by Jenny White
The gendarmes keep ahead of him, pushing people back. When he reaches the far end of the bridge, he is directly before the stake. A sign hangs at its base: Traitor. The head has not been cleanly separated from the body, a hasty and unprofessional execution. The man must have just been killed. The tissue still appears soft. The tip of the man’s tongue protrudes from a beard stiff with dried blood. Soft black curls fall forward over the unnaturally inclined forehead. Kamil looks more closely at the blood-caked face. Hamza’s eyes are wide open as if in surprise.
KAMIL THROWS THE bridle to a groom and runs into his office, startling the clerks who are cleaning their pens at the end of the workday.
“Who ordered this execution?” he bellows.
The head clerk comes forward, head bowed, and makes the sign of obeisance. “Magistrate Efendi, you did. The directive has your signature and seal.”
“I never authorized such a thing.”
“But it said you were carrying out the wishes of the court, that the decision had been ratified, and that the execution was to be carried out immediately.”
“I did not write it. Who gave it to you?”
“Michel Efendi brought it himself, so we could register it. Then he took it to the warden.”
“Michel? Where is he?”
“I don’t know, bey.”
The clerks make no pretense of returning to the files and papers on the desks before them, but whisper nervously to each other.
Kamil slams his door shut and falls heavily into the chair behind his desk. His chain of beads whips around his hand.
Michel has no authority to order an execution. And he, the magistrate, will be held liable for executing a man without a trial or the grand vizier’s approval. What possible motivation could Michel have for doing such a thing, for killing Hamza and putting Kamil’s career at risk? Did Hamza know something that threatened Michel?
What does he, Kamil, really know about the surgeon? It’s true that they went to school together, but they only came to know one another much later. How did they meet? That’s right. He ran into Michel on the street in Galata. That would make sense. Michel lived there with his mother. Didn’t he? Kamil’s beads fall silent.
Michel’s mother, who had led them directly to Jaanan—and Hamza—at Madame Devora’s house. Kamil had never met Michel’s mother. It is improper to bring an unrelated man into one’s home, so he had only Michel’s account of where he lived.
Kamil thinks about this for a while. How could Michel have known Hamza would be at Ismail Hodja’s house last night? He must have been lying in wait for him.
Kamil hates coincidences. But he can see no link between Michel and Hamza. Why was Michel interested in Hamza? How did he know to associate him with Chamyeri at all? How would Michel even know what Hamza looked like?
He opens the door and calls the head clerk.
Keeping his voice even, he tells him, “If Michel Efendi returns, please tell him that I have gone home, and that I would like to see him here as soon as possible, at the latest tomorrow morning before the second call to prayer.”
“As you wish, bey.” The clerk bows.
Kamil strides through the door and around the building into the stables. He chooses a fresh horse, waiting impatiently while the groom saddles it. He suddenly remembers the missing kitten. Had Michel lied about the tea they found at the sea hamam? If he knew the kettle had contained datura and that Mary had been killed there, Michel would have had a head start in finding the killer. And perhaps Michel had evidence that Hamza had killed Hannah as well. Why keep the information from him? Weren’t they both after the same thing? Weren’t they both working for the same people?
When the horse is ready, Kamil mounts and forces himself to ride away at an even pace. As soon as he is out of sight of the gate, he heads his horse north and spurs it to a gallop.
A SURPRISED YAKUP runs onto the front drive and takes the reins of the lathered horse as Kamil jumps down. Kamil wipes the sweat from his face with a dusty hand. Without a word, he charges into the villa and climbs the stairway to the study he made out of his mother’s bedroom.
Going to his desk, he unlatches a side drawer and pulls out his father’s revolver. He holds the weapon in his hand for a few moments, stroking the polished wood and tracing the grooves on the engraved barrel. The beautiful machinery of conquest and death. He lights a lamp so he can see better, loads the revolver, and fills a leather pouch with extra ammunition. He wraps a holster around his waist, then drops the gun into its sheath and the pouch into his pocket. He takes a deep breath, unsure of what to do next.
