“Hello, madam. I’ve come—”
“Who...who are you?”
“Abdullah, madam. From Esmikhan Sultan. I’ve come—”
“Esmikhan?” The Quince bolted upright as if I’d blasphemed. Her old, lined, fuzzy face paled, then grew greener than the scarf around her head. “Esmikhan Sultan,” she breathed. A curse.
I didn’t know what to say. Gul Ruh chirped instead, “My mama has a pain in her belly and wants you—”
“Who?” growled over the gravel. The Quince lifted one knobby finger that tremored out of control. “What child is that?”
The Fig shimmered defensively, catching her mistress and spilling the handkerchief of simples she’d gathered in the process. I stepped, too, trying to get between the threat of that finger and my little lady.
“This is Esmikhan’s daughter, Gul Ruh.” I spoke soothingly. “You remember, madam. You birthed her.”
“Dead!”
A violent jerk flung the old woman out of the Fig’s arms and across her work table. Stacks of books and mortars and pestles in three sizes went flying into a filigree stand that held a small glass bowl over a lamp’s flame. Glass shattered. The flame went out and threw up a pall of acrid smoke.
“That child should be dead. With the rest of them. The rest of them. Dead. Babies. Dead.”
I was beside my little lady in a moment, sweeping her up into my arms and inching backward. The Quince, possessed, staggered in our direction. The Fig pressed a kerchief in my hand and me towards the door. I needed no more encouragement. Gul Ruh stared, wide-eyed but too surprised to whimper.
Before I managed to get us out of sight down the corridor, the haunted woman had lurched into her garden, pursued by the Fig. Here the Quince stood, saying the same things over and over to the barren earth, the denuded trees: “Babies. Dead. Their insides bleeding out.”
And then I had the task, which I finally gave up as hopeless, of trying to explain this mystery to my little one, apologizing for the will of Heaven that made drugs that eased pain but also wildly deranged.
“What pain does the midwife have?” she asked.
I couldn’t answer.
Gul Ruh took it bravely and soon was distracted with other things that loomed larger in her childish life. But, unlike the previous explanation of the sexes, I could tell she wasn’t satisfied. How could she be, when I brought no comfort even to myself? I could not understand why the Quince should have turned suddenly so violent. And worse, why that violence should have been turned so personally, so specifically against my little angel.
Unless—unless it had something to do with Yavrube.
XVI
A week before the day the astronomers had picked as auspicious for the beginning of the festivities, preparations for the young prince’s circumcision were well under way. One thousand poor boys had been chosen to join Muhammed in this rite at the cost of the palace. Their presence would give the young prince the honor of mass charity and the unfailing devotion of these boys and their families for the rest of his life.
Each boy had already been sent a new suit of clothes—nothing to compete with the cloth-of-gold in twenty changes that were being readied for Muhammed, but rich enough, with a striped silk turban each that would be worn with feathers. Tent stakes were driven into the lawn both within the palace walls and outside in the Hippodrome to take the overflow of entertainments from the kiosks.
And heat from the kitchens filled the whole palace.
My lady had abandoned her own harem for the palace’s “to help,” as she said, “with the preparations.” What a woman who could hardly walk might do to help was never asked. She would sit and bask in the excitement, of course, and her daughter would learn something about what made boys different from girls as she watched this ceremony in her cousin’s honor. That was enough.
As soon as we arrived, I went to the kitchen. I had to supervise the deposit of ten trays of tiny tartlets filled with ground dates, nuts, or apricots, heavy with honey, all arranged in elegant pyramids which my lady had had her women prepare at home as a gift. Although not more appreciated, they were more practical than the jewels and fine fabrics that were to be her main gifts to the boy, his mother, and grandmother later on.
In spite of the extensive remodeling and rebuilding the palace has undergone between that morning in April and the present, the form of the kitchens has proven so functional as to always be renewed along the same lines. And even those who have never been within the Sublime Porte will have some idea of their layout. The row often stone chimneys rising like the necks of wine flasks from their individual domes is the most distinctive palace structure the average citizen can possibly view from a boat on the Marmara.
The average citizen, too, will have a good notion of the activities of that complex of kitchens. Turning live sheep and goats, sacks of hard, raw grain, and whole fruits and vegetables into the numerous hot and cold dishes upon which people feed happens in his own home: merely multiply it a hundredfold.
The average citizen will certainly have a clearer notion of these activities than many a child born and bred in the harem does. Sometimes such royal children know no better than that Allah Himself must have created meat just so in bite-sized pieces tangy with herbs and spices.
They never imagine that there should be separate plants for fennel, basil, and coriander, that pepper must come from so far away or that salt is really a mineral mined from the earth, and that only the skill of the cook blends them with success.
The harem had its specialists in sherbets, preserves, and candied delights, of course. But for the majority in the heart of the harem, much of cookery was likewise a mystery. The women liked to regale one another with tales of how far and at what expense snow was brought from distant mountains packed in straw, as they told tales of flying carpet rides. But one for whom “far” may be to the end of the garden and back, she may suppose that the white cold falls on those mountains in perfect little rounds of sherbet flavored with raspberry, lemon, or rose-water.
