The Sultan's Seal (11 page)

Dearest Maitlin,

My life has taken quite an exciting turn. Please do not scold me for taking this initiative, dear sister, you who have always known your own mind. I know that you would disapprove of my interest in these murders for fear that I might stir up a hornet’s nest and be myself stung. But, dear sister, those fears, while demonstrating sisterly love, are misplaced. After all, I am not a governess and I have a protector, which Hannah and Mary did not. And it is to help Kamil in his inquiries that I am pursuing this matter. I can’t imagine that you would behave any differently, given the opportunity to help solve not one murder, but perhaps two. Your life has been filled with such excitement. Do not begrudge me my own small portion. But, as you know, I am nothing if not careful and deliberate in my actions, so there is no need for you to fret.

I have made some interesting discoveries. I hasten to assure you that I was not pushing myself forward, but that the information fell into my hands much like a ripe apple falls from the tree into the apron of someone standing, quite by chance, beneath it.

Yesterday I visited the grand vizier’s wife, Asma Sultan. Her father was Sultan Abdulaziz, who was deposed in 1876 and then committed suicide. The sultan’s ministers forced him to abdicate because they wanted a constitution and because he was bankrupting the empire with his extravagances. Mother told me he kept a thousand women in his harems and had over five thousand courtiers and servants. He built two new palaces just to house them. Asma Sultan’s mother was one of his concubines. Mother met her once, before the coup. She said she was tiny, with a pale cameo of a face. She thought her beautiful and romantic.

At that time, Asma Sultan was already married, so she escaped the fate of her mother and the other women in the sultan’s harem after he killed himself—banishment to the old, crumbling Topkapi Palace. Asma Sultan’s husband was made grand vizier in the new sultan’s government, so she is now very powerful. I don’t know what became of her mother. I hesitated to ask in case the answer was unwelcome. Understandably, she is quite bitter about the coup against her father. Apparently, her husband was involved, and she witnessed her father’s suicide. Isn’t that dreadful? I feel very sorry for her. Despite all her wealth and power, she is a sad woman.

She seemed quite concerned to wish Father well, as if she knew about his condition. For obvious reasons, we’ve tried hard to keep it from becoming public knowledge. Still, she did ask me to tell him that she—I think she meant the empire—continues to rely on him, so perhaps I misinterpreted her words and she was not referring to Father’s illness at all. I didn’t tell Father. If he thinks word has gotten about, it would just make him more anxious.

I did learn something that might be of interest to Kamil. Asma Sultan implied that her nephew, Ziya, was killed on a trip to Paris by someone from the palace. This happened right around the time that Hannah also was killed. I’ve since learned that Ziya’s fiancée, Shukriye, was in and out of the harem where Hannah worked, and that Shukriye too disappeared from the city soon after. She was married to someone in Erzurum, on the other side of the country. So many simultaneous disappearances and deaths of people who knew one another surely can’t be coincidence? In any case, Shukriye is returning soon to visit her ill father. Being a man, Kamil won’t be able to approach her, so I’ll pay her a visit and see what I can learn about Hannah.

Bernie sends his best. He requested that I add a note to Richard. Bernie wants to know whether he remembers the Chinese poem about a brush and a bowstring (I hope I’ve remembered that correctly), and to tell Richard that he has recently come across the poem again in a surprising place.

Well, with that mysterious flourish, I will end this missive. As always, I send my love to Richard and the boys. Don’t let them forget me.

O
n a September day in the Rumi year 1294, or 1878 by your reckoning, I accompanied Hamza as he led his horse toward the main road. Slick yellow leaves plastered the ground. The forest exhaled a dusty, pungent odor of rain. It was one month since I had found the woman in the pond. Madam Élise was gone and Ismail Dayi was away, so Hamza had come to visit openly. He wanted to see Mama. She served us tea in the reception room, pleased at seeing him after all this time.

“Mama so enjoyed your visit, Hamza. I haven’t seen her this lively in a long time. It makes me happy to see her smile; she doesn’t very often. I wish you would come more often.”

“Your mother has always been very good to me.”

We reached the gate.

“It has always surprised me that your father took a kuma,” he said without looking at me, “given his views.”

“His views?”

“He’s a modernist, Jaanan. A man who believes, as many of us do, that the empire will survive only if we learn the secrets of Europe’s strength. Some think it’s enough to copy their technology. But there’s more to it than that. If we are ever to be respected as a great power again, we have to join the civilized world. That means we must change the way we think and live.”

He turned to face me. “Polygamy has no place in this new world.”

