Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

“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.

“Don’t cry, my soul.” Kamil sits next to her and holds her until she is quiet. Then he pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to her.

Kamil sits back, frowning, and reaches for his beads. “It might be possible to take Baba’s opium from him, but it will make things worse for a time, much worse. And it’ll be you who bears the brunt of his wrath.”

“But what else can we do? Things can’t go on like this. He’ll starve to death.”

They sit silently for a while, side by side.

“Maybe we can arrange for the opium to be diluted slowly until he’s weaned.” Feride sits up straight, her eyes still blurred by tears, but excited by her idea. “Yes, yes. That’s what we must do. Do you think he’ll notice? If we do it very, very slowly? The servants will help me.”

“I don’t know, Feridejim.” Kamil pats her hand. “The paste is very distinctive. He’s sure to notice any change. I’m not even sure it can be diluted. I’ll do some more reading about it. For now, try to cut down the quantity and make sure the servants don’t smuggle in more. In the meantime, you should prepare the little ones for a difficult period. Baba might lash out at them. That will be even worse than neglect.”

“Maybe I should send them to Huseyin’s mother for a while.” Her voice is unsteady and she begins to cry again.

“You know you don’t get along with your mother-in-law, Feride. Let the girls stay here for now. Just keep them away from Baba if he begins to act differently. It’s a big house.”

“Yes, my little brother. Yes, that’s what I’ll do,” she says with more confidence than she feels. “Thank you. You always know what to do.”

You will face the consequences if I’m wrong, he thinks, but does not say to her.

When I was seventeen, Papa decreed that I move from Chamyeri back to Nishantashou to live with him and Aunt Hüsnü. He was claiming me, as he put it to Mama, for civilization.

“Enough of this indolence, sitting on cushions and eating honey lokum. You and your brother are filling her head with nonsense. Poetry is well and good, but what does she know of running a household or moving in society? What husband wants a wife who has been raised by wolves?”

Violet and I looked at each other. We were squatting behind the rhododendron bush beneath the latticed windows of the harem sitting room. I quaked with anger at my father’s harshness. How could he know what went on in this house when he was never here? He had not visited for over a year. The angry words spilling from the window weighed down my limbs. I tried to rise and run away, but Violet took my arm and pulled me back. She shook her head impatiently and pressed herself more tightly against the house wall. I could hear my mother weeping quietly. I willed her to speak, but she didn’t argue, she didn’t fight for me. I knelt, shaking, under the bright blossoms until we heard the rumble of Papa’s coach. I could not be distracted that night by Violet’s petting, so she stilled me in the vise of her arms. The following day, I discovered five round plum-colored bruises on my arm where Violet had anchored me.

On the day of my departure, Mama did not look at me, although I knelt for some time on the carpet at her feet, holding in my hand the corner of her robe. She was hunched under her sable on the divan. I knelt before her and kissed the back of her hand, then pressed it respectfully against my forehead. Her hand was as light and insubstantial as a moth. My mind was racing to find the right words, the magic ones that would break her trance and bind her to me, a bright crimson thread wrapped once around her wrist and again around my waist, a thread that would extend between the farthest corners of the empire and this room in Chamyeri. Whenever I touched the thread, I would feel her pulse beat the lullabies of my childhood in Nishantashou, before Aunt Hüsnü came.

I assured her that I would be safe, that I would write and visit, but I could not be sure that she heard me.

“Goodbye, Mama. May Allah hold you safe.”

She turned her head toward the golden light that flowed into the room from the garden beyond. I saw shadows move across her face, but no tears.

I pressed the corner of her robe to my lips and lowered it onto the divan, the material almost black against the bright cushions. My fingers slipped across the satin as I stood. I moved backward toward the door. I could still feel the cool slick of her robe like water on my fingertips.

Violet was ready with our few bundles and our wooden chests. We did not have much in the way of clothing. My chest was heavy with books. Ismail Dayi had called me to his study the night before and pressed upon me all my favorite volumes. The lamplight accentuated the sharp planes and hollows of his face. I thought he looked tired.

“I can always replace them, my daughter. They are yours-these and anything else you wish to take. This house will be yours upon my death. No, don’t interrupt. And it is yours while I live, as well. I have no children of my own. You are my only child. This is and always will be your home. I tell you this now so that you will feel secure in your future and-well, perhaps I shouldn’t meddle.”

He took my hands in his slim fingers, pursed his lips, and examined my face in the candlelight while he considered.

“Do not think, my dear, that you need to marry in order to be secure. You have the wealth to make your own decisions. Take your time in everything, until you feel the pull within yourself. Do not let yourself be guided by fear, or even by desire. And certainly not by the will of others, although”-and here he smiled fondly at my upturned face-“I cannot imagine a will strong enough to pull you off your path, my little lion.”

We walked over to the open window and watched the moonlight dance on the Bosphorus.