Whereas in most kitchens the women do the cooking, in the palace, it is a profession for men with years of training; women never set foot inside. The kitchens must, after all, feed the outer, men’s palace as well, sometimes several thousand mouths on a Divan day.
Young eunuchs and young odalisques both begin their duties by picking up the steaming trays in the outer harem corridor and delivering them to the rooms where the women wait in happy, chattering clusters. Male servants called halberdiers actually cross the open court from kitchen to harem. The halberdiers leave the trays on special heating stones in the corridor; careful to glance only circumspectly through the long fake tresses dangling from their hats, careful to vanish before the head eunuch rings a bell announcing dinner.
Each of the ten chimneys seen from the Marmara surmounts not only its individual hearth, but an entire kitchen. Each kitchen has a separate entrance off the main corridor, each has its own allotment of produce.
The first kitchen, with the sober food taster and his five underlings watching every move of the small army of cooks, is that of the Sultan alone. Then comes that of the Valide Sultan—Nur Banu had it now—then that of that of the Sultan’s current favorite. Under Selim, she (or he) changed so frequently that that room was always in a state of confusion. It tried desperately to meet each new taste, sometimes two within the same afternoon. The favorite’s kitchen was a synonym for chaos.
“How was the market today, habibi?” one might ask. “I understand the new shipments from China are causing quite a stir.”
And the reply one might receive: “Yes, by Allah. A regular favorite’s kitchen!”
The fourth kitchen was for Safiye to share with the women of royal blood; the fifth for the chief white eunuch; the sixth for the viziers and other members of the Divan when they dined in; the seventh for the rest of the eunuchs, pages, and other lesser officials; the eighth for the rest of the female slaves; the ninth for the attendants of the Divan; and the tenth serve
d the three hundred men who manned these kitchens as cooks, confectioners, accountants, butchers, grocers, chandlers, dairymen, icemen, water carriers, scullery hands, herbalists, tinkers, and apprentices. You notice I didn’t mention bakers—the palace bakery, every bit as large as the kitchens, was in another place, in the outer or first court of the palace.
A mosque stands at either end of the complex, serving five kitchens each. The hours of prayer are devotedly kept here because it often happens that this is the only time a cook can sit down. Otherwise, even their meals are taken on the run; a bite here of whatever is boiling, the scrapings of a bowl. On a normal day, as I have said, they have about a thousand souls to feed, more on Divan days. But for the circumcision, there would be over six times that number for the week-long duration, when family and friends not only of the Prince but of the charity boys would have to be served as well.
In spite of her separation from the heat and noise, and in spite of the kitchen’s massive, all-male hierarchy, it was still possible for a woman of the harem to make an impression on the food preparation, however. No favored woman would give up a single route to influence the men of the selamlik, certainly not one available to her sisters even in the poorest households.
And, however little Safiye knew about the inner workings of her young son’s mind, she did know that dates were his favorite food. A boy given to frequent sulks, Muhammed could always be coaxed out of them with a handful of the sticky brown nuggets. So Safiye had contrived to have six dates smuggled out of an oasis in Arabia which was the only place in the world where this particular variety grew. They were known to most, if not all, of Constantinople by name alone because the natives were so jealous of their prize that they posted guards day and night in all seasons about their trees. And, though they might honor a pilgrim with a taste, they required that every pit be returned again to a careful account.
Each date was as big as Muhammed’s eight-year-old fist, as sweet and creamy as honey whipped with butter and so rare outside Arabia that their weight in gold could not purchase them. With these treasures, Safiye planned to beguile her son during his suffering.
However Safiye’s messengers managed to get the dates out of Arabia, it was no more difficult a task than getting them into the harem. Or so it seemed. They got as far as the kitchen storerooms, brought in like any other foodstuff. But when Ghazanfer came to pick them up to bring them to his lady’s room for safe keeping, he found Nur Banu’s eunuchs already there, making similar claims of possession.
This, at least, was one version of the conflict. There were several other versions in circulation including its mirror image told by those in Nur Banu’s camp. If Nur Banu couldn’t have her way over the age of her grandson at circumcision, she would certainly provide herself with the best of gifts to celebrate the occasion.
So while I was having the porters set their tartlet trays down in the storeroom, the overseer came and stood behind us, watching with an eagle eye that we didn’t come too close to the encrusted gold casket that held the dates. It was in his neutral custody until someone higher up should come and tell him whether Safiye’s eunuch should claim it or Nur Banu’s.
“Present bias does seem to favor Nur Banu,” the overseer confided to me with a philosophical air. “She does have the greater authority. My personal inclination is, however, that the actual facts favor Safiye. It would be too bad if authority overruled the facts in this case.”
My immediate thought on meeting this man was. What a time his mother must have had birthing him! For his head, though narrow, was incredibly long. His turban sat ill upon it, looking more like some Venetian dandy’s hat than the usual neat, tight knot because of the stretch. Although he was a slim man, a double chin or, rather, no chin at all beneath a beard neither present nor yet quite shaven added to the length. In the very middle of that head’s length rested a mouth of disconcerting smallness, held constantly in a rather simple pout as with some persons born feeble-minded.