“Who will decide what’s allowed in this new world of yours?” I asked with an asperity that surprised me.

“Scientists, statesmen, writers. There are more of us than you might imagine, Jaanan. Some of us have gone to Paris, but we have many supporters here as well.” His voice was low and rapid. “We publish a journal,
Hurriyet.
Perhaps you’ve seen it in your uncle’s library. I know he collects reformist journals, although I don’t know whether he reads them. You should read the journals, Jaanan. We are going to rip the empire up by its rotten roots and plant it in the clean soil of science and rational thinking.”

I felt rather alarmed at the extent of what he was proposing. There was nothing rotten here that needed fixing. Science and rational thinking rattled dry as bones in a cup.

But I did not say any of these things. To please him, I would look at the journals later.

Hamza smiled down at me, and tugged gently at a curl that rested on my shoulder beneath the loose drape of gauze.

“I won’t be able to come see you for a while, princess.” The soft, stretched vowels and sibilant tail of the French word wound themselves about me and muffled his unwelcome news in a haze of pleasure. “I’ll be traveling.”

“For how long? Where are you going?” I asked plaintively.

He shook his head. “I can’t say. I have to be careful. The sultan has suspended parliament. He’s gambled away a third of the empire to the Russians. If not for the British, we would have lost Istanbul and much more. And just when we need Europe most, he’s threatening it with a worldwide Muslim revolt that he claims as caliph he could lead. It’s time for us to act. We’re Turks, Jaanan. Your ancestors and mine rode the steppes of Asia, women and men together. There’s no need for religion in a Turkish empire. Religion is the enemy of civilization.” He cupped my chin in his hand and added softly, “But not everyone wants change. I don’t want to get you or your family into trouble, so I can’t come here anymore.”

“It’s also your family.”

I felt angry at Hamza and his politics that took him away from me. I didn’t think my evenings studying Islamic texts with Ismail dayi were uncivilized. I took a step backward in protest. Hamza reached out his hand and gripped my arm so tightly that it hurt.

“Hamza!” I yelped in protest, and pulled away, but he drew me over so that his head was next to mine.

He slid an object into the shawl tied around my waist, his hands leaving a burning trail, and whispered, “Your eyes are as luminous as this sea glass.”

Then he dropped my arm and, without another word, mounted his horse and rode away.

I reached into the folds of silk and extracted a smooth green stone that seemed to glow from within. It was encased in gold filigree, hanging from a slender chain.

Could this beautiful object really be the mundane shard of a medicine bottle after years of being battered by the sea and scoured by sand? I felt then that there was a meaning to be grasped, a parable of some kind, but it eluded me.

Dearest Maitlin,

Father has had one of his spells again. I think Mary Dixon’s murder has upset him. He cannot bear to be reminded of Mother’s death, of any death. He sleeps in the library and takes all his meals there. I will see to it that his mind remains untroubled by such things in the future. Otherwise, he is as dutiful as ever, seeing to the interminable paperwork himself. He recently let go of his secretary because he said he wasn’t to be trusted. Perhaps Father is right, since after his dismissal, the man remained in Stamboul and has set himself up as an agent of trade instead of booking return passage to England. That may sound melodramatic in Essex, but it is true that, here, one must always be on guard against spies in the pay of the sultan or other foreign interests, even British ones. I still worry about Asma Sultan’s concern for Father’s welfare. How many people know about his decline?

I find myself wondering what it would be like to remain here, especially as Father shows no interest in leaving. There is much to be admired in the life of an Ottoman lady, although there is something childlike and seductive about it, quite unsuitable for the civilized mind. They seem never to use their heads for more than interminable intrigues, like squabbling children, although with rather more severe consequences. Still, these women are not as soft and passive as they appear. They can move from languorous and childlike to regal and commanding in moments. Their nature is not fixed, like ours.

As you can see, I have retained my objectivity and have not, as you suggested in your last letter, “gone native.” These days, though, the families of officials I visit with Father live much as we do. The women’s gowns are the latest Paris fashion, likely more up-to-date than those of Essex ladies. The men too dress in European style. Men and women dine at table together, then retire to separate rooms, as we do at home. It is true that their taste in European furnishings is untutored. The coat rack might be placed right next to the piano. They have a love of ostentation that renders even the best gown hideous when topped by a jewel-encrusted kerchief. And the men wear that tasseled, round felt flowerpot on their heads. But this is simply inexperience with the medium of civilization, as natural as children learning to walk. If ever I have my own household here, I will entice you and Richard and the boys to come visit, and perhaps the Orient will seduce you, as you claim it has seduced me.

