Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

The eunuch bows very low, touching his palm to his forehead and chest, then waits impassively to escort Sybil to the carriage. She has not veiled, but the eunuch seems not to notice. It is not the same self-confident, broad-shouldered eunuch that had accompanied Asma Sultan before. This man is tall and wiry, with a lined face the color of smoke and long, powerful hands. He does not speak or look at her, although Sybil has the feeling it is not out of respect, but aversion.

Servants and guards cluster at the doors and windows, whispering. Most have never seen a black eunuch except at a distance, when on horseback, escorting the carriages of royal ladies.

Sybil follows the eunuch to a carriage elaborately decorated with painted flowers. It is not the usual bulky conveyance that seats four or five harem ladies at once, but a sleek, smaller model designed for speed. The eunuch helps her up the steps, his hand black against her sleeve. When she has settled among the velvet cushions, he pulls a sheer curtain across the windows so she can look out without anyone seeing in and barks a command at the driver. He mounts a white stallion, its saddle embroidered with thread of gold and studded with rubies and emeralds. A long curved sword is cradled in his arm. She notes with surprise that there is no retinue, but supposes the armed eunuch is sufficient for an informal outing.

The carriage winds down the hill, then turns north on the shore road, picking up speed. Before long, they pass the entrance to Dolmabahche Palace. After that, the road winds inland through forested areas and then skirts villages built around inlets and coves. The closed carriage is hot and increasingly uncomfortable as the sun rises in the sky. The road has become a track and Sybil is jarred back and forth. She has forgotten the tedium of the trip to the summer villas. It has been many years since she last accompanied her mother to the British residence at Tarabya, although they had gone more comfortably by boat. She wishes she could fling back the curtain. The sheer cloth provides a narrow, blurred vantage on the landscape racing by and blocks the air. The velvet cushions stick to her sweat-drenched back.

She begins to worry that it was a mistake to accept this invitation. She will be able to stay only a short while in order to be back in time for tonight’s dinner. Even if Kamil were not coming, she would still have to return in time to eat with her father. It has become their ritual to eat together. He becomes agitated when rituals are not carried out. Perhaps Kamil is right that I am too precipitous, she thinks, then chides herself for her lack of spirit. Maitlin, she concludes, would have done this without cudgeling herself with self-doubt.

Three long hours later, the carriage turns off the road. Sybil peeks out between the curtains and sees a white villa, a fairy-tale house of pitched roofs, lacelike trim, ornate turrets, balconies, and patios. The eunuch draws back the curtains and unlatches the door. She ignores his hand and climbs out of the carriage clumsily, her legs stiff from immobility. The eunuch moves to the end of the drive and waits. Sybil doesn’t follow right away, but instead stands with eyes closed, breathing the scent of pine and sea and sun-warmed wood. She realizes that she feels happy and optimistic about life when she leaves the Residence grounds. She thinks how lovely it would be to live in such a house, a smaller one, of course, but overlooking the water, with Kamil. He had said his house was set in a garden by the Bosphorus, had he not?

Cheered by this thought, she looks around for a servant. She has brought a gift of realistic-looking wax flowers under glass, the latest fashion in England. The grounds appear deserted. Sybil points to the large box in the carriage. The eunuch picks it up and she follows him into the house. Behind her, the traces jangle as the driver turns the carriage.

Kamil strokes his father’s motionless hand. He seems unhurt, the wound on his head hidden by the pillow, his broken limbs under the comforter. The comforter moves up and down slowly, irregularly, with the old man’s breath. His face is puffy, eyes closed.

“He looks like he’s sleeping,” Feride says in a voice hoarse from weeping. “As if he’ll wake up at any moment.”

“You said the maid saw him climb over the railing?” Kamil is empty of all emotion, but he is aware that this is a temporary state, a putting off of the final reckoning.

“She said he was smiling and reaching out to someone. Maybe he thought he was going to Mama?”

“Yes, perhaps that’s where he went.”

“They’ll be together soon. That’s what he wanted more than anything else.” Feride bows her head over her father’s chest. “Baba.” She stiffens. “Baba?”

The comforter is unnaturally still. The pasha’s features have been sharpened by death, but the faint imprint of a smile remains, a footprint on the farthest shore of a man’s life.

Feride begins to wail.

Kamil is silent, the storm still building in his chest. He puts his arm around Feride and holds her.

“Oh, what have we done?” she cries out. The question pierces Kamil and he begins to shake.

“Don’t, my dear sister. There is no blame. We only wanted to help him live again.”

“We’ve killed him,” she wails. “We wanted him to be there for us, to be a normal family again. It was selfish of us. We should have allowed him his dreams.”

“Yes,” Kamil concedes sadly. “People should be allowed their dreams.”

AN HOUR LATER, Kamil is galloping around the steep curves winding up the wooded hill to Robert College. Great oaks and sycamores obscure the sky and cast a green pall over the road as if it were underwater.

At the parade ground at the top of the hill, he flags down a young man and asks where the teachers live. He spurs his horse and, before long, is pounding on the door of a Victorian clapboard house set at the edge of the forest.

When Bernie answers the door, it takes Kamil a moment to recognize him. He is wearing glasses.

“Why, hello, there,” he says, taking off his glasses. His hair is uncombed and he is wearing an old shirt and trousers with sagging knees. “You’re not seeing me at my best, but do come in.”

Kamil pushes past him. In the sparsely furnished living room, he turns and says, “What do you know about Michel Sevy? You know him, don’t you? You recognized his name this afternoon.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Then, looking more closely at Kamil in the lamplight, Bernie sits on the sofa arm and asks, “What’s happened?”

“They’ve executed Hamza.” He doesn’t mention his father. The memory is too raw to touch.

“What? But you haven’t even held a trial yet.”

“I know. It was done without my knowledge. By Michel Sevy.”

“Damnation.” Bernie looks up at Kamil, who is still standing in the middle of the room, hands on his waist. He takes a deep breath. “Kamil, my friend, sit down and let me get you something to drink.”

“I don’t want…” Kamil is still shaking with rage and with regret.

Bernie gets up and waves his hand. “Just sit. I’ll tell you everything you need to know. But first you have to calm down.”

When Bernie returns with two tumblers of scotch, Kamil seems calmer, but his nerves have simply welded into an iron resolve. He takes the glass from Bernie, but doesn’t drink. He puts it on the table too hard, liquid spilling onto some papers lying there. Bernie rushes over and dabs at the papers with a handkerchief.

“My new book.” He smiles sheepishly. Then, catching Kamil’s intensely focused gaze, he turns a chair around and sits.

“Michel is a police surgeon?”