Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

Leyla, beside her, adjusts the cushions at her back and gently draws the veil back from her face. She speaks to her in a low, soothing voice, as to a child.

“My rose, remember, I’ve petitioned the palace to bring you back to the city. Everything will be all right.”

Shukriye stops crying and sits up straighter. She squeezes her sister’s hand. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but her face is white and round as a full moon, with even features and a small red mouth. A headdress of tiny gold coins sweeps across her forehead.

Asma Sultan continues in a kind voice, “That’s better. Now we can see you. What is it that is troubling you, my dear? I know. Your poor father, of course. May his illness pass.” Sybil knows this is simply a formula of comfort. She has heard that the man is near death.

Leyla holds her sister’s hand and strokes her cheek, murmuring, “Shukriye, my dearest, my rose. You’re home at last. We’ve missed you very much.”

Shukriye sighs deeply, as if reaching for all the air in the room. When she finishes, she says to no one in particular, “What is to be done? It is in Allah’s hands.”

She notices Sybil for the first time.

“Who is that?” she asks.

Leyla introduces Sybil again, emphasizing the fact that her father is the British ambassador.

Sybil begins repeating the ritual formula of greeting. Leyla interrupts, waving her hand exhaustedly and says, “Sybil Hanoum, you are welcome. We consider you a member of our house. Please sit.”

Leyla calls to the servant waiting by the door and tells her to bring coffee and then to leave and make sure they are not disturbed.

When the girl has served the coffee and gone, Leyla says, “When you’re ready, my rose, tell us everything.”

“I have a large house,” Shukriye begins slowly, “with enough servants that I cannot say I’m not comfortable. And people say that my husband is a good man.” She pauses and loses her eyes in the play of light beyond the window. “Perhaps he is,” she whispers, “but he’s also a weak man. I feel as if I’m married not to him, but to his mother.” Her face winds into a grimace and she begins to cry again, an ugly outraged crying.

“She is responsible for the death of my children,” she chokes out.

The other women sit tense and rapt. Sybil is startled to see a smile of satisfaction flash across Perihan’s face, but then decides she must have been mistaken.

Finally, Shukriye calms down and continues in a hoarse voice. “My daughters fell ill after eating her food. I think she poisoned them out of spite because I hadn’t borne a son. She didn’t allow me to take the children to the doctor in town. Instead, she called her faith healer. All he did,” she says disgustedly, “was write some Quranic verses on a piece of paper and throw it in water, then had the girls drink the water. Can you imagine?”

Perihan says softly, “Imbibing the word of Allah is a blessed remedy, Shukriye dear. Perhaps they were not meant to live. It is Allah’s will.”

Shukriye closes her eyes. “Surely treating illness with medicine also finds favor in Allah’s eyes.”

Asma Sultan asks, “Are you not worried about your son during your absence?”

“Of course I am, but he has a guardian now.”

“Your husband?”

“No, he’s still his mother’s slave. After my children died, my husband took a kuma. His mother suggested it, of course. Then she handed him the stick for our backs,” she adds angrily.

A second wife, thinks Sybil, appalled.

Seeing the women’s stricken faces, Shukriye tells them, “It’s not so bad. She became like my daughter. I tried to protect her, but every month laid a year on her face. She became pregnant and miscarried in midwinter, with no midwife able to reach her through the snow in time. She can have no more children, the poor girl.”

Shukriye’s hand traces the flowers on a cushion.

“Since her misfortune, her spirit has hardened. Even our husband fears her temper. And she has the support of three brothers who live nearby. My son is safe in her hands.”

The room falls silent.

Finally, Sybil ventures, “You must miss your family terribly. I haven’t seen my sister in England in more than seven years, and I’ve never met my nephews at all. Sometimes it’s hard to bear. Tell me, why did you marry so far away?” Flustered, she adds, “I mean, if it’s not impertinent of me to ask.”

“I don’t know, chère hanoum. I was engaged to marry my cousin, Prince Ziya.” She struggles to control her voice. “He was killed and then my life was taken from me. Whoever killed him, killed me too. I refuse to believe that my life in Erzurum was kismet. Someone besides Allah had a hand in it.” She adjusts her veil so that it covers the lower part of her face, then looks up at the women and adds softly, “Those who take fate from the hands of Allah are guilty of pride and will surely be punished.”

“Allah knows our fates,” Perihan counters. “They are written on our foreheads at birth. No earthly being can alter them.” Her voice has a sharp edge that can easily be confused with sorrow. She pulls her veil across the bottom of her face, but Sybil sees the deep crease between her eyes.

“Perhaps you’re right. But what was the point of his death? I don’t believe for a moment that he was killed by thieves in a house of ill repute, as they told me. I’m sure the palace had him killed. They think all the Turks in Paris are plotting against the sultan. But they’re wrong. Ziya was there to oversee the signing of a trade agreement, nothing more.”

Leyla tries to hush her sister. “My dear sister, please don’t excite yourself. Allah is the only witness.” Trying to change the subject, she turns to Sybil.

“You remind me of a governess we had in the palace long ago, may Allah rest her soul. You have the same pale eyes.”

“Hannah Simmons?” Sybil feels her skin prickling with excitement.

“Yes, that was her name. Did you know her?” Leyla leans closer to Sybil. “You seem too young.”

“My mother did. Please tell me about Hannah.”

“A calm girl, sweet as honey lokum.” Leyla looks around the room. “What else is there to tell? Asma Sultan, you must remember her.”

Asma Sultan thinks a moment, then answers, “No, regrettably I do not. Though, of course, we all know what happened to her.”

Perihan looks at her mother in surprise and seems about to speak, then thinks better of it.

Leyla also appears surprised. “But she was a governess in your house.”

“We have many servants,” Asma Sultan snaps irritably.

Perihan adds in a conciliatory tone, “She wasn’t very memorable. I’m sure her death is the only reason we can remember her at all.”

“I thought her quite pleasant,” Shukriye chimes in. “I often saw her at the women’s gatherings and at the hamam. She had charge of the young girls. I once tried to give her some satin cloth, but she seemed content to dress like a colorless sparrow. Poor woman. She seemed uninterested in even the simplest embroidery or jewelry.”

“Just that silver necklace she always wore,” Leyla adds. “Do you remember it, Shukriye? The only time she ever took it off was to sleep and at the baths. I was surprised that she took it off even then, since she insisted on wearing a chemise. Perhaps she had a disability?” She looks at Sybil inquiringly. “I never understood why she hid her body in the bath. It’s ridiculous. We’re all women. What is there to hide?”

Sybil can think of no response that wouldn’t offend her hosts. On the lowest physical surface, what Leyla says makes logical sense, but it takes no account of higher, more civilized notions of modesty. She smiles nervously.

“Why didn’t she take the necklace off? Was it something special?” asks Shukriye.