I’m sitting in the shade of the pines on the patio and can hear the cheerful toots of the steam ferries that ply the Bosphorus beyond the Residence wall. I do so wish I could share my thoughts with you here by my side. I have been trying to rein in my imagination, as you have so often advised me to do. Shukriye is arriving in a few days. I think I will visit her first and see whether there is anything to learn before mentioning it to Kamil.

You know, when Kamil comes by, we sometimes sit in the kitchen, quite companionably, like an old couple over a cuppa’. I’ve invited him to dine with Father and me this evening. Our old chef, Monsieur Menard, has come to mind quite a bit lately. A sign of impending age, perhaps—reminiscing about the past, though I have precious little past to occupy me. However, as you are fond of saying, there is always the future.

I’ve rambled on much too long again, my dear. You write that you avidly read these digressions of mine and that they are a welcome respite from your duties. Nevertheless, I feel I impose myself far too much with these long missives. In my own defense, I have never felt so alive. And who better to share this with than my devoted sister with whom I have ever enjoyed a rare friendship and commonality of mind and sentiment? In the name of that friendship, forgive my imposition on your busy day with these fanciful accounts of mine.

As always, my love to you and the men of your family, for that is what I will find when at last I see my dear nephews.

A
fter dinner, Sybil and Kamil stand on the balcony off the second-floor reception hall and look out at the dimly lit city beyond the high stone wall surrounding the compound. Dusk has taken them by surprise. The Bosphorus is an emptiness beyond the city, sensed rather than seen. In the middle distance, a garland of lamps swings between the minarets of a mosque marking the holiday that celebrates the breaking of the month-long fast. The moon, slim as a fingernail paring, hangs above the dome.

“Do you really believe in kismet, that our fate is written on our foreheads?” asks Sybil.

“There’s no such thing as kismet. It’s just an expression, a superstitious belief, the resource of those too lazy to struggle to make something of themselves.”

“That’s rather uncharitable, isn’t it? Think of all the people out there”—she waves a hand toward the dark city—“who try their best, but still lead miserable lives.”

“Yes, that’s true. But I think many people don’t try as hard as they might. I mean, the thought of being completely responsible for one’s own future is exhausting to contemplate. It’s an enormous responsibility, some might say a burden, to place on the ordinary man.”

Sybil turns to him in surprise.

“So you think people are simply too lazy to better their lives, or incapable of taking the responsibility?”

“I suppose it does sound rather mean-spirited, when you put it that way.”

“I think that people can be relied upon to do their best with what they’re given. A poor man, with only a shilling in his pocket, will nonetheless spend it to clothe and feed his children.”

“Or buy rounds for his friends.”

“That’s terribly cynical.” Sybil’s voice has risen.

“I suppose it’s true,” he agrees, attempting to smooth the tension between them, “that I’ve been blessed with a wealthy, well-placed family, a house, an education, so it’s easier for me to be progressive.” He spits out the final word, surprising even himself. When did I become so cynical? he wonders.

“Do you think it’s Islam that is holding people back?”

“Kismet has nothing to do with Islam. It’s simply a superstition, like the evil eye.”

“People need religion, don’t they?” Sybil asks thoughtfully. “How else could they bear up under all the misery and hardship?”

“Religion is the scaffolding within which we build our lives. It falls away when we no longer need its support.”

“What a curious definition of religion. What is religion without belief, without faith? Isn’t faith necessary?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he answers wearily. “Religion seems to me nothing more than a set of empty rituals and linguistic niceties that mean nothing more than what they say.”

“Everything means more,” Sybil counters adamantly. “What you describe isn’t a life, it’s a shell of a life. What is progress, then, when nothing means anything?”

“Progress means to act rationally, on the basis of known facts, not according to one’s kismet or the mumblings of a hodja.”

“Surely it also means to lead a morally correct life. To give your shilling to your children, instead of drinking it away, as you yourself said.”

“Yes, of course. Civilization doesn’t mean everything is acceptable. On the contrary. There are standards that everyone can learn.”

“And where do they learn moral standards? In church, in the mosque.”

“From parents. And in schools that can correct for the parents’ shortcomings. Proper schools that teach science and the arts, the truly great moral triumphs of the modern age, not the niggling do’s and don’t’s of the prayer books.”

“Niggling? My God, those do’s and don’t’s
are
civilization. They’re a moral compass. Without them, people are empty vessels, no matter how clever and rational they might envision themselves to be.”

Kamil does not like heated arguments, but respects Sybil for holding her ground. He is tired, his investigation finding no foothold.

