The Sultan's Seal: A Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels)

by Jenny White

  Violet spilled some coffee on Mary’s arm, then tried to wipe it away with her hand. Embarrassed, I pushed her away from Mary and asked her to leave. I dabbed gently at Mary’s arm with an embroidered cloth. Violet had been a restless shadow to my every movement since my return. I asked her to sleep in her old room at the back of the house, but found her waiting for me wherever I came and went. I understood that she must feel guilty about leaving me in that coach, but explained to her that no harm had come of it. I had asked Ismail Dayi to find her a husband, as was his duty as her patron. I suppose she knew of this, since she listened at doors.

  Violet still stood by the door, her black eyes intensely following every move of my hand as if she were devouring it. Mary too noticed and shifted uncomfortably.

  “Make fresh coffee.” I couldn’t hide the annoyance in my voice. While I was away, she had slipped out of my control.

  Mary’s stockinged feet dangled uselessly from the divan, her slippers fallen to the carpet. I had hoped to please her with Mama’s reception room, but she didn’t seem to notice her surroundings. I straightened the gold bracelet on her wrist that Violet had knocked awry, my affection relearning its accustomed channels. I was reminded of her great kindness, and my body relaxed toward her.

  “I came to tell you I was leaving.”

  “Leaving Istanbul?” I felt regret and relief. I pulled my veil across my breasts. “When?”

  “In a few days.”

  It was too soon. “Has something happened?” I shivered with dread at losing my friend. The strength of my feeling surprised me.

  “A good thing, Jaanan,” she said with a grin. “I still can’t believe it.” “Tell me,” I demanded. “I am full of suspense.”

  “Well,” she began, drawing it out, “I am now a woman of means.”

  “Means?”

  “Rich, Jaanan. I’m rich!” She bounced on the divan.

  “Why, that’s wonderful.” I laughed with relief. “I’m so happy for you, my dear friend. Congratulations.”

  “It means I can do as I please. When you have money, no one can tell you how to live.”

  “How did it happen?” I had assumed that since Mary worked, she belonged to a family without wealth, but I realized then that she had never told me anything about her family.

  “My father died.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Health to your head, my dearest.” I reached out to comfort her, but she leaned back so she could see my face, grasped my arms, and beamed at me.

  “I’m not sad, Jaanan. Not sad at all. My father threw me out when I was young. That’s how I ended up in a boardinghouse, exchanging kitchen work for rent.”

  I gasped. “How is such a thing possible?”

  “He said I had unnatural inclinations, as he put it. And he didn’t like my friends.”

  “But had you no other family to turn to? Your mother? Your siblings?”

  “My mother died when I was born,” she explained, a flicker of sadness passing through her eyes, her finger caressing the gold cross at her neck. “I have no brothers or sisters. It’s not like here where you can fall back on dozens of people you call family. In England, you’re on your own.”

  “And your friends?”

  “Well, I told you about my friends. They turned out less than worthless. On that account, my father was right.”

  “That’s terribly sad, Mary, dear. You have a family and friends here, though. I am here for you, and all my family is yours.”

  Mary’s eyes fell to one side. “I know,” she whispered. “Thank you.

  “Actually, Jaanan”—quickly, almost shiftily, the pink tip of her tongue moistened her lips—“I came here to ask you something.”

  There are moments when you understand that something is going to happen before you know what it is. There is an unpleasant weightlessness at the back of your neck. Time yawns as if to show its unconcern, then rushes toward you at breakneck speed.

  “Would you come with me to England?”

  I was speechless.

  “It would be great fun. We could live in a grand place, much nicer than here.” She waved her hand around the reception hall.

  She leaned closer and stroked back my veil again.

  “We could be together, Jaanan. You and me. We wouldn’t have to sneak off to that shack on the water.” Her lips brushed my ear. “We could be together all the time.”

  I admit to confusion and knowledge chasing each other through my heart. Mary was my friend and I loved her. Now she was offering me a new life, a life of novelty and adventure, as had been foretold. I considered carefully. What life was left to me in Istanbul? Perhaps this was my kismet.

