The Panther and The Pearl

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “I am worried about her,” Roxalena added.

  “Western women should not come to this country,” the Sultan said airily. “Strange things happen to them here.”

  Roxalena knew that her father had his finger on the pulse of everything that took place at the palace, but to inquire further when he clearly had no wish to discuss the matter was dangerous, for herself as well as for Sarah.

  “I miss my English lessons,” Roxalena said, trying another tactic with him.

  “Teachers are easily bought. I will instruct the khislar to find you another,” the Sultan said with finality. He made a dismissive sweep of his hand, indicating that the interview was concluded.

  Roxalena bowed and withdrew, then scurried out of the throne room and down a side corridor. She drew her veil over her face and bent her head, taking care to stay close to the walls and avoid being noticed. As she neared the kitchen, servants bustled past her carrying covered baskets and bales of fruit and bundles of linens, intent on their tasks. Behind the main kitchen was an alley where refuse was dumped, and Roxalena opened a small metal door and stepped into it, holding a scented gauze handkerchief to her nose delicately.

  Osman Bey emerged from an alcove across the way and embraced her immediately, almost lifting her off her feet.

  “You got my message,” Roxalena said against his shoulder, closing her eyes and inhaling his clean masculine scent, her cheek crushed against the tunic of his uniform.

  “It isn’t safe for you to come here,” Osman said. “Are you sure you weren’t seen?”

  “I was very careful. This is an emergency.”

  “What happened?”

  “My friend Sarah, the teacher who has been giving me English lessons, has vanished from the palace.”

  “Kidnapped?” Osman said, holding her off and looking down into her face.

  Roxalena shrugged worriedly. “I have no idea. Of course my father knows what happened, but he won’t tell me anything. He probably had a hand in it.”

  “You want me to ask some questions, see what I can learn?”

  Roxalena nodded. “Please. Sarah hasn’t been in the East very long and I don’t know what will become of her. She volunteered to teach me and I feel responsible for bringing her to Topkapi.”

  “Consider it done,” Osman said, and kissed her forehead tenderly. “Tomorrow night, in the boathouse?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow night,” Roxalena said, squeezing his hand.

  “Don’t worry. I will have some word of your friend by then,” he said reassuringly, and Roxalena slipped out of his arms, running back through the door.

  It was two days before Sarah was summoned before Kalid Shah once more, and during that time Memtaz undertook to instruct her in some aspects of harem life, but Sarah proved an unwilling pupil. She stared sullenly as she looked on during the rituals of the hamman, the bathing pool—dying the hands and feet with henna, scrubbing the skin with pumice stones, washing the hair with egg yolks, and perfuming the whole body with sandalwood, ambergris, and myrrh. Sarah wasn’t interested in making herself beautiful for Kalid Shah, but just as when she was first presented to him as his captive, it was clear that she would have little choice in the matter. She sat like a statue while a coterie of slaves, under the direction of Memtaz, removed the almost invisible hair on her body with ada, a lemon-and-sugar paste. This was a stinging ritual which left her gasping with rage and indignation as well as pain, but when she struggled, Memtaz summoned two eunuchs to hold her down, and the process continued. When the depilation was complete, she was bathed and painted with almond to whiten her already pale skin, and rouged on cheeks and lips and nipples. Sarah stared balefully into a gilt mirror as Memtaz carefully outlined her eyes with kohl and darkened her brows with India ink, completing the process. When she stood and Memtaz added a sky blue caftan embroidered with gold thread to her tunic of cotton gauze, the Circassian slave clapped her hands delightedly.

  “Very beautiful,” she pronounced.

  “How do I get out of here?” Sarah asked.

  “You cannot. Best to make yourself the favorite and enjoy the position for as long as it lasts.”

  “Then what? Do I get handed over to the guardsmen when the pasha tires of me?”

  “It is your job to make sure he does not tire of you.”

  Sarah sighed and surrendered. All of her conversations with Memtaz went the same way: in a circle.