“I should go, Sybil Hanoum.” He sees the sadness in her face and feels ashamed that he was the cause of it. He doesn’t move.

“Yes.” She seems at a loss for words. They remain on the balcony, leaning on the wrought-iron railing. Looking out at the dark shapes of trees and buildings, Kamil reflects on how many colors there actually are in what is carelessly called black.

Finally, she says, “I do agree that religion isn’t the only way to learn moral behavior. And it is true that religion is often used unscrupulously to manipulate people and to encourage and justify uncivilized behavior. We’ve had enough of that in England, with our various kings and wars and injustices. But it would be so sad to lose”—she tilts her chin and looks up at him—“those ‘little niceties.’”

“Yes, perhaps you’re right.” He is intrigued by the discussion and finds himself oddly at peace. She is standing by his left elbow, turned to face him. Their hands on the rail are almost touching. I could stand here forever, he thinks. He looks at her closely in the light spilling from the room behind them. Large, guileless eyes in an earnest face, plump neck, the pearl nestling in the indentation at its base, a faint lilac scent. Her hair is coiled loosely at the back of her head, tendrils escaping around her forehead and ears. He senses pressure behind the cloth stretched across her bosom, a will to expand toward him. As he looks, he sees Sybil’s cheeks warm. The pearl stands out like a full moon against her flushed skin. Gerdanlouk, he thinks. An evocative Turkish word, with Arabic roots. It means jewelry, but only jewelry adorning a woman between her lower neck and the top of her breasts. Gerdanlouk. He looks away.

Kamil lingers on the balcony, looking out toward the darker space beyond the trees, hoping the chill, bracing air will cleanse his mind of distractions. The distant pinpoint lights above the mosques waver and wink in the wind, marking the end of Ramadan. A new season, he thinks, a new moon. People cleansed by a month of fasting. Maybe that’s a good thing, to be able to start over every year, fresh as a newborn. Free of sin and vices, the Christians would say. For Muslims, who have no concept of sin, reform means to readjust one’s behavior so that it is impeccable in the eyes of others. It’s never too late for that. What others don’t see, well, that’s another story.

He turns abruptly and enters the room. A moment later, Sybil follows him. Neither looks at the other’s face in the appalling light.

E
ARLY THE FOLLOWING
morning, Kamil rides to his sister Feride’s house. One morning every week, he visits his sister and her twin daughters, Alev and Yasemin—aptly named Flame and Jasmine, the one restless and inquisitive, the other amiably tranquil. They breakfast together. Sometimes they are joined by Kamil’s father, Alp Pasha, who lives in a separate wing of Feride’s mansion. Kamil avoids coming at times when he would encounter his brother-in-law at home. He does not like Huseyin Bey, a distant cousin and a minor member of the imperial family. To Kamil’s mind, his brother-in-law is a palace loyalist, but more crucially, an opinionated and self-centered man.

Kamil senses that, despite her large house filled with servants and children and a constant round of visiting, his sister is lonely. For Feride, social life is a desperate, well-oiled mechanism.

Commotion alienates the heart, he muses. It’s easier to be at peace when the world has retreated to an observable distance. But he knows Feride doesn’t understand this and wouldn’t believe him if he tried to explain it to her. As a girl, she desperately wanted to go on social outings and visits, yet when she returned, he remembers her face as wistful and bewildered. She rarely brought friends to the villa. He thought at the time that she was ashamed of living in such an unfashionable house, but now thinks she was lonely even then. The difference between them is that he relishes his solitude, while Feride fights it with continual activity. He spears a piece of melon from his plate and chews slowly, watching Alev try to squirm out of her mother’s grip as Feride reties the satin bow at the back of her dress and then tells her to sit at the table next to her sister.

His father sits at the head of the table, gaunt and bowed over his untouched food. His lips and fingers are stained brown. Kamil can see the naked scalp through his father’s thinning hair, a sight that pierces him with regret. Kamil tries to get his father to look up, so that he can see his eyes. Regret gives way to anger. Alp Pasha does not look up or respond to his son’s attempts to draw him out. Alev and Yasemin also are unusually silent, their eyes drawn inexorably to the shadowy figure hunched beside them. Feride continues chatting amiably, as if she were in full command of her audience.

“When are we going to find you a bride?” she asks with a teasing smile. “The other day, I visited Jelaleddin Bey’s household. His daughter is lovely, educated, and of the right age. She is as beautiful as a rose. Don’t wait too long or another family will pluck her from under your nose.”