  Mary mistook my silence for refusal. “If you’re worried about missing your family, Jaanan, you could travel here whenever you like. The Wagons-Lits Company is building a direct rail line. Before long you’ll be able to get on the Orient Express in London and get off in Stamboul.” She clapped her hands. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful? We could have such a life together.”

  Hamza, I thought. My hands toyed with the sea glass dangling from my neck. Hamza would never leave here. England would be exile.

  “I don’t know, Mary.” I said slowly. “Let me think about it.”

  Mary leaned closer to read from my face what she could not read from my words, but I’m certain my confusion made me illegible.

  She stroked my cheek, then pulled my veil back across it. “I’ll wait patiently until you decide, Jaanan.”

  AFTER MARY LEFT, I found Violet in the kitchen wrestling a bucking fish from the pail at her feet onto the cutting board. She pierced its neck with the point of her knife and it stiffened.

  “Where is the cook?” I asked her.

  “Her mother is ill, so she went home early. I told her I’d prepare the meal.”

  The scales sprayed from beneath her knife as it scraped across the firm blue flesh. I watched as she held the fish down and, entering at the throat, slid the knife delicately down the chest and along the belly. Its ruby secrets spilled into her hand.

  I FOUND THE letter under a pile of manuscripts on a shelf in Ismail Dayi’s study. I had been looking for an illustrated copy of Fuzuli’s romance, Leyla and Mejnun, that Ismail Dayi had found for me at the bookseller. It was to be a gift for Mary, in remembrance of our friendship, a celebration of her new life. The letter was on ordinary parchment of the kind used by clerks in government offices, but I immediately recognized Hamza’s handwriting. It was dated two days after I had arrived in Djamji Street. The message began with a standard formula of greeting, then, in a kind of convoluted eloquence:

  The honorable Hodja is advised that certain necessary actions must be taken promptly in order to alter to everyone’s advantage the unfortunate circumstances prevailing today. If you succeed in turning minds toward the good and only possible path toward a modern society, this will benefit many, but especially someone close to you.

  ISMAIL HODJA SAT stiffly on the divan, the tea on the low table before him untouched. I sat beside him, holding the letter in my hand.

  “Why did you never tell me about this, dayi?”

  “It seemed an innocuous letter, on its face. It says nothing about kidnapping. I wasn’t even sure the writer was asking me to do anything. I brought it to the kadi because it was an odd letter, dropped on my doorstep, while you were gone. Possibly it was an appeal to me to support the reformists. But whoever wrote it was too clever for his own good. He disguised his intention to such a degree that I couldn’t make it out. Nevertheless, I believed there may have been an implied threat in the letter, that if I did not do this, harm might come to someone close to me. I didn’t want to take any chances, my lion. You were missing and I had no idea where you had gone.”

  “But you knew who I was with.”

  Ismail Dayi looked at me curiously and took my chin in his hand.

  “Of course not, Jaanan. If I had, we would have been able to find you sooner.”

  “No one came to you?”

/>   “What do you mean?”

  “I thought you knew,” I whispered, half to myself.

  “The man who kidnapped you was never identified, Jaananjim. We have no way of knowing his motivation.”

  Ismail Dayi looked at me oddly as he said this, as if he guessed that I was keeping something from him. Hamza had disappeared out of the window in Galata and out of my life. After my return home, it had seemed inappropriate to speak of Hamza to my dayi and, out of embarrassment, I avoided the subject other than to assure him that I was unharmed. So Hamza had lied about speaking with Ismail Dayi and he had never learned that I was safe. What else had he lied about? The thought infuriated me. He had lied and then he had disappeared again.

  It was true that Madame Devora’s son, the only other person who could have identified Hamza, was dead, but I was surprised that no one knew it had been Hamza fleeing through that window. I was certain, for instance, that the magistrate’s crafty-looking associate had learned his name from Madame Devora. While they were speaking Ladino, I’m sure I heard Hamza’s name among the unfamiliar words. I told my dayi that it had been Hamza who “rescued” me from Amin’s plot and kept me in Galata. He looked shocked.