  “Why doesn’t he just rape me and get it over with?” Sarah muttered despairingly. “He’s toying with me, leaving me alone to imagine all sorts of horrible things. Then when he does send for me, I have to go through this ridiculous preparation process.”

  “Are you missing him?” Memtaz asked slyly.

  “Are you kidding?” Sarah countered.

  “You look like…jinni. An angel.”

  “I feel like General Custer’s mare, braided hair and all.”

  “Beg pardon?” Memtaz said.

  “Never mind. Am I ready?”

  “You are ready.”

  Sarah tugged at the elaborate plaits in her hair, which were giving her a headache, and Memtaz slapped her wrist.

  “Leave alone, please.”

  “All this headgear hurts, Memtaz. These bodkins alone must weigh a pound,” Sarah complained, indicating the carved ivory hairpins skewered in her braids. The ornaments were heavy with pearls and other precious gems.

  Memtaz pressed her lips together, but said nothing. She was beginning to lose patience with her recalcitrant charge, who could not seem to understand that thousands of women in the empire would be eager to take her place.

  Sarah finally met her eyes.

  “Ready to go?” Memtaz asked.

  Sarah hesitated, then nodded.

  Memtaz clapped her hands and the doors of the dressing chamber opened immediately, as if by magic. Two eunuchs stood waiting, then fell into place beside the women as they walked down the marble floored corridor.

  The Orchid Palace was smaller and less elaborate than Topkapi, but more tasteful in its way, the sandstone walls, hung with rich tapestries, casting a warm glow over the gleaming floors. The harem was located between the mabeyn, the pasha’s apartments, and the quarters of the chief black eunuch. The valide pashana, Kalid Shah’s grandmother, had the most ornate suite in the harem, but as Sarah was now the favorite, her chamber was almost as luxurious, with Memtaz’ anteroom adjoining it. The Carriage House and Bird House connected the harem to the world, both guarded from within by the eunuchs and outside by the corps of halberdiers. Sarah and Memtaz turned the corner for the mabeyn and paused before the carved double doors, waiting as the captain of the guards banged on them with his truncheon.

  “Come,” Kalid’s voice called from within, and Sarah reacted to the very sound of it, her heart beating faster.

  They entered Kalid’s audience chamber, walking across a huge Kirman carpet embroidered with birds of paradise, passing marble columns hung with golden wall sconces containing flaming tapers. At one end of the chamber was a small sitting room hung with orchid silk draperies; there Kalid reclined on a brocade divan, the inlaid table before him covered with an assortment of delicacies. He examined the women as they approached, then gestured to the empty divan opposite him.

  “For you,” he said to Sarah, who sat on its edge gingerly.

  “You may go,” Kalid said to Memtaz.

  The little servant hesitated.

  “I will serve Miss Woolcott myself,” Kalid said smoothly, causing the guardsmen to exchange startled glances.

  The pasha never served anyone himself.

  “You all may go,” Kalid said in a louder voice, and Sarah watched nervously as the chamber emptied, leaving her alone with the Pasha of Bursa.

  “Sherbet?” Kalid said politely, extending a crystal dish rimmed with silver to Sarah.

  She shook her head.

  “You should have some, it’s very good. You don’t have to be afraid. It’s already been tested for poison at the Bird Hou
se.”

  The possibility of poison had not occurred to Sarah, whose expression must have mirrored her alarm.

  “You should think of this. You’re the favorite now and a likely target of jealousy,” Kalid said mildly, sampling the sherbet from a highly polished spoon.

  “I don’t want to be the favorite,” Sarah said.

  Kalid shrugged. “You have no choice in the matter.”

  “It appears I have no choice about anything,” Sarah said tersely, staring at him.

  Kalid shook his head. “Not true. You can have lime or peach or orange sherbet; preserves made with gardenia, linden flower, or chamomile; coffee flavored with cloves or cinnamon or rose petals. You have many choices. The food produced in my gulhane is the finest in the Empire. You will not be disappointed.”

  Sarah merely glared at him, letting him see what she thought of this witty repartee.

