The Debt of Tamar (14 page)

“I’m Ayda,” she whispered.

He looked up. “You’re so beautiful.” He leaned in and kissed her once more, “and I already know your name.”

If his father had been alive, he would have been the one to remind Selim that it was improper for him to seriously date actresses who wore short-shorts and drank martinis, but his father was gone, as was his brother, and he was alone. There was no one there to remind him of who he should be, and whom he should be with.

It had all come to an end in 1923 when the family received word that the Turkish armed guard, led by a zealous young nationalist, was overthrowing the sultanate. As soon as Selim’s grandfather ascended the throne, he was forced to abdicate. Life in Istanbul changed drastically under the command of the country’s reformer and national hero, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk. The lattices and opaque curtains that had once separated men and women on the trams, ferries, even in university classrooms were banned. Turkish people shed their traditional garb and donned a more “civilized”, European style of dress. Women stopped wearing the veil. Men gave up the fez and caftan in lieu of panama hats and British-cut suits. A new Turkish alphabet was implemented and women were brought into the workforce. Nearly overnight, the Osman royal family had become obsolete.

Selim Osman, the grandson of the last Ottoman sultan inherited a legacy of despair and glory—At this very moment, he was very pleased to have no one to remind him of it. He was proud to be a Turk, a citizen of a secular nation that fought for equality of social class and gender. Of course, the old ways still persisted with old families. Certainly, Ayda Turkman was not a woman of his social standing, and it was a relief to know that in his present situation, with no mother, father, or brother to appease, it didn’t matter.

They drove towards his home, a small but luxurious apartment situated in Bebek, one of the more chic areas on the European shore of Istanbul. He parked his car out front then came around to open the door for her.

“This way.” He took her white-gloved hand and led her along the pavement to his building. They stepped into the dimly lit lobby and stood at the base of the staircase leading to the second level. She ran her hands down the length of her black satin gown, smoothing out a few creases.

“You look great.”

She pursed her lips and locked eyes with him, then eyed the exit behind them.

“I can drop you home if you’d prefer.” He took a step towards her and ran his fingers along the length of jet-black hair that framed her chiseled features. He leaned in close, then a little closer, until he could feel her breath on his lips.

“Is that what you want?” Her voice dropped to a whisper as she pressed her forehead against his. “For me to go home?”

His heart began pounding in his chest. “It doesn’t matter what I want.” He felt the soft skin of her ear caress his lips as he whispered the words. “I just want you to be comfortable.”

She broke away and stumbled back. Their eyes locked in a momentary standoff as she considered her options. “After you,” she said while motioning for him to lead the way.

They ascended the flight of stairs towards the dark landing until finally, they stood before his door in absolute darkness.

“Looks like the bulb’s out.” He reached into his pocket and felt for his keys. “Just a minute.” They stood quietly with only the sound of keys jingling between them.

The key slipped into the keyhole and the metal lock clicked. He stepped inside, flipped the light switch and turned to Ayda.

She stood there, wrapped in her mink shawl, leaning against the door post.

The sight of her there made him smile. “Come on in.”

She tossed her shawl on a low console as she stepped inside. Her four-inch stilettoes clicked against the hardwood floors as she moved with ease through his apartment.

She stopped before a long corridor covered with framed portraits. The paintings depicted different men, some old, others young, but all wearing enormous white turbans and the same stern expression.

“Who are they?” She turned to Selim.

He smiled shyly. “The Sultans.” An awkward silence passed between them. “All thirty-six of them.”

“Your family?”

He made his way to one particular portrait and stood before it. “That’s right.”

“And that one?” She pointed toward the rendition of a young sultan with a glint of madness in his eyes.

“Murat the III.”

“What happened to him?”

Selim shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what happened to him. It only matters what happened
after
him.”

“What do you mean?”

He turned and faced her directly. “Every sultan descended from Murat is thought to be cursed.”