  “It’s hard to believe Hamza would do such a thing. I immediately thought of Amin Efendi—that he had abducted you and sent this letter,” he said. “But it seemed an odd thing for him to do. I think he knows that a pinch of prosperity has more value than an okka of revenge. He’s in exile in Crete now and has been very careful not to give any further offense. He wants to improve his chances to be called back to the capital. It would be foolish of him—and very unlike the man I know—to write a letter opposing the government. In his heart, Amin is a coward.”

  Ismail Dayi patted my hand. “He may not be entirely without blame, though. Hamza might well be right. Amin is certainly in debt. He could have had designs on you, even from Crete. Accomplices are cheap. Certainly your father believed what you told him about Amin’s plan to take you from the house. Your father has banished Hüsnü Hanoum from his sight. Amin’s sword struck wide. Such folly.” Ismail Dayi clicked his tongue in disapproval, I could not tell whether of Amin, my father, Aunt Hüsnü, or of humankind.

  Amin Efendi was a thousand years ago, I thought. I placed my hand on Ismail Dayi’s arm, angry at the needless pain Hamza’s silence and my own had imposed on this man, my chosen father. Hamza had written a letter in effect blackmailing my uncle. The language expressed perfectly his warring desire for approval and a blacker motivation that I had briefly glimpsed at the apartment on Djamji Street.

  Ismail dayi looked thoughtfully at the letter in his lap. “So you think Hamza sent this.”

  “It’s in his handwriting. What did the kadi say when you showed him the letter?”

  “He sent me to Magistrate Kamil, who is more experienced in these matters. He thought we should take the implied meaning seriously—that if I didn’t help the reformists, something might happen to you. He suggested I step up the tempo of my meetings with a variety of highly placed people here at home. It would look on the surface as if I were doing what the letter demanded. But we wouldn’t necessarily discuss reform. He said we could debate the price of Smyrna dates, if we wished, as long as it seemed to a casual observer that something, possibly a political something, was happening.”

  “And what is the price of Smyrna dates, dayi dear?”

  “I couldn’t tell you, little one.”

  We both laughed, although my laughter was mixed with pain. I thought of Nedim’s lines:

  You and my mind treat each other as strangers

  As if you were a guest in my body, you, my heart.

  To save myself, I had bound my little craft to a mirage.

  I SAT BY the edge of the water, cradling the sea glass in my hand, wondering what it had endured to earn its beauty, then let it slip slowly from my hand back into the elements.

  37

  Enduring Principles

  Last autumn’s leaves rustle underfoot behind the pavilion. A nightingale trills in the darkness, perhaps dreaming. The moon that silvered Mary’s blind face has fattened in the sky, then faded again until the world is dressed in shades of mourning. Ten miles to the south, Kamil Pasha studies an engraving of Gymnadenia, before his finger falls from the pages of the book in sleep. A shadow slips into Ismail Hodja’s kitchen door and moves swiftly through the corridors toward his study. Light streams from beneath the door. The figure pauses, presses his ear against the door, and, hearing nothing, pushes it open.

  He sees two men kneeling side by side before a low table. Jemal is all in white, a loose cotton shirt and wide shalwar. His hair flows down his back like a river of ink. Ismail kneels beside him, dressed in a quilted robe. Without his turban, Ismail Hodja looks fragile, a fringe of thinning hair exposing a pale scalp. In his hand is a brush, poised over a square piece of parchment across which extends an elegant trail of calligraphic writing. A bottle of black ink and several more brushes rest on the table above the paper. Jemal holds a turquoise ceramic bowl in his right hand. Both are sunk in concentration; neither hears the door open. There is enough time for the intruder to note the muscular shoulders pushing against the shirt of Ismail Hodja’s companion. He had expected Ismail Hodja to be alone. Suddenly Jemal turns and, before the man can escape, springs and winds himself about him like a snake, his angry, kohl-rimmed eyes close to the man’s face. The bowl falls heavily to the carpet. A puddle of gray water seeps rapidly into the colorful wool.

  Ismail Hodja lays down his brush and stands. “Why, Hamza, welcome. I wasn’t expecting you at this hour.” He gestures to Jemal to let Hamza go. Jemal does so with obvious reluctance, and squats nearby, within easy reach.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” Ismail Hodja adds, gesturing toward Hamza’s worn workman’s clothing and his beard.