Lamp in hand, he walks into his bedroom and dips a cup into the clay jar on his dressing table. He takes a long draught of the cool water, then turns and descends the stairway at a more measured pace. His feet take him through the corridor leading to the back of the house, past the sitting room, to the stained-glass door, dark with moisture, leading to his most prized possessions. As he slips inside, the heavy, fragrant air thrills him, as it always does. A soft green light quickens the glassed-in room. He makes his way along a path between large-leafed palms and bromeliads. He has neglected to change to house slippers, so his boots click on the tiles. He places the lamp carefully atop a small table.
In the middle of the winter garden, shaded by the larger plants, stands a square bench filled with damp pebbles that hold thirty small earthenware pots, filled with slender green arches bursting along their stems or at their tips into a phantasm of colorful shapes. It reminds him of the fireworks celebrating the end of Ramadan. He stops at a large shadowy bloom and lowers his face to the velvety petals, inhaling its perfume, a mixture, he thinks, of vanilla and jasmine. It reminds him of a favorite milk pudding Fatma made for him as a child, and of the place between the Circassian girl’s white thighs. The bright blue speculum seems to regard him warily. He resists the urge to draw the tip of his fingers over the black fur of the petals.
Loud voices recall him from his reverie. He turns to find a flustered Fatma at the door.
“Bey, there is a man at the door who insists you want to speak with him. He won’t give his name. Yakup is still in the stable, so I answered the door.”
“What does he look like?”
“Dressed like a tradesman, but very neat. He doesn’t strike me as a tradesman at all. He acts as though he knows you, though. I’m sorry. Shall I ask him his name again?” She looks terrified that he might ask her to. “I told him to wait in the hall.”
“Thank you, Fatma. Just leave him there. I’ll come right away. Go back to the kitchen and send word to Yakup that he should return to the house.”
He can still hear the slapslap of her slippers receding when the door opens and Michel steps through.
“Close the door,” Kamil says quickly. “There’s a draft.”
Michel is the color of sand, from his mustache to his light brown shalwar. His hair is slick with sweat and a cloak is thrown over one arm. He is breathing heavily.
Michel stares directly at Kamil. “I understand you want to see me.”
Kamil automatically slides into a new level of alertness.
“I wanted to ask you about Hamza Efendi’s execution. Who signed the order?”
Truth and decorum.
“But you did, bey.”
“I did no such thing. There was no trial.”
“I wondered about that myself. But I was given the order and asked to bring it to the warden so that the sentence could be carried out immediately. It had all the correct seals, even the grand vizier’s.”
“Who gave it to you?”
Kamil notices the infinitesimal pause before Michel’s answer. “It was brought to the police station, I presume by a messenger. My clerk gave it to me. I wasn’t sure why you sent it to me first and not directly to the warden, but I thought you must have had your reasons.” Michel’s eyes have not wavered from Kamil’s face.
Can a lying man keep such an expressionless face? Kamil wonders. Michel had brought the docum
ent himself to the Beyoglu Court, then to the police station. Perhaps immobility is a sign of the effort required to keep the muscles of his face under control, the ones that would otherwise betray him. Kamil would like to feel outraged by Michel’s blatant lies, but against his better judgment wonders whether there is some truth in them. Perhaps someone else composed the execution order and forged the signatures. The grand vizier himself could have ordered it, bypassing lower administrators like himself. There is one way to find out.
“Where is the order now?” he asks Michel. “The signatures will tell us who authorized it. It will not be my handwriting or my seal on the paper.”
Michel’s expression does not waver. He is not surprised, Kamil thinks. “I gave it to the warden.”
Kamil is suddenly certain that the document will never be found. The warden will put it into a file, and that file will disappear. He sighs, his legs and shoulders weary from standing.
“Come,” he offers, walking behind the orchid box and indicating two chairs under the leaves of a small palm tree. “Let us sit and discuss this.”
“I can’t stay.”