  “Boza?” he said, lifting a silver pitcher of the fermented barley drink invitingly. “Sprinkled with roasted chick peas and cinnamon. It’s very good.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Raki?” he said, pointing to the jug of liquor at his elbow.

  “No.”

  He sat back. “I cannot tempt you with any of these delights?” he said, gesturing to the table laden with halvah, Turkish delight, and various types of pastries, as well as the glittering rainbow dishes of sherbet.

  “All I want is for you to let me go.”

  Kalid sighed. “That I cannot do.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I want you.”

  His face changed as he said the words, and Sarah was riveted by his eyes. So they were back to it; this chatty mood was just a diversion, a tactic to cause her to lower her guard while he moved in for the kill. She drew her breath in sharply.

  Kalid looked back at her steadily, his dark gaze penetrating. He was wearing a white linen tunic embroidered with gold that exposed the slender muscles of his throat and the top of his dense mat of chest hair. A purple silk caftan with gold tassels set off his dark looks to perfection; he had dressed carefully for this interview. His thick black hair caught and reflected the light from the tapers and the oil lamp on the serving table. He was gorgeous, but he was also her captor, and she could never forget that.

  “We don’t always get what we want,” Sarah said.

  “I do.”

  She smiled and looked away.

  “What is amusing?” he said in his elegant accent, sounding like an Oxford don.

  “You are so appallingly arrogant. That’s amusing.”

  He made a dismissive gesture, reminding her of Roxalena’s father. “I went to school for some years among the British. In my view, they are the most arrogant of men, thinking themselves above every other people on earth. They are very polite, and never say what they mean. Why then is my directness interpreted as arrogance?”

  Sarah had no reply, and made none.

  “Is this not so?”

  “I’m not going to discuss the British with you.”

  “What will you discuss with me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Ah, and I thought you were a teacher.”

  “I am a teacher.”

  “Then teach me.” He reclined on one elbow, his caftan falling open to the golden cord serving as a sash at his waist. His torso was clearly defined beneath the gauzy material of his tunic. Sarah looked away deliberately.

  “Teach you what?” she said.

  “Anything. Teach me about the United States of America, I have never been there.”

  “You wouldn’t like America. It’s a democracy.”

  “I know about democracy. It sounds very slow.”

  “I suppose it is slow, but we much prefer it to speedier types of government, like dictatorship.”

  “Meaning that I am a dictator?”

  “I’m not here because I volunteered.”

  “But you will be very glad that you are here. One day.”

  “May I go now?” Sarah asked, tiring of the fencing.

  “You may not,” he said crisply, standing.

  Sarah watched him warily, on her guard, stiffening as he approached her.

  “What did my women do to your hair?” he asked, pronouncing the last word in the British fashion, “hay-uh.”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” Sarah replied darkly.

  She flinched as he touched her head, removing one of the ivory combs gently.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” he said dryly. “I’m only trying to make you more comfortable. This looks very painful.”

  “It’s nothing by comparison with the ada treatment,” Sarah muttered, closing her eyes as he undid the first braid deftly and the pressure on her scalp eased.

  “Better?” he said.

  She had to admit that it was, nodding.

  He removed the second comb and unplaited the rest of her hair, combing it with his fingers, and Sarah relaxed, her eyes closing as he kneaded her scalp with strong hands. He sat next to her and turned her away from him, her back against his shoulder.

  “Why would anyone want to torture such beautiful hair into complicated knots?” he murmured, running the golden strands over the backs of his hands.

  Sarah didn’t answer, her scalp tingling with the renewed flow of blood. When his arm encircled her waist, she unthinkingly allowed him to support her. He was so close, and so warm, and his soft voice so comforting. . . .

  He swept her fall of hair away from her nape and pressed his lips to the back of her neck. She started, but he held her, bringing his hands up from her waist to close over her breasts.

  “Let me go,” she said fiercely, struggling.

  “My touch was not so repugnant a moment ago,” he whispered in her ear, sliding one hand inside her caftan, seeking the open neck of her gossamer tunic.

  “I’ll scream,” she said, panicking because his mouth sliding along the curve of shoulder was evoking a response she didn’t want to feel, dared not admit to feeling.