  “I’ve come to ask for your assistance.”

  “Of course, Hamza, my son. I will do whatever is in my power. What is it that you need?”

  “I’m sorry to intrude, my hodja,” Hamza says softly, glancing nervously at the window. “I’m leaving for France tomorrow and I wanted to see Jaanan.” His eyes take in the fallen bowl and wet carpet. “I’m sorry.” He looks up anxiously. “Jaanan, is she here?”

  Ismail Hodja looks at him carefully and suggests, “It’s rather late to call on a young lady.”

  “Please. I need to speak with her.”

  “I’m sorry, my son. My niece has gone to France.”

  Hamza’s face reflects his confusion. “France? Why on earth…When?”

  “Last month. We’d been discussing it for some time,” Ismail Hodja answers kindly. “You know how difficult life has been for her this past year.”

  “I wanted to protect her,” Hamza says, half to himself. “She’s in Paris?” he asks eagerly.

  “Yes, your many stories of the city made an impression on her. She wants to study. She’s safe there now, living with family.”

  “I thought”—Hamza begins, then stops.

  Ismail Hodja regards him thoughtfully, waiting for him to continue.

  “Why did she decide to go now?” Hamza asks.

  “She has lost a friend and we thought it best that she recover far from anything that could remind her of it.”

  Hamza sits heavily on the divan by the door and puts his head in his hands. “I didn’t mean to disappear for so long. I suppose she thought I was dead or—worse—that I didn’t care about her. But when I get to Paris, I’ll explain everything.”

  “It is not your absence she is mourning,” Ismail Hodja explains. Hamza’s head jerks up. “Although I know she is fond of you.”

  “Who, then?” Hamza demands.

  “Her English friend, Mary Dixon.”

  Hamza looks puzzled. “What does Jaanan have to do with Mary Dixon? I don’t understand.”

  “They met at an embassy function and became friends. My niece was much alone and it gave me great pleasure to see her bloom in this friendship. The
poor woman drowned.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Then you probably also know that the police believe she was drugged before falling into the Bosphorus. Perhaps even pushed, Allah forbid. The world would be an unhappy abode indeed were it not for the strength of our faith. The following day, Jaanan’s servant Violet had an accident and nearly drowned, but she survived, praise be to Allah. In any case, it is prudent that Jaanan be in a safe place, at least until the culprit is caught, lest his evil eye fall on other young women.” He eyes Hamza’s stunned face. “What is it that you wish to tell her, my son? I can pass a message on. Or, if you prefer to write, I can forward a letter to her.”

  “Nothing. I…it was nothing.” Hamza stands. “If I could have her address, I will see her myself when I get to Paris. That is, if she’s willing to see me.”

  Ismail Hodja studies Hamza’s face for a long moment, then says, “She is staying with her father’s brother near Arly.”

  “Yes, I know the place.” Hamza bows his head. “Thank you, my hodja.”

  “I know you and my niece have been friends for a long time, but my advice is not to presume on that past tie.” Ismail Hodja frowns. “Much has happened. You will have to regain her trust.”

  “I understand, my hodja.” Hamza pauses, then stutters, “Actually, I came to ask something of you.”

  Ismail Hodja extends his hand toward the divan. “Let us sit together and talk.”

  Hamza doesn’t move.

  “We must have a parliament to rein in the sultan,” he blurts out. “I beg you to ask the ulema, the religious scholars and judges, and your friends in the government to pressure the sultan.”

  “Why would I do something like that?”

  “He’s a tyrant, my hodja,” Hamza begins earnestly, “arresting people, ruining them on a whim. His spending is bankrupting the country.”

  Ismail Hodja looks at Hamza curiously. “My dear son, as you are no doubt aware, I have tried to steer clear of politics. I have my own pursuits. These have endured”—he waves a hand at his library and the calligraphy on the table—“and outlived the minor lives and squabbles of ambitious men. Knowledge, beauty, and appreciation of Allah are the three enduring principles. Politics is just a fleeting shadow thrown against the wall by the sun.”