Jenny White - The Sultan's seal

Violet’s body was slim, taut, and brown as a nut. It gleamed with the energy of the sea. She boasted of her ability to swim and I begged her to teach me. We shed our cloaks and hovered like water fairies in the silk gauze smocks I had assumed would be appropriate swimwear.

In Cheshme, Violet confided, she had entered the sea-the sea, she stressed, not a small pond-wearing, scandalously, nothing. When no one was about, she hastened to assure me.

“How can you swim in this sack?” she asked scathingly, bunching the gauze in her small brown fists.

That afternoon, Halil had walked to the coffeehouse in the village, and I knew he would be gone for hours. There were no visitors expected. I pulled off the chemise, the white silk pooling at my feet. My skin had a blue cast to it, and I was immediately covered in goose bumps. Violet was like an animal of a different species. She glowed with a mineral health. I could not then differentiate between earthy enjoyment of the common brown nut and the delicate flavor of the peeled unripe almond newly released from its green veil. At the time, I envied Violet the unconcerned windmilling of her arms and her broad-legged stance, unmindful of the cut of her sex, that place that Madam Élise had impressed upon me was to be guarded against intrusion, never to be revealed.

Violet slid into the deep end of the pond and bobbed up, looking at me expectantly. Keeping my legs together, I sat at the edge of the water, the cold, slick stone unfamiliar and thrilling to my naked flesh. I do not recall thinking long about things. That is the advantage and disadvantage of youth. In one motion, I let myself fall into this new world. I remember the thrill of swift silk drawn over my body. I fell and fell into a world of dumb cries, huge shadows, and a lethargy of limbs. I remember noticing the sunlight cutting the water like a gem. And opened my mouth. Panic. Flailing. A grip on my waist, and I was hauled up into a blinding world, the light inside my head too bright to bear. Pulled onto the stones. Beached. Exposed. Violet was heaving beside me, dripping everywhere. When I could breathe again, I squinted at her and we began to laugh.

Kamil stands in a reception room at the British Embassy while a servant carries his calling card on a silver tray to the ambassador of Her Majesty’s government to the Ottoman Empire. Someone has tried to offset the heavy, dark furniture with rich, warm fabrics and a bright carpet. Kamil steps over to a small fireplace behind an ornate ironwork grate and is disappointed to see it is not lit. He can’t shake off the chill of the old building, despite the early summer heat gathering outside the windows. His eye is drawn to a large oil painting above the mantel depicting what he assumes to be a scene from classical mythology: a pale, naked youth reaching for a nubile and equally bare young woman fleeing his embrace. Discreet billows of white cloth snake across their loins. The woman’s limbs are round and solid as pillars so that, incongruously, she appears stronger than the delicate young man pursuing her. Her small, plump lips are parted in a half smile, her nipples bright pink and erect, and a wash of red over areas of her pearly skin hints at arousal. Kamil wonders what the outcome of this chase would be.

He thinks sadly of his own limited experience: the French actress who played for a season at the Mezkur Theatre; the young Circassian slave to whom, after a time, he had given enough money for a dowry so that she could be freed and married to a young man of her station. He thinks of her now, her long, white limbs blending with those in the painting. He wonders if she ever thinks of him. Dust motes dance in the weak sunlight filtering from behind the heavy plum-colored drapes.

The door opens behind him. Kamil is startled and does not turn right away. Suddenly he has a deeper understanding of the Muslim prohibition of depictions of the body. How odd to hang such a provocative artwork in a room where guests are to be formally received. He notices that the light has changed. How long has he been left to wait in this room?

The elderly servant stands just inside the door, staring at a spot beyond Kamil’s left shoulder. Kamil wonders whether the man sees the angel sitting on the shoulder of every Muslim, one on the left, one on the right, or is looking at the naked woman on the wall behind him. Is that a smirk in the corner of the butler’s mouth? Perhaps he finds it amusing to trap Muslims in a room with a naked woman. Kamil presumes there are other, more sedately decorated reception rooms. Surely women visitors are not brought here. He struggles to hide his annoyance. He remembers other butlers from his stay in England, all the warmth and personality bred out of them. While Kamil respects and admires European knowledge and technology, there are many areas in which they have much to learn from the Ottomans.

Kamil does not acknowledge the butler, but stands unsmiling, his hands clasped behind his back.

“The ambassador will see you now, sir.” Kamil is certain there was an infinitesimal pause before the “sir.”

The butler leads the way across the white marble tiles, through the echoing, arched hall and up a magnificent curved stairway. As he follows, Kamil admires the frescoes and peers into the dark lacquered depths of the paintings that line the hall. A frowning Queen Victoria, her neck sheathed in a painful ruff, stares at a point above his head. A race of butlers, he thinks again, bloodless butlers. How have they managed to make such inroads into his lovely, vibrant society, so rich with color and emotion? He remembers the clean logic of his college texts and sighs. Perhaps this is the future, he thinks gloomily. Chaos vanquished by cleanliness, nuance lost to order.

The butler knocks on a heavy white door embossed with gold. At a sound from within, he pushes the door open and stands aside. Kamil enters. The door closes behind him with a click.

THE AMBASSADOR’S OFFICE seems even colder than the reception room, despite the heat Kamil can see shimmering beyond the heavy velvet curtains. Kamil suppresses a shiver and crosses the expanse of gold and blue carpet toward an enormous desk that dwarfs the man sitting behind it. The room has an unwashed smell, as if it has not been aired in a long time. As Kamil approaches, the man stands and moves to greet him, placing one lanky leg before the other in slow motion as if to mime a stride across a larger space. The ambassador is taller than he appears when folded behind his ship of a desk. Almost painfully thin beneath his dark, tailored suit, he has a long, elegant face devoid of expression. Thick whiskers swallow his cheeks, making his face appear even narrower. Kamil remembers that the English call these “muttonchops.” The reason escapes him. As he approaches, Kamil sees that the ambassador’s cheeks and nose are dusky red, his skin a lace of broken capillaries. His small eyes are a watery blue. The ambassador blinks rapidly, then reaches out a bony hand to Kamil. Kamil, pleased at the courtesy, smiles as he shakes his hand. It is dry as paper and exerts almost no pressure. The ambassador’s smile is thin. His breath has the same damp odor as the room.

“What can I do for you, Magistrate?” He motions toward a padded leather armchair and retreats behind his desk.

“I have come on a grave matter, sir,” Kamil begins in his accented English, the careful formality of the Orient burnished by a British lilt. “This morning we discovered a woman, deceased. We think she may be one of your subjects.”

“A deceased woman, you say?” He shifts nervously in his chair.

“We need to know whether someone has been reported missing, sir. A short, blond woman, about twenty years of age.”