Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

The woman looked at me and smiled. I could see that she was missing several teeth. “Welcome.”

I squatted on the carpet. She continued disemboweling the aubergines.

“Please, can you tell me where I am? How did I come to be here? There was another young woman with me. Where is she? Do you know?”

The old woman laid aside her knife, wiped her hands on a cloth, and stood. She adjusted the wide white apron attached to the front of her dress. I recognized the style. She was Jewish.

“Come, sit over here,” she said, pointing to the divan. Her Turkish was lightly accented. I climbed onto the flowered cushions, tucked my legs under me, and waited in the dappled light. I felt unaccountably peaceful, given the situation. What was the situation? Had I been kidnapped?

The woman returned with two glasses of tea on a gleaming silver tray with ornate handles, the only item of luxury I had seen. I thought: from her dowry.

We sat in silence for a few moments. Her face was serious, but her rheumy blue eyes regarded me kindly.

“I cannot tell you my name and I do not know yours,” she began, in her lilting accent. “It is safer that way.”

“Am I in danger, then?”

“I understand you are in very grave danger. That is why you were brought here.”

I was stunned. “What danger am I in? And who brought me here?”

“It is better for you not to know right now. My son understands these matters. I don’t interfere.” She regarded her tea glass. “Although I am not in agreement. It’s much too dangerous.” She looked at me so that our eyes met. “He is my only son.”

“It’s generous of your son to help me. What is his name?”

She examined me cautiously, then looked away.

I was suddenly anxious. “Violet? The young woman who was with me at the pier?”

The old woman frowned. “Your maid ran away. This creates a dangerous situation for us. She will raise the alarm and they will try to find you in Beshiktash.”

She looked at me questioningly. I nodded in agreement. She added thoughtfully, “But they should have no reason to widen the search to Galata.”

I’m certain Ismail Dayi went for help as soon as he realized we were missing. I suppose, after reading my note, he would go directly to Papa’s house, but find we had never arrived there. He would send Jemal to Chamyeri Village to ask whether anyone had seen us. The fishermen might report that two girls rented a boat and that the boatman dropped them at the Beshiktash pier. But the trail would disappear there. Was my uncle angry at me for leaving? I suppose he would seek advice from his old friend, the white-bearded kadi of Galata. What could a kadi do? He was a judge. The situation was still incomplete, like a cooked egg not yet peeled. Too early for judgment. The kadi would set the police on our trail.

The police would suspect the fishermen, of course. The lower orders are always looked at first, since, having so little, they have the most to gain or reason to envy. But if the police only thought about it, they would realize that the fishermen would never harm two girls from a well-known and important household. The police would disagree, arguing that someone might have paid the fishermen to abduct me. They would have learned from Papa-or, really, from anyone-that Amin Efendi was out for revenge.

Or perhaps Ismail Dayi told no one I was missing for fear of destroying what little remained of my reputation.

I felt no tug on the crimson thread around my waist that tied me to Mama. Did she think I was safe?

Violet would be awake, I knew, black eyes gleaming like fireflies in the dark, as I had often found her in my childhood when I couldn’t sleep and asked to spread out my quilt next to hers.

The Jewish woman sat on a cushion against the far wall, hands tatting furiously. Beside her squatted the broad-chested young man with the tight cap of blonde curls, the carriage driver, whom I assumed to be her son. Her agitated whispers refused to be calmed by his low, measured responses. They spoke what I recognized as Ladino, the archaic Spanish of Istanbul Jews who fled to the benign reign of the Ottomans after Queen Isabella expelled them from Spain. They kept their eyes averted from the divan where I sat. An untouched glass of tea rested on the divan between my knee and Hamza’s.

“I’ve been here for days with no idea why and no way to tell Ismail Dayi that I’m safe. Allah only knows what he is thinking.”

Hamza was dressed as a simple workman in baggy brown trousers and white shirt, a striped shawl wrapped around his waist. His cotton turban was gray from many washings. He had grown a beard.

“Forgive me, Jaanan. This was the only way I could think of to keep you safe.”

“Safe? Safe from what?”

“I tried to reach you at Chamyeri but your Violet has set up an impenetrable cordon around you. Did you get any of my letters?”

“Letters? No, I haven’t heard from you since that evening at Papa’s house.” A note of bitterness crept into my voice. “That was nearly a year ago. I assumed you had gone abroad again.” Suddenly I remembered Mary’s undelivered messages. Had she intercepted Hamza’s letters too?

Hamza shook his head in frustration. “I was in Paris until recently. I wrote to you.”

When I shook my head, he continued. “So that’s why you never answered. Anyway, when I couldn’t get in touch with you, I hired someone in the village to keep an eye on you. He learned where you were going, then overtook your boat to send me word that you were heading for the Beshiktash pier.”

“You had me watched? Why?”

“You’re in danger. I was worried about you.”

“You keep saying that, but I don’t understand what danger. Why didn’t you just come to see me at Chamyeri and warn me against whatever it is that so worries you?”

“I wasn’t sure Ismail Hodja would have approved. He never liked me.”

“That’s not true,” I exclaimed.

“Anyway, I came by twice when your uncle wasn’t home, but Violet wouldn’t let me in.”

“What? Violet is my servant. She has no control over what I do or whom I see.”

“She told me you were unwilling to see anyone. I waited in the pavilion and called to you.” He pursed his lips and fluted a nightingale call. “But you didn’t come. I suppose Violet kept you occupied indoors when she suspected I was nearby. I don’t know what her motivations were. Maybe she’s in on the plot.”

Exasperated, I raised my voice. “What plot? If you were so concerned about me, why didn’t you meet me yourself at the pier instead of hiding inside the carriage like a thief? Or simply reveal yourself to me once we got in?”

I became agitated as I remembered the details of what I had experienced as yet another assault. “And why the chloroform? I presume that’s what you used.”

Hamza looked down, his long fingers toying with his tea glass.

“I can’t show myself. I’m wanted by the sultan’s spies for sedition,” he added hastily, glancing at me. “I was in Paris when I heard about what happened last year.”

I looked puzzled and he averted his eyes, turning toward the yellow light filtering through the leaves outside the window.

“With that pimp, Amin.” He realized with a jolt his unseemly language and looked at me, finally. His face was red. “Sorry. I’m very sorry.”

When I didn’t answer, he stumbled rapidly on.

“I heard about Amin’s plans for revenge and as soon as the roads were open, I started back. There’s nothing I can do to change what happened, but at least I can make sure you’re safe.”

“You shouldn’t have put yourself in danger by coming back.”

“I know Amin,” he responded fiercely. “You have no idea what he is capable of.”