Kamil circles his palm in the air to signal exasperation, but he is smiling. This is an old game between them.

“A well-run marriage will bring you back to us.” She looks at her silent daughters and gaunt father. “If you were married, we would all go on outings together with our new sister-in-law. Wouldn’t that be fun, girls?” Feride has two sisters-in-law, her husband Huseyin’s formidable sisters, but they are not the friends she seeks. The two women jealously guard their brother’s interests against any encroachment by his wife.

“Yes, Mama,” Kamil’s nieces answer in unison.

His father heaves himself to his feet and, with unseeing eyes, moves toward the door. A servant shadows him, in case he should fall.

Feride looks meaningfully at Kamil, but he doesn’t meet her eye. He fights down the anger his father’s rejection always evokes in him. It is an unworthy feeling that he tries to hide from Feride.

Kamil uses his bread to capture a piece of goat cheese from his plate and glances surreptitiously at his sister, who is helping the girls finish their breakfast. He wonders how, despite all her duties and worries, she always manages to look so calm, her hair sleeked back under an intricate cloth cap festooned with ropes of tiny pearls, her gown pressed, her hands resting quietly in her lap or working efficiently at some task. Her long, pale face, with its straight nose and thin lips, is not conventionally pretty, but has a seriousness about it, a peaceful radiance that is attractive. Has this life made her content?

It is a contentment that can kill, he thinks. Always forgiving the gentle violence done to one’s time and aspirations. Making minutes into hours and days into years, when there is so much to be done. He does not want to pour his life into a leaky hourglass.

There is no concept of time in the Orient, he thinks grimly. Time is when you marry and have children, then your children marry and have children of their own. That is how lives are reckoned. Between those markers, people sit in the shade, drink tea with their fellows, and make their neighbors’ hills into mountains or cause mischief.

He prefers to measure his time and calculate what can be done with it minute by minute. His hand automatically finds the pocket watch his mother had given him before he went away for his year at Cambridge. He strokes it absentmindedly.

When the girls have finished eating, they run off. Feride and Kamil move to the sitting room. Feride closes the door.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispers anxiously. “You saw Baba just now. It has become unbearable. He rarely speaks and never leaves the house. All he does is sit in his quarters smoking his pipe. Not only does he refuse to speak with Alev and Yasemin, now he avoids them in the house. When I asked him about it, he claimed that they’re of an age where it’s inappropriate for them to be in the same room with an older man. He wants them to cover their hair!”

“But they’re only children.”

“I know. It’s ridiculous,” Feride says crossly. Two vertical lines between her eyebrows spoil her otherwise smooth face. “He’s their grandfather, after all. No rules forbid him seeing them. The girls love their grandfather. He used to play with them when they were younger. Now they think they’ve displeased him somehow.

Kamil has a sudden insight. “You know, Feride, the girls are beginning to look just like their grandmother, with that reddish hair and freckles. And their voices, especially Alev. Do you remember how you once described Mama’s voice, like doves cooing? Maybe Baba can’t bear to be reminded,” he suggests.

“Nonsense. He’s simply allowing himself to be old and unpleasant.”

“Have you told him that they’re upset and miss his company?”

“Of course. But he says, ‘It’s Allah’s will.’ Since when has he cared a kurush about Allah’s will? The only will he ever cared about was his own,” she adds bitterly.

Kamil suddenly perceives that Feride has a very different experience of their family. Certainly he has never thought of his father as strong-willed—just the opposite. What else has he been blind to?

“I can’t figure out what’s happening to Baba. And he’s not eating anything,” she adds in a pained voice. “You see what he looks like.”

Kamil takes her hand. “It’s the opium, Feride. After a while, it weakens the appetite. Have you noticed anything unusual about his eyes?”

“His eyes?”

“Are they darker?”

“I haven’t noticed. Is that a symptom?”

“I believe so.”

She stares at him, then pulls her hand away. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I only just learned it myself. I read it in a book,” he lies. “It happens in the later stages of addiction.”

“You and your books. Well, what should I do? Should I try to stop his opium? I can order the servants not to get it for him, but he might have other sources, and it would only make him angry. What should I do?” she asks again, exasperated.

Kamil is reminded of Sybil and her father. He wishes he could talk to her about his father. Perhaps he will. Why not? He looks again at his sister and wishes he could smooth the frown from her face as he had done as a boy. How would she and Sybil get along? Like fire and fire, he thinks. Or ice and ice. He leans over and brushes his index finger along her brow as if wiping away her frown. For a moment, Feride is stiff and silent, then she begins to cry.