“I’ve never heard that, and I know my Ottoman history.”

Selim laughed. “There is Ottoman history, and then there are the Osman Secret Chronicles. This isn’t the sort of thing that made it into your Turkish history textbook. The Chronicles have been well guarded throughout the generations. They document the private life of every sultan throughout history, passed down from one sultan to the next.”

“And you have these chronicles?” Ayda asked incredulously.

“I do.”

“And you’d give up these secrets so easily?”

“They’re family secrets.”

“Go on.”

“I have no family.” He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged lamely. “And so there are no need for secrets.” He cast his eyes downward, pretending to take an interest in the scuffed tip of an otherwise polished shoe.

They both stood quietly for a long moment.

“So what do the chronicles say about Murat the III?”

Selim took a deep breath. “His chapter was written on his deathbed, by an imperial scribe tasked with penning Murat’s most intimate thoughts. It seems his beloved died before they could marry. The body of the girl was never found. No grave was ever marked, and so, unable to accept the loss, he spent the rest of his life looking for her. Those around him believed that he had simply gone mad. Soldiers were dispatched to roam the provinces in search of an emerald-eyed beauty possessing a rare, precious ruby. They were informed that the girl was indebted to the Sultan and that she was to be brought before him at all costs. His servants went through the motions of searching for the dead girl, all the while believing that their search was in vain. Of course, she was never found.”

“And the debt? It went unpaid?”

“Naturally, if there ever was one.”

“What about the curse?” Ayda seemed genuinely interested now.

“Every subsequent sultan descended from Murat suffered terribly in life. Each was haunted in his own way, possessing a bit of the madness and despair that eventually destroyed Murat.”

“You don’t believe in the curse, do you?”

“I don’t know. All I know is what I’ve seen…” Selim’s voice trailed off. “They say the only way to break the curse is to find the emerald-eyed girl in possession of the ruby. When the debt is repaid, the curse will be broken.”

“And you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Are you cursed? I need to know what I’m getting myself into.” Ayda smiled mischievously. “Do you possess
the madness
?”

He grabbed her by the waist. “I certainly do.”

She examined him coyly. “My eyes are brown. Does that mean we don’t have a future?”

“We can always fit you for colored lenses.”

She shoved him playfully. “Are you really mad, Selim Osman?”

“The only thing that’s driving me mad right now is you.” He pulled her close and kissed her hard.

Ayda pushed away. “What happened to your family?”

He raised one brow incredulously. “You know very well.” He let his hands fall from her waist and took a few steps back.

“Selim—”

“Everyone does. I’m sure you read about it in the gossip pages.”

She shrugged apologetically. “I was never one to read the gossip section.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that—”

“You don’t need to explain anything.”

“No, I want to.”

“I shouldn’t have pried.”

He shook his head. “My brother passed away. He was fourteen. We were on a motorcycle. The thing skidded, lost control.”

“My G-d. Fourteen? He couldn’t have had his license at that age. Was he driving?”

Selim dropped his head then continued as though she had never asked the question. “After that, my mother ran off to live with her aunt in the countryside. I was sixteen. I guess it was easier for her to believe that both her sons were dead.”

“Selim—”

“It’s all right. We all get what we deserve.”

“She just walked out on you and your father?”

“That’s pretty much how it happened. She said goodbye as though she were stepping out for a few hours. She made sure to leave us with a pantry full of groceries though. I’m still not sure what that was about. Oh—and the combination to the safe containing precious jewels the Osman women have had for generations. She said she wouldn’t be needing them in the country.”

“That was it?”

“She left and never came back.”

“And your father?”

Selim shook his head. “He slipped into a depression. Passed a few years ago.”

“Was it
the madness
?”

Selim took a step back.

“The curse maybe?” she pressed on.

“I’m a modern man,” Selim snapped. “That’s all nonsense. It’s not
real
.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh G-d,” Selim stuttered. “You didn’t come here to listen to all my life’s troubles, and here I am going on and on. I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to get up and leave.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Let me fix you a drink. Cabernet, Merlot?”