Upon acquaintance, however, it was clear that if not particularly profound, he was neither witless nor inattentive to duty. When he was certain he could trust me, he let me have a look at the dates, more valuable than the casket in which they nestled like half a dozen eggs in a nest. As I could never taste them, there was little point in taking more than a peek to verify that such wonders did indeed exist. Then I turned to leave.
I let the porters go at the door with a suitable tip then, hoped to make my way back to the harem through the kitchen corridor, on to the white eunuch’s quarters by the Gate of Felicity. But before I could, the pantry overseer stopped me.
“A friendly warning, khadim,” he said. “I wouldn’t go down past the kitchens if I were you, not if I valued my life.”
“How so, friend?” I turned to him and laughed. “I am not afraid of a little heat if it will cut my walking time in half.”
“Yes, well, there’s the heat. But something else besides.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, it’s all on account of these—ahem.” He gestured towards the casket he hardly ever let out of his sight, even when the room was empty.
“Yes?”
“Well.” His long face grew longer still. “It’s those two kitchens. Nur Banu’s and Safiye’s. They both crave the supreme honor of making the dishes to complement these dates and both claim the other unequal to it. Even the head chefs are not above flinging insults at each other in the hall.”
“I think I can dodge flying insults.” I smiled.
“Ah, but the underlings. They do not stop at words. Kitchen slops, fire brands, skillets—even knives have been flying. And all on account of these dates—and those two women. I don’t envy you, having to go back to the harem. It must be very frightening there, so close to the heart of the flame when this is what we find at the edges.”
I bowed to him, thanking him for his concern. I was going to go against his counsel nonetheless, but I think stopping to hear it was one of the most provident things I’d ever done. Just as I turned to continue, heedless, on my way, what sounded like a thunderclap came from the very spot I would have been at that moment if I had not stopped.
I do not know what the sound was. And no one who was close enough to see what it was lived to tell the tale.
XVII
There are those who think it was only a fire such as any kitchen with piles of wood and pans of grease is subject to. Maybe it was only the words the overseer had just finished giving me, but I’m afraid I must refute that notion. That sound and the awful speed with which smoke, then flame was soon pouring down the corridor in both directions make me suspicious.
Suspicious of what, I can hardly say. And I did not take time to think about then, for the overseer and I were shoving each other out the door and into the courtyard to shout the news to anyone who had ears, “Fire! Fire! Quick!”
Not a moment later we were followed by all those who managed to escape the kitchens if they did not jump out the windows in the other direction. One man had his eyebrows singed. Others, overcome by smoke, were carried by companions. One brought fire with him, clinging to his clothes like a playful little monkey. Screaming wildly, he flung himself to the dust and rolled while some came to his aid.
They answered our call quickly: janissaries, pages, officials of all descriptions carrying water in vessels just as varied. Soon several hand-to-hand chains were set up to carry water from the Fountain of Execution in the first court. The fountain’s steps, brown with dried blood, grew red as the water splashed on them—here the head executioner and his assistants always washed themselves after carrying out their function. Now it was called on to save lives instead. But soon the fighters were halted at the kitchen door in their efforts, and then one or two were seriously injured as the roof of the portico collapsed in front of the door.
A strong breeze like the breath of Judgment came off the Marmara, pushing my robes against the fountain and making them wetter and heavier still.
“We shall have a time of
it if that wind keeps up,” the man closest to me shouted, and I agreed.
The wind working like a great bellows trained right on the hot spot and fanned it towards the main part of the palace and the harem. Where a corps might have set themselves to strategic advantage, none did because that would mean violating the Sultan’s women.
As soon as I saw this, I left my place in the brigade—there were plenty with pinched faces beneath the sweat to replace me, and fire-fighting was not my first responsibility. I walked as fast as a eunuch’s dignity would let me through the Gate of Felicity.
I found my lady gossiping with friends. In their oda, no sound of the fury out in the second court had entered. I waited as long as I dared, but then felt obliged to interrupt.
“What is it, Abdullah?” Esmikhan turned to me still weak and smiling from her last fit of giggles.
“Lady,” I said, “there is a fire in the kitchen.”
Her face puckered and then burst into laughter again. “I am glad to hear that,” she said. “They will need something to roast our shish-kebab on.”
The others joined in her laughter.
“You misunderstand, lady,” I said. “There is a fire gone out of control. Several men have been killed already and the whole second court is in alarm.”
“Oh!” some of the ladies exclaimed and wondered if, from the lattices in the female slaves’ dormitory on the second floor, they could get a view of what was going on. They went to find out.
For my lady and even for some others not so handicapped as she, the diversion was not worth the trouble of climbing stairs, so they picked up the conversation where they’d left off.
“But lady,” I persisted, “I think perhaps I should call the sedan porters to have them on alert, at least, in case we are forced to flee.”
My lady sighed at this second interruption. “Abdullah, don’t bother them to no purpose. No, I’m sure they’ll have it put out long before we have to worry in here.”
“Allah veiling, it will be as you say.”
The Reign of the Favored Women Page 11