The Panther and The Pearl (20 page)

“All right. Send Sarah to me.”

It was only a few minutes before Sarah arrived, dressed simply in a shift with a gold trimmed caftan belted at the waist, her hair still damp. They had not seen each other since their last altercation, and Kalid drank in the sight of his favorite hungrily, noting that her face clean of the harem’s usual makeup made her look like a little girl. He shooed away her escort and then sat back in his chair as she stood mutely before him.

“Achmed is very upset with you,” he began.

Sarah said nothing.

“He told me that you punched Fatma in the nose.”

“After she tripped me.”

“That’s very mature.”

“Are you going to instruct me about maturity now?”

“I’m going to instruct you about decorous behavior. It was my former impression that this sort of tiff was beneath you.”

“Well, maybe I’m learning how to get along around here. I’ll reduce myself to whatever level is necessary to survive.”

“Fiery words from a proper Boston miss.”

“I don’t think I’m so proper any more. You’ve seen to that. And I’d like to know what you’re planning to say to Fatma. Is she going to receive a lecture too?”

“I’ll deal with Fatma in my own way.”

“I can just imagine what that might be. Please tell your paramour if she tries anything like this morning’s stunt again she’ll wind up with a shiner.”

“What is a shiner?”

“A black eye. What do they call it in England?”

“A poke,” he said.

“Well, if you don’t want your Titian haired trollop to receive a poke, tell her to leave me alone.”

“My Titian haired trollop?” he whispered, wide eyed.

Sarah stared at him balefully. “Oh, you
are
a snake. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Throwing me in with Fatma, on her home territory, and letting her toy with me.”

“Territory?” he said inquiringly.

“You know exactly what I mean. Well, you might be surprised by the results. Be sure to check your local newspaper for the next installment in the serial.” Sarah whirled and stomped angrily toward the door.

“You have not been dismissed,” he called after her.

She turned to face him again. “May I have your imperial majesty’s permission to withdraw?” she asked sarcastically.

He looked at her with what could only be described as sadness.

“Do we have to be enemies, Sarah?” he said quietly.

“That wasn’t my choice, donme pasha,” she replied neutrally, not looking at him.

“All right,” he said, sighing. “You may go.”

Sarah walked out and her escort fell in behind her. The khislar passed her on his way into the audience room.

“Back again so soon?” Kalid said to him testily. “What is it this time?”

“I have received a message from Turhan Aga.”

“And what does the Captain of my Halberdiers have to say?” Kalid asked, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.

“He requests an audience. He was given a letter for you from a messenger who came to the Carriage House gate.”

“Why didn’t he just pass the letter on to you?” Kalid asked, wondering at the excess of ceremony.

“He promised to deliver it personally.”

Kalid made an expansive gesture. “Send him in.”

Turhan Aga, Osman Bey’s counterpart at Orchid Palace, was a middle aged native of Izmir whose loyalty to his pasha was unquestioned and had led to a series of promotions resulting in his present position. He hustled into the room when admitted and dropped to one knee, a form of genuflection learned from the Christian Turks in his native city that he had never abandoned.

“What do you have for me?” said Kalid, who was fond of the captain.

Turhan withdrew the envelope from his jacket and handed it to his sovereign.

Kalid saw the American Embassy crest on the back of the envelope and tucked it into his shirt.

“Thank you, Turhan. You may go.”
 

The captain bowed and withdrew from the audience room. As the khislar followed him Kalid said, “Achmed, stay here.”

The khislar turned back immediately, waiting.

Kalid watched the doors close behind Turhan Aga and then said, “The letter is from the American Embassy.”

Achmed watched impassively as Kalid opened it and scanned the lines quickly. There were two paragraphs in English followed by a Turkish translation under them.

“The Under Secretary, somebody named Danforth, requests an audience as soon as possible in connection with the disappearance of an American woman, Margaret Sarah Woolcott.”

“Margaret?” the khislar said.

Kalid shrugged. “It’s the first I’ve heard the name. Anyway, I cannot ignore it. I must reply.”

Achmed snorted. “What are they going to do? Declare war on Turkey?”

“Ah, my friend, you are not a diplomat. You don’t understand the game. I will merely say that I am occupied with domestic matters at present, which is true, and that I will not have time to grant an audience for several weeks.”

“Which is not true.”

“This man Danforth isn’t going to call me a liar. He will wait until the appointed time.”

“What do you hope to gain by the delay?”

“Sarah,” Kalid said simply.

Achmed knew when to remain silent, so he did not offer an opinion on his pasha’s obsession with the American woman.

“I’ll write the letter today and you can send Turhan Aga, or one of the janissaries, to the Embassy with it.”

Achmed bowed.

“We will see how well the Americans handle this,” Kalid said musingly. “We Easterners are ancient hands at such intricacies, they are novices. Their country is only one hundred years old.”

“But very powerful,” Achmed reminded him.

“Do you think the President of the United States will travel to Constantinople in search of one little schoolteacher?” Kalid asked, amused.

Achmed said nothing. He didn’t know what the Americans would do.

But then, if Kalid Shah was afraid of anything, Achmed hadn’t yet seen it.

“That will be all, Achmed. I wish to be left alone until the minister of agriculture returns.”

Achmed bowed again and left as Kalid went back to studying the letter in his hand.

Roxalena stepped out from behind a large bush in the Garden of the Kadins at Topkapi and gestured for Osman Bey to come to her side. He looked around furtively and then covered the ground between them in four steps. Roxalena seized his arm.

“Did you talk to Sarah’s cousin?” she hissed.