“Make it a whiskey.”

He poured her a drink over at the bar, then made his way back to the leather chair where she was situated. He handed her the whisky, then stood towering over her. “
Drink up,”
his body seemed to command. “
Drink now
.”

She threw back her neck and took down the strong stuff as though it were a penance for a crime she could not name but was sure she had committed. Her face twisted in sour agony as she turned her cheek and offered up her empty cup as proof of her surrender.

Not fully satisfied with her penance, he left her bare, outstretched arm suspended in its place. Ignoring the empty glass before him, he swept away the strap of her gown, stepped back and examined the skin he had just exposed.

Her expression stiffened as she placed the glass down and rose to her feet defiantly. Taking hold of his tie near the base of his throat, she reined him in as though she were handling a dog on a leash.

In an instant, he had pried her fingers away and backed her into a corner. He stared her down until her defiance melted away, then lifted her frame in his arms and carried her off. As he moved through the long dark corridor, the gaze of thirty-six sultans bore into him on either side of the hallway. They were silent sultans, but they were not still. They prodded him, they pushed him. They never let him forget…

He took her to his bed that evening, but it was she who ravaged him on the eve that marked the anniversary of his only brother’s death. She never questioned his tears. When they were done, she kissed his salty lashes until his eyes were dry and empty of everything but sleep.

Slow down, Brother. Slow down!
His brother’s last words never ceased to haunt him.

Selim was startled awake in the early hours of dawn. It was not just his head, but now his jaw was aching too. He reached for the pillbox beside the bed and tried to pop open the tight lid with one thumb. The pills went flying in the darkness, and rolled over the hardwood floor throughout the room before settling in dusty corners beneath the armoire and between loose floorboards.

He got out of bed and scanned the floor with his open palm. He found one pill, brushed it off against his night-shirt, and popped it without bothering with the water by the bedside. Grey shadows moved about the room like a caravan of night-wandering gypsies. The sheer curtains shivered in the breeze, their tattered edges creeping out beyond the windowpane, as the dark river rose beyond.

Ayda lay on her side, her bare figure beaded with pearls of sweat, the sheets damp and filling the room with the smell of the sea. As the sun pushed towards the horizon, he examined her body in the pastel hues of dawn. Her milky torso undulated softly as she breathed like the quiet ripples of the Bosphorus outside.

The faint cry of the muezzin first sounded in the distance. It was coming from the other side of the river, from a mosque somewhere on the Asian side of the shore. A moment later, another sounded closer to home. Soon, at least half a dozen mosques could be heard calling the faithful to prayer from minarets piercing the clouds all along Istanbul’s horizon.

Selim sat in the old rattan rocking chair by the bedside, waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in and his headache to pass.

And still, she slept. A sunlit mist rose from the water and seeped into Selim’s small bedroom. Her body, as sumptuously sculpted as a violin’s frame, reminded him of the instrument
Baba
had given him years back. It was an original Stradivarius, a gift from the King of Spain to his great-grandfather on the occasion of his 60
^th
birthday. It was one of only a few in the world. Finely crafted, its thick coat of varnish glistened magnificently but couldn’t mask the tiny nicks of marked obsession the instrument had endured throughout the years.
Baba
had wanted to sell it at auction, or at least to retire it to an airtight glass enclosure, but grandfather, a romantic and skilled virtuoso, wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s a sin to silence an instrument,” was his response to the idea.

Selim would open the case occasionally, just to have a look. It hadn’t been touched in over a decade. He was content to know that the instrument was unblemished by his fingerprints, confident that the strings were as taut as they could possibly be. The instrument would endure. It was a magnificent burden—He kept its existence a well-guarded secret, locked away in its case in the back of the cupboard. He admired it with the same passive rapaciousness with which he had guarded all things precious.