  “No one will care,” he muttered, his searching hand closing over her naked breast, kneading the nipple.

  “Let me go,” Sarah moaned, straining against him.

  “You don’t want me to let you go,” he said hoarsely, spinning her around and under him in one smooth motion, pulling her tunic open to bare her rouged breasts. His mouth closed over one rosy nipple as Sarah struggled at first, then sighed helplessly, turning her head from side to side. He sucked gently, then rasped her with his teeth, stimulating the sensitive flesh until she was gasping helplessly. He lifted his head slightly, withdrawing the pressure, and Sarah clutched at his hair, pulling his mouth back against her.

  When his lips touched her again, she whimpered, drowning in the syrupy warmth, the changing texture of his expert caress. His hair was like raw silk under her fingers, and when his free hand closed over her other breast she moaned softly, arching toward his touch.

  He rose immediately, letting her fall back against the divan. Sarah’s eyes flew open in bewilderment.

  “That’s all,” he said silkily. “I was just waiting for you to make that sound.” He turned away, his clothing rustling as he adjusted it.

  Sarah gasped, stunned, staring at his back.

  “I suggest you cover yourself. You wouldn’t want the guardsmen to get the wrong idea,” he added archly.

  “Why, you—you—” Sarah sputtered.

  He clapped his hands loudly, and the door flew open as Sarah pulled her tunic closed and folded her arms across her caftan.

  “Take this woman back to the harem gate,” he said in Turkish to the halberdiers, who stood at attention, waiting.

  Sarah rose with as much dignity as she could muster and said, “I’ll make you pay for this.” Her voice was shaking with humiliation; she was almost crying, but too proud to let him see it.

  “No, you won’t, Sarah,” he answered smoothly. You’ll come back for more.” He waved his hand, and the guardsmen banged their truncheons on the floor.

 
Sarah strode from the audience chamber without looking at Kalid, amazed that her legs were able to support her.

  At the harem entrance, she was met by the eunuchs assigned to her, and they escorted her to her room.

  Kalid waited until Sarah was out of sight, then sat heavily, running trembling fingers through his hair.

  His composure as he dismissed Sarah was pure pretense; he had never wanted a woman so much in his life, and forcing himself to stop was more difficult than he could have imagined. But he had managed to do it, and he was glad.

  The American woman had to be shown who was in charge of this situation. He would bring her along, a little at a time, and eventually she would be clay in his hands, soft and yielding, to be molded according to his desire.

  But he had to maintain control until then, and that would be difficult. She was ripe, succulent, waiting to be plucked, and holding back would not be easy. He wanted to sink into her flesh, get so deep into her that neither would be able to tell where one left off and the other began.

  He seized the bottle of raki and drank straight from it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Patience, he counseled himself.

  You will have everything you want, in time.

  “A summons from the valide pashana,” Memtaz said, shaking Sarah’s shoulder.

  “Who?” Sarah inquired, sitting up and rubbing her eyes, thinking that another summons was just what she didn’t need.

  “The grandmother of Kalid Shah. She wishes you to attend upon her at her apartments.”

  Wonderful, Sarah thought. Still smarting from her recent encounter with Kalid, the last thing she needed was an interview with one of his relatives.

  “Can I refuse?” Sarah asked wearily.

  “It would not be wise. Kosem has great influence with her grandson and is very powerful in the harem. You should try to make a friend of her, mistress.”

  “Do I have to go through the hamman routine to see her?” Sarah asked, standing and brushing back her hair.

  “Of course not. She is a woman.”

  “That’s a relief. What do I wear?”

  Sarah bathed quickly and donned the clothes Memtaz selected, loose white cashmere trousers and a fitted blouse of crimson silk with voluminous white sleeves slashed with crimson satin. She let her hair hang down her back and stepped into the high-heeled pattens worn by harem women indoors, then added the earbobs Memtaz insisted upon at the last minute. They were of gold with large rubies at the lobe and a string of pearls below, almost touching the shoulders.