“Just for a moment. The Sultan was present the whole time and I was only able to say a few words to him as she left.”

“Did you tell him that she had tried to escape from the Orchid Palace?”

Osman nodded.

“Good. That will make him more intent on getting her out of there,” Roxalena said. “I wish I had been able to go to the audience but my father forbade it.”

“He probably knew why you wanted to attend.”

Roxalena sighed. “I saw the Embassy carriage arrive but there was no way for me to get a message to Mr. Woolcott. If I keep on bribing people I will have no jewelry left and the Sultan will find out eventually. Someone will betray me to an agent of my father’s who can pay better.”

“You are doing everything that you can, Roxalena,” Osman said, squeezing her hand.

“But is it enough to help Sarah?” the princess asked.

Osman shrugged.

Who could say?
 

Sarah didn’t know what Kalid had said to Fatma about their “disagreement”, but the redhead virtually disappeared from her life after that day. If Sarah entered the hamman, Fatma left it; if Sarah was reclining in the tepidarium and Fatma wandered in, she turned around and went somewhere else. It really wasn’t that difficult for them to avoid one another; there were many women in the harem and many places to go, both within the harem itself and in the unrestricted areas of the Orchid Palace. Sarah was relieved that her problem was solved but almost disappointed that she didn’t get another crack at Fatma.

As days went by and she heard nothing from Kalid, she was mean spirited enough to want one.

Memtaz came into her sleeping chamber one morning about ten days after Sarah last saw the pasha and said solemnly, “Mistress, I believe there has been a theft.”

“A theft of what?”

“Your amethyst necklace.”

“It was never MY necklace, Memtaz, it was in the ikbal’s jewel box when I got here.”

“You are the ikbal now, therefore it is yours.”

“All right, fine. What do you think happened to it?”

“Fatma had it last. She borrowed it, do you remember?”

How could I forget?
Sarah thought. Well, if Fatma had it she could keep it. It had once been hers anyway.

“I don’t care about the necklace, Memtaz. It isn’t important to me that it be returned.”

“I should report any incidents of stealing to the khislar,” Memtaz said stubbornly.

Sarah sighed. “Maybe Fatma forgot to bring it back. Why don’t you ask her where it is?”

“I have already done so. Fatma says that she brought it back, but that is not true, mistress. I take great care of your things and I would know if the necklace had been returned.”

Sarah rubbed the bridge of her nose wearily. She might not mind responding in kind to Fatma’s aggressive taunts, but this petty squabbling over trinkets was beneath both of them.

“I don’t want you to tell the khislar about it,” Sarah said firmly to Memtaz.

“Is that an order, mistress?” Memtaz said primly.

“Yes, it is.”

“Very well.” Memtaz picked up Sarah’s discarded clothing and said, “Will you be having the evening meal in the tepidarium, mistress?”

“No. In here. Alone.”
 

Memtaz bowed and left.

Sarah was reading when Memtaz returned with a silver tray. She had a light meal of feta cheese, olive compote, and
rahat lokum,
or Turkish delight. She went to bed early, before Memtaz retired.

Sarah woke again abruptly, in the middle of the night, doubled up with pain.

She reached for the bell beside her sleeping couch and knocked over a water glass instead. The crash brought Memtaz running into her room.

“What is it, mistress?” Memtaz said, gasping when she saw Sarah’s distressed expression, the beads of perspiration on her forehead.

“I don’t know...my stomach hurts,” Sarah moaned. It was an effort to get the words out; each breath sent a bolt of agony slicing through her midsection.

“I’ll get the khislar,” Memtaz said, and ran headlong out of the room. She was back in seconds with Achmed, who took one look at Sarah and said to Memtaz, “Send for Doctor Shakoz.”

Sarah looked up at Achmed and said haltingly, “What’s wrong... with me?”

“I don’t know,” Achmed said, but he exchanged a glance with Memtaz that said he suspected something.

“Give me water,” Sarah said, and Memtaz moved to obey. Achmed blocked her hand.

“Don’t let her take anything by mouth until the doctor sees her,” he said.

Time seemed to pass very slowly for Sarah, in a haze of pain, until the doctor finally bustled into the room. He adjusted his pince nez and then knelt next to Sarah, probing her abdomen with stiff fingers.

Sarah screamed.

He said something in Greek and Achmed translated, saying to Memtaz, “Is she pregnant?”

“No!” Sarah moaned.
 

Memtaz shook her head.

“Has she had an abortion?” Achmed went on, translating the doctor’s Greek again.

“For God’s sake, no!” Sarah gasped.

The doctor muttered to Achmed and the khislar said, “Doctor Shakoz says that women sometimes do these things to themselves, with knitting needles and such, and tell no one about it until the damage must be repaired.”

“Will you inform this... idiot that I’ve not had... an abortion?” Sarah panted, grabbing Achmed’s tunic. “Can’t he see I’m not bleeding? What’s... wrong with him?”

Achmed conferred with Shakoz and then took Memtaz aside as the doctor continued his examination.

“Did you bring her dinner?” Achmed asked Memtaz.

The servant nodded.

“Did she eat alone?”

Memtaz nodded again.

“Did you get the tray from the marble shelves beside the harem doors?”

Memtaz said, “Yes, of course.”

“Who made up the tray and carried the food to you?”

“Nesime, the kitchen skivvy. She always brings the ikbal’s food tray separate from the others.”
 

“What was on the tray?”

“Cheese, an olive compote. Some Turkish delight for a sweet.”Memtaz leaned in closer to him and said, “Why are you asking these questions? Do you think my mistress has been poisoned?”