“You must make the time. I’m still curious about other aspects of the case.” He walks over to one of the chairs and sits. Still holding his cloak, Michel moves closer until he is beside the other chair, but remains standing.
Kamil looks up at his associate’s immobile face, wondering where is the man he had thought to call a friend. This is his outer shell, but the man scrutinizing him through those liquid brown eyes is a stranger. “How did you come to arrest Hamza?”
“All the indications pointed toward Chamyeri. You said that yourself.”
“Yes, but others live at Chamyeri—Ismail Hodja, his niece, their staff. Only Hamza doesn’t live there. Yet you chose to arrest him.”
“What difference does it make? He confessed to the murders.”
“When I spoke with him this morning, he denied it.”
“You know the police have more efficient ways to gain the truth than simply asking for it.” Michel shows a row of small teeth, half smile, half grimace.
Kamil ponders this. It is true that men’s denial breaks readily under duress, but so does their will. He has never believed that a man’s word forced from him is evidence. It is merely expedience.
“I’m still curious—how did you know to arrest him in the first place? What made you associate him with Chamyeri and Hannah Simmons, or with Mary Dixon?”
“Shimshek Devora, the driver.” Michel shrugs. He has been so still that Kamil is startled by the sudden movement. “We know Shimshek picked up the woman Hannah,” Michel continues in the droning voice of a schoolmaster, “and brought her to Chamyeri to meet Hamza. Hannah was found dead at Chamyeri. Who else could it have been? It was Hamza who abducted Ismail Hodja’s niece and took her to Shimshek’s mother.” He shows Kamil his hand. “They’re like fingers on the same hand.”
“How did you know that was Hamza?”
“Madame Devora, of course.”
“She didn’t tell me that.” Kamil pauses. “And neither did you. I only found out this morning. Ismail Hodja told me, and he himself only learned it recently from his niece. You are the only one who knew this, yet you said nothing.”
He stares up at Michel, who has not moved. Kamil sees again the brown spider, absolutely still until startled.
“Is it ambition, Michel? Do you wish credit for solving the case yourself? It’s all the same to me.” Kamil gestures carelessly with his hand. “But you are a surgeon. Your promotion doesn’t depend on solving cases.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve kept nothing from you.”
“How did you know Hamza was at Chamyeri the night you arrested him?”
“Ismail Hodja’s house was being watched. Hamza was bound to show up sooner or later.”
“Why were you looking for Hamza, when we at the court were singing an entirely different song?” Kamil could not help the bitterness and disappointment bleeding into his voice. “What about the pendant? Hamza has no link with the palace. How do we know there isn’t more to this?”
Michel smiles mirthlessly. “It’s not my business if the honorable magistrate is out of tune. I do my job.”
Kamil feels hot, his heart galloping in his chest. He closes his eyes for a moment, inhales the fragrance of the room, and tries to calm himself.
Michel has come closer. “We’re on the same side, Kamil,” he says in an intimate voice. “We need stability and security, not this chauvinistic nationalist dream that could turn into a nightmare for the minorities. We’re not Muslims and we’re not Turks, we’re Ottomans. It’s a formula that has worked well for the Jews and for everyone else for a long time. People like Hamza want to destabilize the empire and sell it off piece by piece like scrap from a junk dealer’s cart. Then, when all that’s left are Turks, it’ll be a Muslim Turkish empire, with no place for people like us. European nationalism—that crazy idea that every folk with its own language and its own religion deserves its own nation—it’s infected the Young Ottomans. Mark my words, before long they’ll drop their masks and call themselves what they really are, Young Turks. And where are we to go, I ask you? To a Jewish nation? There is no such thing on earth.”
“I understand your concern, Michel, but I am on the side of impartial justice. No matter what Hamza did, he deserved a hearing. Execution without a trial is unjust, even if he was guilty. That betrays our country and its principles as much as the radicals. You of all people—a surgeon, a scientist—you should know that.”
Michel shrugs. “Fate can be unjust.”
