen the search to Galata.”
I’M CERTAIN ISMAIL DAYI went for help as soon as he realized we were missing. I suppose, after reading my note, he would go directly to Papa’s house, but find we had never arrived there. He would send Jemal to Chamyeri Village to ask whether anyone had seen us. The fishermen might report that two girls rented a boat and that the boatman dropped them at the Beshiktash pier. But the trail would disappear there. Was my uncle angry at me for leaving? I suppose he would seek advice from his old friend, the white-bearded kadi of Galata. What could a kadi do? He was a judge. The situation was still incomplete, like a cooked egg not yet peeled. Too early for judgment. The kadi would set the police on our trail.
The police would suspect the fishermen, of course. The lower orders are always looked at first, since, having so little, they have the most to gain or reason to envy. But if the police only thought about it, they would realize that the fishermen would never harm two girls from a well-known and important household. The police would disagree, arguing that someone might have paid the fishermen to abduct me. They would have learned from Papa—or, really, from anyone—that Amin Efendi was out for revenge.
Or perhaps Ismail Dayi told no one I was missing for fear of destroying what little remained of my reputation.
I felt no tug on the crimson thread around my waist that tied me to Mama. Did she think I was safe?
Violet would be awake, I knew, black eyes gleaming like fireflies in the dark, as I had often found her in my childhood when I couldn’t sleep and asked to spread out my quilt next to hers.
THE JEWISH WOMAN sat on a cushion against the far wall, hands tatting furiously. Beside her squatted the broad-chested young man with the tight cap of blonde curls, the carriage driver, whom I assumed to be her son. Her agitated whispers refused to be calmed by his low, measured responses. They spoke what I recognized as Ladino, the archaic Spanish of Istanbul Jews who fled to the benign reign of the Ottomans after Queen Isabella expelled them from Spain. They kept their eyes averted from the divan where I sat. An untouched glass of tea rested on the divan between my knee and Hamza’s.
“I’ve been here for days with no idea why and no way to tell Ismail Dayi that I’m safe. Allah only knows what he is thinking.”
Hamza was dressed as a simple workman in baggy brown trousers and white shirt, a striped shawl wrapped around his waist. His cotton turban was gray from many washings. He had grown a beard.
“Forgive me, Jaanan. This was the only way I could think of to keep you safe.”
“Safe? Safe from what?”
“I tried to reach you at Chamyeri but your Violet has set up an impenetrable c
ordon around you. Did you get any of my letters?”
“Letters? No, I haven’t heard from you since that evening at Papa’s house.” A note of bitterness crept into my voice. “That was nearly a year ago. I assumed you had gone abroad again.” Suddenly I remembered Mary’s undelivered messages. Had she intercepted Hamza’s letters too?
Hamza shook his head in frustration. “I was in Paris until recently. I wrote to you.”
When I shook my head, he continued. “So that’s why you never answered. Anyway, when I couldn’t get in touch with you, I hired someone in the village to keep an eye on you. He learned where you were going, then overtook your boat to send me word that you were heading for the Beshiktash pier.”
“You had me watched? Why?”
“You’re in danger. I was worried about you.”
“You keep saying that, but I don’t understand what danger. Why didn’t you just come to see me at Chamyeri and warn me against whatever it is that so worries you?”
“I wasn’t sure Ismail Hodja would have approved. He never liked me.”
“That’s not true,” I exclaimed.
“Anyway, I came by twice when your uncle wasn’t home, but Violet wouldn’t let me in.”
“What? Violet is my servant. She has no control over what I do or whom I see.”
“She told me you were unwilling to see anyone. I waited in the pavilion and called to you.” He pursed his lips and fluted a nightingale call. “But you didn’t come. I suppose Violet kept you occupied indoors when she suspected I was nearby. I don’t know what her motivations were. Maybe she’s in on the plot.”
Exasperated, I raised my voice. “What plot? If you were so concerned about me, why didn’t you meet me yourself at the pier instead of hiding inside the carriage like a thief? Or simply reveal yourself to me once we got in?”
I became agitated as I remembered the details of what I had experienced as yet another assault. “And why the chloroform? I presume that’s what you used.”
Hamza looked down, his long fingers toying with his tea glass.
“I can’t show myself. I’m wanted by the sultan’s spies for sedition,” he added hastily, glancing at me. “I was in Paris when I heard about what happened last year.”
I looked puzzled and he averted his eyes, turning toward the yellow light filtering through the leaves outside the window.
“With that pimp, Amin.” He realized with a jolt his unseemly language and looked at me, finally. His face was red. “Sorry. I’m very sorry.”
When I didn’t answer, he stumbled rapidly on.
“I heard about Amin’s plans for revenge and as soon as the roads were open, I started back. There’s nothing I can do to change what happened, but at least I can make sure you’re safe.”
“You shouldn’t have put yourself in danger by coming back.”
“I know Amin,” he responded fiercely. “You have no idea what he is capable of.”
“What is this plot from which you’re saving me?” I asked, gritting my teeth. “You should have told Papa or Ismail Dayi. What is the point of bringing me here? Everyone will be worried about me and think the worst. Have you considered the consequences?”
“I’m not worried. It’s worth the risk to see you are safe.”
“The consequences for me,” I almost shouted.
Grim-faced, Hamza explained, “Amin is a scoundrel who will stop at nothing.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that last year when my father first spoke of an engagement? Why didn’t you tell Papa then?”
