Jason Goodwin - An Evil eye

He shook his head. “I did not know what to say.”

She frowned. “Let me look at your eyes.”

She stared into them for a time, then slowly she raised her hands and outlined the form of his head and shoulders in the air.

“It is as I thought. You are cut off from God, Ibou.”

“I pray to God!”

She cupped her chin in her hand, and said musingly, “Yes, you pray. But can he hear you, as you are? Do you have problems, Ibou? Pains, worries, that keep you awake at night?”

He stared at her, frightened a little. “Yes.”

“I guessed it.”

She turned and began to rummage in a little silk bag.

“What are you doing?”

“What I can.” She took something from the bag and laid it beside her on the divan. Then she took his hands in hers. “Someone has put a spell on you, Ibou. That is why when you pray, he cannot hear you.”

The aga’s nostrils flared. “What can you do?”

“We must find you a guide, to take you back.”

“You? C–Can you guide me back?”

She looked at the frightened man levelly. “The choice does not lie with me. I cannot choose to be your guide to the light, Ibou. It is you who must choose.”

“Then-I choose you.”

She shook her head. “How do we know that this is the choice of your heart? You have to draw your guide to you, Ibou. Listen. This is what you must do.”

The girl had shadows beneath her eyes, no doubt about it. Her face was drawn; at the rehearsal she had played so timidly that Donizetti had almost lost his patience.

“Violins! Violins!” He had tapped the lectern with his baton. “No, no. This is not what I want.” He mimed a violinist crouched over her instrument, hands feebly shaking. “No. Andante! Forza! Take the lead!” He swiped down with his invisible bow and glared at the violins.

The violins had looked nervously at Elif. Her eyes were downcast: she had no intention of meeting Donizetti’s.

“Elif,” Tulin whispered. “Are you all right? You look-” She had been about to say the girl looked ill, but it was unmannerly to be too direct. Unwise, perhaps: people said it brought the eye. She bit her lip: the word hung in the air, unspoken.

Elif looked at her nervously. “What is it, Tulin? What can you see?”

“Are you eating well?”

“Eating?” Elif hesitated, as if she were thinking about this for the first time. “Yes-no. I’m frightened, Tulin.”

Tulin smiled and patted the girl on her knee. “What of? Some girl, is it? I can speak to her.” She said it with emphasis: she was older, the orchestra girls respected her.

Elif laced and unlaced her fingers on her lap. “It’s not what you think. Oh!” She put a hand to her lips, where it fluttered against her mouth. “Something bad,” she breathed at last.

Tulin glanced around. Donizetti, the Italian, had gone with a little bow and a wave, and now the girls of the orchestra were packing up their instruments. Bright-eyed, a little flushed, they chattered together in low voices. One girl was giggling with her hand over her mouth; another was prodding her neighbor with a fiddle bow. A blond Circassian bowed myopically over her score, holding her hair back above her ear with one hand, wondering where she had gone wrong before.

For the girls this was a moment of freedom, before the tall black eunuchs stepped in and respectfully shooed their pretty charges to their chores. Respectful but firm, especially with the younger girls of lower rank whose jobs kept them far away from the body of the sultan.

Tulin frowned at the frightened girl. Elif was a kalfa, but only to a little girl: a little girl of scant importance.

“If it’s something bad you must tell me, Elif,” she said quietly. “I think there are many things you don’t understand. You’re young.” She put out a hand and eased a lock of the girl’s jet-black hair over the tip of her ear. “When you talk about your troubles they always seem less. Don’t bottle things up.” She smiled brightly and held the girl’s chin. “Look! Maybe it’ll turn out to be nothing at all!”

She saw the struggle in Elif’s eyes, the warring doubt and hope. The girl blinked fiercely: doubt won. “This is very bad,” she said in a thin voice, close to tears.

Tulin considered. “Come, my little one. You can tell me, whatever it is. I am quite sure you have nothing to worry about.”

The man with the knife had walked a long way.

He joined a camel train, and walked with it in silence for three days. When the camels halted at a town, the man walked on.

The shores of the Bosphorus flushed red, then yellow as the trees turned. Small fires burned in the fields. The season expired in a blaze of heat, an Indian summer. The fishermen predicted a cold winter: the sudden blaze, and the fish running deep.

Yashim found the valide in her apartments at Topkapi. She was propped up on pillows on the divan and eating an iced sherbet.

“It’s cooler now, valide. You are comfortable?”

“I was raised in the Caribbean, Yashim. The heat does not affect me. I choose to sit in the Baghdad Kiosk because it’s quiet.”

Yashim cocked his ear, and heard nothing.

“Yes, yes, it’s quiet enough now. They’re all asleep, thank God,” the valide said. “Just like country girls. Which, of course, they all were once upon a time. I suppose it’s a sort of second childhood.”

Yashim was baffled. “Asleep, valide? Who do you mean?”

The valide gave a little gesture of impatience. “Tut-tut-tut. Really, Yashim, the ladies, I tell you. My son’s ladies. I do wish you would keep up.”

“The late sultan’s ladies came here?”

“From the old palace. The luckier ones got married off, of course. Our sultan sent all the hopeless cases on to me. I suppose it pleased the eunuchs. They lead lives of such ennui at Topkapi, with only me to talk about. But now they have a flock of women to fuss over, and they are happy. As for the ladies, well. It upsets me, I admit. They are so very ingratiating. And they are all so old! Perfect frights, some of them.”

“How many, hanum?”

The valide waved a jeweled hand. “I haven’t counted, Yashim. I’m not a housekeeper. Dozens, I should say. Terribly aged. Some of them”-she lowered her voice, while at the same time speaking more loudly than before-“quite feebleminded now, I’m sorry to say.”

“It must have come as a dreadful shock to them,” Yashim ventured.

“To them, Yashim? Why? Mahmut was my son.”

“Of course, valide. I only meant-”

“Marzipan, for instance. She was such a skinny, shy little thing-that’s why I gave her the name.” Yashim nodded: all the girls got new names when they came to the harem. Often they were mildly ironic. “Yesterday, I saw a fat, frumpy old woman sitting with her knees this far apart, smiling like an idiot. Marzipan. I couldn’t believe it. Why they think to surround me with these dreadful old people, Yashim, I just can’t imagine.”

She glanced at him, a little slyly, he thought. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. The valide had not aged like other women. She was still slender, and her face preserved in outline the beauty that had carried her into a sultan’s arms. But the valide was difficult about flattery: you had to be careful.

“Age is a terrible thing, Yashim,” she added, a little sadly.

He took her hand. He should have spoken, after all. Somehow the arrival of these women had disturbed the valide more than she let on; more, perhaps, than the death of her son. For years now she had been alone in the palace with her memories and dreams; and there was a certain hauteur in her loneliness, in the knowledge that Topkapi was hers. Now that she shared it with the superannuated baggage of the harem, that grandeur had dissipated a little.