Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

“You are not to repeat these things to anyone, do you understand? Shukriye accusing the palace, the necklace, or what is in it.” He thinks of Elias Usta, dead among his birds. He had questioned the apprentice and learned that the usta died of a weak heart, but that none of his family had known the usta was ill. Kamil is certain Elias Usta’s death was meant as a warning not to seek the door to which the pendant is the key.

Sybil is taken aback and a little offended by his stern tone.

“Why not? After all, that’s how I got the information about the carriage. I tell the women something to get the conversation started in the right direction. It’s like putting a grain of sand into a clam. It irritates the clam so it coats it a bit at a time and eventually you have a perfectly lovely, usable pearl.” Sybil is proud of her skill in obtaining information and of her metaphor. She doesn’t understand why, instead of thanking her, he has become so angry.

Kamil’s face has drained of color. He rises to his feet. “You have no idea what you’ve just said, have you?”

Sybil stands also. They are face to face, only a few feet apart.

“What’s the matter? I try to help you and now you’re angry with me.”

Sybil has backed against the door. She begins to cry.

“What have I done? What’s wrong? What harm can any of this do?”

“What harm?” echoes Kamil hoarsely. “You have no idea, no idea. What else did you say to these women? Allah protect you, Sybil Hanoum. Did you think there were no spies in that room? Every word has been reported to the secret police, I can assure you of that.”

He wipes the palms of his hands over his face.

“Don’t you know that you’ve put yourself in great danger-and perhaps other parties to that conversation?”

“I didn’t know.” The pearl at the base of Sybil’s neck rises and falls rapidly. Her cheeks are flushed and wet with tears.

“I’m sorry. My tone was unforgivable,” he says in a low voice. “But, please, Sybil Hanoum, promise me you won’t go to see these women again, at least not without my approval.”

She nods, wiping at her eyes.

“And that you won’t go anywhere without an escort.”

“I won’t be a prisoner in my own house.” She stares at him, her hands in tight fists at her side. “I couldn’t stand that.”

“Of course not,” he adds soothingly. “You are free to go out, Sybil Hanoum, but I beg you not to go alone, for your own safety.”

She nods, but turns her face away.

Kamil stands by the door, his hand slick on the brass door handle, and watches her carefully for a moment.

“I’m only concerned for you. I’m not angry. You’ve given me some important information and I thank you for it.”

He walks swiftly through the garden. The fog has burned away, replaced by a veil of dust thrown up by animals and carts. At the gate, he spits out the grit that has already accumulated between his teeth.

In the days that followed, the old woman no longer spoke with me except to announce that a meal was ready. I understood her completely and didn’t blame her. She had thought she was harboring a decent young woman in danger of her life, but found that her home had become a place of fornication. I smiled at her, but brought the food into my room to eat alone. I knew she was more comfortable that way. Because of her son, she could not object to our presence.

Except for a narrow slot of light where the shutters met, the room was always dark, making it difficult to read the books and journals Hamza brought me. But I didn’t feel imprisoned by the dark. On the contrary, it was there that I became free. I swam in it as I swam in the pond at Chamyeri, when I discovered my body for the first time. My only regret was that Mama, Papa, and Ismail Dayi were worried about me. But Hamza had promised to tell Ismail Dayi I was safe.

Was I safe? I wasn’t sure what that meant anymore. At what point has one sacrificed enough to be safe? Lines by Fuzuli came to me unbidden in the dark:

I have no home, lost

In the pleasure of wondering

When at last I shall dwell

Forever in the dust

Of your street.

The old woman knew something was wrong. Her face was tense and the tendons in her neck protruded. She did not answer when I asked her what was happening, but projected a silent fury. In response she shoved a bowl of rice-stuffed peppers in my direction. The languorous disconnection that had muffled my thoughts for the previous week was dissolved. I left the food on the plate and withdrew to my room, closing the door. I sat on the chair by the bed. It was completely dark. Without even a shadow, what was I, other than a vessel forged in Hamza’s hands? I couldn’t weep. There was too much danger.

Finally, Hamza’s voice at the door, the woman in her hurry fumbling the lock. Hamza came into the room, disheveled, his turban rimed with dirt. The woman spoke four words, hurling them at Hamza.

“My son is missing.” She stood with her back against the door, red hands twisted into her apron. “He has stopped going to his place of work.” Her voice was reedy, wondering, already disbelieving. She was shaping her memories to hold the future. “He never missed a day in fifteen years. He has always been completely reliable, my son.” The room vibrated with her fear.

Hamza sat heavily on the divan. “Shimshek is dead, teyze,” he said finally.

She didn’t react at first.

“What happened?” I asked him. He shrugged wearily.

The old woman began to shake. No sound came from her mouth and no tears from her eyes. Instead, I wept for her. I went to embrace her, but at my touch, she began to struggle and a hoarse scream rose from her fragile, sagging throat.

Hamza rose and grasped her thin shoulders. “Madame Devora, you must be quiet. Please. Please.”

Madame Devora. It was the first time I had heard her name. Over his shoulder, her red-rimmed eyes sought me out by the window. “Damn you.”

My eyes slid away from hers. I was distressed to have caused her this much grief. I too was sick with feeling. I was sick with a surfeit of memories that deprived me of clarity. Should I act or wait? What could I do? What could I ever do now? It slowly dawned on me that not only was I living outside society and outside of time, but there was no way back. My shadow in the world was the effect my actions had on my family. That was all that could still be observed.

The old woman took Hamza’s arm and spat, “Take her out of here,” indicating me with her chin.

“I’ll do what I need to do,” he snapped. “Let go of me.”

I went into my room and brought out my feradje and veil and laid them in readiness on the divan. I had nothing else. Hamza stood beside the open window, peering through the curtains.

“I spoke with your dayi,” he told me, never taking his eyes from the street. “He said you should go back to Chamyeri.”

He turned and looked at me directly for the first time. Dark shadows chased across his face. His sleeves were torn.

I reached for his arm. “You look tired, Hamza. You need to rest first.”

I saw him hesitate.

We both heard the voice at the door, a man’s voice with the same inflection as the old woman’s.

“Madame, we would like to speak with you. It’s urgent.”

A neighbor? I could feel Hamza tense, an animal deciding which way to spring.

The voice at the door spoke quietly, but in my mind I already heard neighbors rustling behind the other doors on the landing. The old woman was backed into the farthest corner of the divan. I went to the door and put my ear to the wood. The man on the other side and I could hear each other breathing. I pulled at the latch, but Hamza sprang forward and caught me by the arm. As he pulled me away, there was a sharp crack; the wood splintered and the latch gave way. Two men pushed their way through. One was short and stocky, the other lean and quick, but it was the small one I distrusted instinctively, like one shies away from a snake even before recognizing what it is. Hiding behind me, Hamza held me by the waist and pulled me with him toward the window. Confused and angry, I struggled to loosen myself until, with a curse, he suddenly released me. I saw a flash of white at the window. The tall man leapt across the room and caught me as I stumbled forward.