Hamza gulped the tea from his glass in one draught and put it down on the saucer with such force that I jumped. I saw the old woman’s eyes skim nervously in our direction.
“I had to spend years in Paris because someone turned me in to the palace as a traitor. When I came back two years ago, it didn’t take long before I was being followed and harassed again. Do you think your father would listen to me? He despises me. He despises my ideas. He has befriended reactionaries in order to advance his own position. And I’m certain he is the one who reported me to the secret police, then and now.”
“I don’t believe that,” I countered with some heat. “Papa would never do that to his own nephew. You lived in our house, ate our bread.”
Hamza barked a short, bitter laugh and shrugged. “There’s a lot you don’t understand, princess.”
“That does me an injustice, Hamza. I know my father and I’m not entirely ignorant of what goes on at the palace. I know there are factions and intrigues. Perhaps Papa doesn’t share your views, but I’m certain that blood also counts. Papa is not always right in his actions, but at heart he is a good man. Who told you it was Papa who betrayed you?”
“I know it was him.”
“Fine,” I snapped. “Make your accusations, but if you care at all about the precious justice you are always going on about, then let me hear the evidence.”
“Your father was promoted to the position of counsellor in the Foreign Ministry just days before treason charges against me were sent from that office to the minister of justice. His friend Amin sponsored him for that position. Now that Amin has been disgraced and transferred, your father’s position is in danger too. Never take a criminal as your patron,” he spit out.
“Well, then we wouldn’t have many people left in government, would we? Papa was your patron,” I shot back.
Hamza looked disconcerted. This conversation clearly was not what he had expected.
“Your father doesn’t respect me,” he mumbled.
“Nonsense. You have no evidence that Papa did this. It could just as well have been Amin. He has no liking for you.” It occurred to me that Amin might have seen Hamza as a rival for my hand, but I didn’t mention this. I remembered the look on his face the evening Hamza greeted me at the soiree at our house. It would have been typical of Amin simply to have the hurdle forcibly removed, rather than attempt the more complex and time-consuming task of winning my affections.
“Possibly,” Hamza agreed reluctantly. “Someone turned me in after that evening at your house. I had to return to Paris or risk arrest.”
I wondered why Hamza was so angry with my father. Was it because Papa had wanted me to marry Amin? Then why had Hamza not stepped forward and offered marriage himself? I had not been formally engaged yet. As my cousin, Hamza had a right to my hand, regardless of what Papa thought of him. Surely he knew I would have agreed. I looked at him carefully. He was different somehow, aside from the beard, but I couldn’t pinpoint what disturbed me.
“Why did you attack me in the cab?”
He was taken aback. “I didn’t attack you, Jaanan. I would never do a thing like that.”
“You used chloroform! And what happened to Violet? You didn’t hurt her, did you?”
Hamza jumped to his feet. “Jaanan, how could you even imagine such things? I had to keep you from crying out or trying to escape when you saw that there was someone else in the cab. I couldn’t risk that you wouldn’t recognize me and cause a scene that would attract attention. The punishment for treason is death, Jaanan. I can’t afford to be noticed in even the smallest way. Violet is fine. She jumped from the cab and ran away. She’s back in the Nishantashou house.
“She’s very resourceful,” he added with a smile. “She attacked me to save you.”
It was the charming, self-deprecatory smile I remembered from Chamyeri. I couldn’t help but return it. A warm current joined us again. What I had perceived before was its absence.
“You still haven’t told me what you needed to rescue me from.”
Hamza sat back on the divan, moving our tea glasses to the tray on the floor. He took my hands, palms together, and pressed them between his hands.
“Amin is plotting to—” He stopped uncertainly, then continued in a low voice, “To damage you. I heard that as soon as you returned to your father’s house at Nishantashou, he planned to take you from there to his konak. Once you were seen to be living in Amin’s house, willingly
or not, you would have to marry him.”
“Take me from my own house?” I scoffed. “How could he do that? No one would permit him entry. Has he bribed the servants?” I was so aghast I almost did not believe him.
“My sources tell me he has made an arrangement with your stepmother.
“I’m sorry,” he added rapidly, seeing the look on my face.
“Who are your sources? Are they reliable?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t treat me like a china cup,” I told him impatiently. “Tell me everything.”
“He’s in desperate circumstances. He already laid claim to you once. This would make it irrevocable. Not even Ismail Hodja or your father could avoid the shame if you didn’t marry him then.”
“He neither loves nor respects me. What does he want from me?”
“He gambles too much and has expensive taste in women. He’s deeply in debt. He desperately needs your wealth and he needs it soon.”
“But the wealth is Papa’s and Ismail Dayi’s. I have nothing of my own.”
“You’ll have a substantial dowry when you marry and later a sizable inheritance.”
I could not read Hamza’s face. His eyes were focused on a distant point beside my head. The current between us had become blocked, just as in the days when he was my tutor. He was reciting facts.
I was suddenly engulfed with rage at Amin for stealing both my childhood and my future, and at Hamza for not asking for me in marriage long before and sparing me this grief. He must have known I would agree and I’m sure Papa would have given his consent. I knew marriage now would be difficult, but surely that wouldn’t matter to Hamza.
“So your friends have told you Aunt Hüsnü is helping that man”—I could not say his name—“that he intends to kidnap me from my own house and blackmail me into marrying him.”
“Yes.”
“And that is why you brought me here.”