Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

“It’s hard to believe Hamza would do such a thing. I immediately thought of Amin Efendi-that he had abducted you and sent this letter,” he said. “But it seemed an odd thing for him to do. I think he knows that a pinch of prosperity has more value than an okka of revenge. He’s in exile in Crete now and has been very careful not to give any further offense. He wants to improve his chances to be called back to the capital. It would be foolish of him-and very unlike the man I know-to write a letter opposing the government. In his heart, Amin is a coward.”

Ismail Dayi patted my hand. “He may not be entirely without blame, though. Hamza might well be right. Amin is certainly in debt. He could have had designs on you, even from Crete. Accomplices are cheap. Certainly your father believed what you told him about Amin’s plan to take you from the house. Your father has banished Hüsnü Hanoum from his sight. Amin’s sword struck wide. Such folly.” Ismail Dayi clicked his tongue in disapproval, I could not tell whether of Amin, my father, Aunt Hüsnü, or of humankind.

Amin Efendi was a thousand years ago, I thought. I placed my hand on Ismail Dayi’s arm, angry at the needless pain Hamza’s silence and my own had imposed on this man, my chosen father. Hamza had written a letter in effect blackmailing my uncle. The language expressed perfectly his warring desire for approval and a blacker motivation that I had briefly glimpsed at the apartment on Djamji Street.

Ismail dayi looked thoughtfully at the letter in his lap. “So you think Hamza sent this.”

“It’s in his handwriting. What did the kadi say when you showed him the letter?”

“He sent me to Magistrate Kamil, who is more experienced in these matters. He thought we should take the implied meaning seriously-that if I didn’t help the reformists, something might happen to you. He suggested I step up the tempo of my meetings with a variety of highly placed people here at home. It would look on the surface as if I were doing what the letter demanded. But we wouldn’t necessarily discuss reform. He said we could debate the price of Smyrna dates, if we wished, as long as it seemed to a casual observer that something, possibly a political something, was happening.”

“And what is the price of Smyrna dates, dayi dear?”

“I couldn’t tell you, little one.”

We both laughed, although my laughter was mixed with pain. I thought of Nedim’s lines:

You and my mind treat each other as strangers

As if you were a guest in my body, you, my heart.

To save myself, I had bound my little craft to a mirage.

I sat by the edge of the water, cradling the sea glass in my hand, wondering what it had endured to earn its beauty, then let it slip slowly from my hand back into the elements.

Last autumn’s leaves rustle underfoot behind the pavilion. A nightingale trills in the darkness, perhaps dreaming. The moon that silvered Mary’s blind face has fattened in the sky, then faded again until the world is dressed in shades of mourning. Ten miles to the south, Kamil Pasha studies an engraving of Gymnadenia, before his finger falls from the pages of the book in sleep. A shadow slips into Ismail Hodja’s kitchen door and moves swiftly through the corridors toward his study. Light streams from beneath the door. The figure pauses, presses his ear against the door, and, hearing nothing, pushes it open.

He sees two men kneeling side by side before a low table. Jemal is all in white, a loose cotton shirt and wide shalwar. His hair flows down his back like a river of ink. Ismail kneels beside him, dressed in a quilted robe. Without his turban, Ismail Hodja looks fragile, a fringe of thinning hair exposing a pale scalp. In his hand is a brush, poised over a square piece of parchment across which extends an elegant trail of calligraphic writing. A bottle of black ink and several more brushes rest on the table above the paper. Jemal holds a turquoise ceramic bowl in his right hand. Both are sunk in concentration; neither hears the door open. There is enough time for the intruder to note the muscular shoulders pushing against the shirt of Ismail Hodja’s companion. He had expected Ismail Hodja to be alone. Suddenly Jemal turns and, before the man can escape, springs and winds himself about him like a snake, his angry, kohl-rimmed eyes close to the man’s face. The bowl falls heavily to the carpet. A puddle of gray water seeps rapidly into the colorful wool.

Ismail Hodja lays down his brush and stands. “Why, Hamza, welcome. I wasn’t expecting you at this hour.” He gestures to Jemal to let Hamza go. Jemal does so with obvious reluctance, and squats nearby, within easy reach.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Ismail Hodja adds, gesturing toward Hamza’s worn workman’s clothing and his beard.

“I’ve come to ask for your assistance.”

“Of course, Hamza, my son. I will do whatever is in my power. What is it that you need?”

“I’m sorry to intrude, my hodja,” Hamza says softly, glancing nervously at the window. “I’m leaving for France tomorrow and I wanted to see Jaanan.” His eyes take in the fallen bowl and wet carpet. “I’m sorry.” He looks up anxiously. “Jaanan, is she here?”

Ismail Hodja looks at him carefully and suggests, “It’s rather late to call on a young lady.”

“Please. I need to speak with her.”

“I’m sorry, my son. My niece has gone to France.”

Hamza’s face reflects his confusion. “France? Why on earth…When?”

“Last month. We’d been discussing it for some time,” Ismail Hodja answers kindly. “You know how difficult life has been for her this past year.”

“I wanted to protect her,” Hamza says, half to himself. “She’s in Paris?” he asks eagerly.

“Yes, your many stories of the city made an impression on her. She wants to study. She’s safe there now, living with family.”

“I thought”-Hamza begins, then stops.

Ismail Hodja regards him thoughtfully, waiting for him to continue.

“Why did she decide to go now?” Hamza asks.

“She has lost a friend and we thought it best that she recover far from anything that could remind her of it.”

Hamza sits heavily on the divan by the door and puts his head in his hands. “I didn’t mean to disappear for so long. I suppose she thought I was dead or-worse-that I didn’t care about her. But when I get to Paris, I’ll explain everything.”

“It is not your absence she is mourning,” Ismail Hodja explains. Hamza’s head jerks up. “Although I know she is fond of you.”

“Who, then?” Hamza demands.

“Her English friend, Mary Dixon.”

Hamza looks puzzled. “What does Jaanan have to do with Mary Dixon? I don’t understand.”

“They met at an embassy function and became friends. My niece was much alone and it gave me great pleasure to see her bloom in this friendship. The poor woman drowned.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Then you probably also know that the police believe she was drugged before falling into the Bosphorus. Perhaps even pushed, Allah forbid. The world would be an unhappy abode indeed were it not for the strength of our faith. The following day, Jaanan’s servant Violet had an accident and nearly drowned, but she survived, praise be to Allah. In any case, it is prudent that Jaanan be in a safe place, at least until the culprit is caught, lest his evil eye fall on other young women.” He eyes Hamza’s stunned face. “What is it that you wish to tell her, my son? I can pass a message on. Or, if you prefer to write, I can forward a letter to her.”

“Nothing. I…it was nothing.” Hamza stands. “If I could have her address, I will see her myself when I get to Paris. That is, if she’s willing to see me.”