“Fate.” Kamil spits the word out. “Listen to you. You took this man’s fate in your own hands and crushed it. It was your doing, not the hand of Allah. In any case, Nizam Pasha will not agree,” he adds angrily. “He insists on the mechanism of the law, not telling a suspect’s fortune.”
“You’d be surprised at how open-minded Nizam Pasha can be,” Michel responds.
Kamil looks up at him, startled. How far does this conspiracy of injustice extend? he wonders.
“I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that corruption is so resistant to change. I thought by taking part in this new judicial system, we could bring fresh straw into this stable of a city, but the same things go on, the same people”—he looks directly at Michel—“fouling the ground we walk on.”
Kamil sees a flash of anger on Michel’s face as he turns on his heel, cloak sweeping at the end of his arm. Then he is gone. A loud crash brings Kamil to his feet. The orchid box lies tipped on its side, spilling pebbles over the tiles. Atop the pebbles and shredded bark and soil, a rubble of color. Kamil falls to his knees and searches frantically, finds the black orchid, and lifts it tenderly. Its bloom is unblemished, but its neck is broken.
A harsh sob emerges from his throat as he grabs his revolver and slams through the door, brushing aside Yakup, who has come running at the noise.
“Did you see where he went?” he asks Yakup.
“No, bey. I saw no one. But this message just came from Feride Hanoum.” Yakup takes a letter from his sash and hands it to him. “The messenger said to tell you she would like you to come right away.”
Kamil breaks the seal and unfolds the letter.
Dear Brother,
Baba has fallen from the balcony. He is not aware of anything, but still lives. The surgeon says he cannot feel pain. That is a blessing, but he may not be with us long. Please come right away.
Your sister Feride
42
The Eunuch
A closed carriage pulls up at the embassy gate. The gatekeeper hurries up the path, followed by a black figure in a bright white robe and large turban.
“A royal coach has come for m’lady,” the gatekeeper announces breathlessly.
The Residence guard asks Sybil whether she would like an escort.
“I think not. Thank you. I’m sure the palace has taken care of that.” She relishes visiting Stamboul homes
without fanfare and a trail of armed embassy guards—a precious relic of normalcy, simply a lady invited to tea.
The eunuch bows very low, touching his palm to his forehead and chest, then waits impassively to escort Sybil to the carriage. She has not veiled, but the eunuch seems not to notice. It is not the same self-confident, broad-shouldered eunuch that had accompanied Asma Sultan before. This man is tall and wiry, with a lined face the color of smoke and long, powerful hands. He does not speak or look at her, although Sybil has the feeling it is not out of respect, but aversion.
Servants and guards cluster at the doors and windows, whispering. Most have never seen a black eunuch except at a distance, when on horseback, escorting the carriages of royal ladies.
Sybil follows the eunuch to a carriage elaborately decorated with painted flowers. It is not the usual bulky conveyance that seats four or five harem ladies at once, but a sleek, smaller model designed for speed. The eunuch helps her up the steps, his hand black against her sleeve. When she has settled among the velvet cushions, he pulls a sheer curtain across the windows so she can look out without anyone seeing in and barks a command at the driver. He mounts a white stallion, its saddle embroidered with thread of gold and studded with rubies and emeralds. A long curved sword is cradled in his arm. She notes with surprise that there is no retinue, but supposes the armed eunuch is sufficient for an informal outing.
The carriage winds down the hill, then turns north on the shore road, picking up speed. Before long, they pass the entrance to Dolmabahche Palace. After that, the road winds inland through forested areas and then skirts villages built around inlets and coves. The closed carriage is hot and increasingly uncomfortable as the sun rises in the sky. The road has become a track and Sybil is jarred back and forth. She has forgotten the tedium of the trip to the summer villas. It has been many years since she last accompanied her mother to the British residence at Tarabya, although they had gone more comfortably by boat. She wishes she could fling back the curtain. The sheer cloth provides a narrow, blurred vantage on the landscape racing by and blocks the air. The velvet cushions stick to her sweat-drenched back.