Jason Goodwin - An Evil eye

The tassel dropped back, to rest against the talisman of beaten gold, surrounded by blue glass beads that provided the newborn with protection. Still the kalfas held the cradle at the level of their shoulders. It was a heavy thing, ebony, inlaid with mother of pearl, with a slender rising prow: a tiny ship in which a frail new life embarked for a noble destiny, praise God.

The baby already had a secret umbilical name, whispered by a midwife or the mother at the moment of its birth. Yashim could not remember the mother’s name. Ayesha? Was she the tall Circassian with ankles so fine that some of the other women had predicted they might break with the weight of her child? Always such solicitude for the welfare of their harem sisters! Voices trilling with concern-and spite, no doubt. Pembe, was it? He could not remember. She was not here among the family, nor did she follow the cradle. Perhaps she was not well. It was not a good sign.

He glanced at the divan. The valide was leaning back against cushions, one knee elegantly upraised and a slender wrist poised upon it. The younger women-Bezmialem, the sultan’s mother, among them-sat at a distance; between them, many aunts. There was Talfa, the old sultan’s younger sister, who had married a pasha and returned to the sultan’s harem on his death; and her daughter, Necla; Yusel, her huge slave, on her knees beside her, her black face glistening with-what? Tears?

Yashim sighed. Of course he was not immune. A birth touched him, like a death: this lesser contact with the mysteries, when the curtain moved between this world and eternity; the ordinary miracle that the rich and imperial strove for, as much as the poor did, in fulfillment of their plans and dreams.

Perhaps, in the miracle of creation, they fulfilled themselves. Perhaps birth staved off a final encounter with the mystery. If so, that was a comfort Yashim could not share. He had been born, and he would die.

One of the women gave a sort of sob, and reached into a jeweled bag. As the kalfas with the cradle passed her, she flung her hand into the air-and over the music Yashim heard the tinkling of little silver coins as they scattered across the floor. A cloud of children darted forward to retrieve them. Across the bowed backs of the children milling on the floor, Yashim caught sight of the Kislar aga. His black face was stony.

Yashim blinked. The music-there was something wrong about the music. Even now, as he half turned his head, the violin seemed to whine; the flute sounded shrill and out of tempo. But as soon as he had noticed it, the music reassembled itself.

He saw Talfa, close to the elderly valide. She was scowling while her great black slave kneaded her arm and wept. To his surprise, Talfa dashed a knuckle to her eye, too. The valide’s fingers clenched and unclenched, a sign of impatience. Uncertainly, Yashim allowed his gaze to travel around the divan again. Yes, people were actually crying.

He stiffened. There it was again. The violin was on edge, a little flat. The whole ensemble was slipping out of time. Yashim shifted his weight: only a few bars, murky and discordant, yet for a moment he had felt as though he were on a lurching ship.

The room righted itself. The music flowed on once more. The four kalfas moved gravely toward the aunts, sisters, and cousins of the old sultan. Talfa scattered her coins with a shaky hand. The old valide’s mouth twitched.

It was a scene Yashim would not easily forget: the silent cradle, women crying, the band losing its way again, the children giggling and calling from the floor. Yashim shuddered, and muttered an involuntary blessing.

At last the kalfas turned to go back through the doorway. The Kislar aga stepped aside, and the cortege passed through. Nobody spoke. Some of the women looked afraid. Hands were held to lips. Apart from the gabbling of the children, the room was silent. Even the music had slowly petered out: in their neat little Frankish hats, instruments in their hands, the girls of the orchestra were looking about at one another, wide-eyed and bewildered.

From beyond the door came the sound of a woman’s scream.

In the silence that fell before the scream came again, Yashim sensed a relaxation of the mood, like an escaping sigh.

“ The mother has discovered her infant,” the valide said.

Yashim had to bow to catch her words. Around them women, eunuchs, and slaves were talking and weeping. An elderly eunuch patted his face with his bony fingers. Yashim noticed one mother snatch up her little boy and squeeze him, struggling, while the little boy opened his fist and tried to show her a collection of silver coins. Bezmialem, the young valide, had her head back and was squeezing the bridge of her nose between her fingers. Some of the younger women were shaking their heads, muttering to one another.

“You should not have come, hanum efendi,” Yashim said. “A sad occasion.”

The valide glanced at him sharply. “For the lady, bien sur. At my age, Yashim, one is inured to grief. Perhaps one even seeks it out, a little. I have lived too long to pretend that my death will be a cause of it.” She closed her fan. “The child was born without-the orifice necessaire. I am sorry for the girl, of course. It will be a comfort to her to know that I was here.”

The valide began to cough. Her hand went up and somebody pressed a handkerchief into it. She put the handkerchief to her lips and shut her eyes. “I wish to go home.”

“Of course, hanum efendi.” It was a girl from the orchestra, carrying a flute. She smiled at Yashim and gestured to a eunuch.

“Valide hanum!” Talfa, wet-faced, picked up the hem of the valide’s shawl and pressed it to her lips and eyes. “Please do not go yet. Everyone is so sad. Won’t you help me make her stay, Yashim?”

“I am tired, Talfa,” the valide announced, crisply. “What was the mother’s name?”

“Pembe, hanum efendi. A Circassian.”

“You will please tell her, when it is appropriate, that I came tonight. And afterward, my child, I expect a visit.”

“Nothing could please me more, valide hanum.” Talfa tittered, wiping her tears away with jeweled fingers. “Shall I bring Necla also?”

The valide’s brow furrowed. “Necla? She is very young.”

“She is eleven, hanum efendi.”

“Bring her by all means,” the valide said, without obvious enthusiasm. “Next week, when I am recovered. Tulin?”

“I am here, valide.”

At the band girl’s signal, two slim black eunuchs bent forward to help the valide to her feet. She flinched impatiently, but at last she was upright between them.

“You, too, Yashim. I expect a visit, soon.”

The harem ladies stood respectfully as the valide walked away, supported on either hand by eunuchs. Tulin, the flautist, hovered around them. Yashim found himself face-to-face with Sultan Mahmut’s widowed sister.

“We miss you in the harem, Yashim.”

Yashim blinked: the resemblance to Mahmut was strong. Poor Talfa. She should have borne a son before her husband died. With only Necla, she had returned to the imperial harem.

She took a lock of her hair and curled it on a pudgy finger.

“I’ve been thinking about the way you live… outside,” she said, in the little high voice of the harem. “I often wonder why that is?”

“It was settled many years ago,” Yashim replied cautiously. “By your noble brother’s wish.”

“Peace be on him,”Talfa said, letting the curl of hair spring free. “Sultan Abdulmecid-I suppose he must have confirmed the arrangement.”

Yashim hesitated. The new sultan had not revoked Yashim’s permission to live outside the palace walls. Nor, on the other hand, had he confirmed it. Yashim guessed that Talfa knew as much.