An Evil Eye

72

Yashim had not seen the Kislar aga for several months, and he was shocked by the change in his appearance. His blue-black skin had lost its sheen, and he looked tired and thinner than he had seemed in the summer; but it was his manner that most surprised Yashim.

He had developed a stammer.

“Ya-Ya-Ya-Yashim!” He clapped his skinny brown hands together. “I just knew you would come!”

Yashim bowed. “You sent for me, Ibou.”

“Of course. Do sit d-d-down. Have a”-his head jerked, and he blinked-“a sweetmeat?”

He gestured to a tray, and then popped a small green lokum into his mouth.

Yashim settled on the divan. “How are the girls? Settling now, I imagine.”

The Kislar aga passed a hand over his face and shuddered. “They’re like Ta-Ta-Tatars.”

Yashim pursed his lips. He thought of the Kislar agas he had known, men of terrifying girth and power, ruling the harem like cruel tyrants. At least, he had often thought them cruel: perhaps they exercised proper discipline. Perhaps that was necessary.

The Kislar aga twisted his long fingers. “They are hard to manage. Impudent and w-w-worse. They don’t listen. But that’s only p-p-part of it, Yashim. Some of them are a bit wild, but I could hope to settle them eventually. It’s the atmosphere. The strain.”

Yashim spread his hands. “A young sultan, new girls. It goes to their heads.”

Ibou shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s as if people were a-a-a-” He blinked, jerked his chin. “Afraid.”

“Afraid? Afraid of what?”

The black man hung his head. “Magic. Evil eye.”

He described the little homunculus he had found, studded with a child’s teeth. His own teeth chattered as he spoke. “And P-P-Pembe, Yashim. With the child that did not survive. She said it was the l-l-l-lady Ta-Ta-Ta-Ta-”

“Talfa? Bah!” Yashim dismissed the story with an angry wave. “Potions and curses, Ibou.” But he could see the trouble in Ibou’s eyes. “The sultan and his girls are very young. And Bezmialem… perhaps…”

“Of course.” Ibou gave an angry shrug. “She is mother to the sultan. That far, she is a valide. But she is not mother to the harem.”

“Talfa, then, herself? Have you talked to her?”

Ibou shook his head. “Talfa can’t organize everything. She only returned to the harem after her husband’s death. She’s still making friends.”

“Making friends?”

“I saw you talking to Talfa, Yashim.”

“She wondered why I didn’t live at the palace.”

Ibou gave him a look of surprise-eagerness, almost. “But then perhaps, my friend-”

Yashim raised both hands. “I explained to her, Ibou, that the sultan wants me elsewhere.”

“The valide at Topkapi? We could a-a-ask her to come.”

It was Yashim’s turn to look surprised. “She’s quite frail.”

The Kislar aga held up his hands, palms upward. “She has the experience, Yashim-and all the girls are terrified of her.” He gave a guilty smile. “I’m terrified of her.”

Yashim saw no reason to dispute the point. He said: “At her age, to move…”

But Ibou was shaking his head. Having taken up the thought, he seemed reluctant to let it drop. “The valide will be very happy,” he insisted. “And she has a handmaiden who is very good, very caring.”

Yashim raised an eyebrow. The valide had run through more handmaidens than Selim the Grim had had viziers; she changed them like gloves. He remembered the last one, an able Circassian with a pleasant, open face. The valide had boxed her ears and sent her to the imperial laundry because, she said, her ankles were too thick.

“I’ve seen her,” he agreed. “The flautist.”

“Tulin.” The Kislar aga nodded. “Very popular girl, actually. She helps to carry the ladies’ orchestra-the valide allows her over to rehearse on Thursdays. She’s a little older than most of the girls.”

“I suppose that’s an advantage.”

“That’s why I bought her. The valide eats the younger ones for breakfast.”

Ibou’s stammer seemed to have improved, Yashim noticed. “You’ve thought this out already, haven’t you?”

The Kislar aga blinked again. “C-c-c-c-certainly not. I wanted your advice, th-th-that’s all.”

Yashim stared at his feet. “I’d miss her, at Topkapi.”

The Kislar aga laid a hand tenderly on Yashim’s knee. “We’ll all miss her one day, Yashim. And you more than a-a-anyone, I’m sure.” He smiled, and patted his knee. “So you will ask her?”

“Ask her?”

“Why, the valide! Ask her to come to Besiktas, Yashim. The harem needs a mother. As for Talfa-” The Kislar aga cocked his head. “What’s that?”

They heard the sound of running feet outside in the corridor, and the door was flung back to admit a eunuch, who immediately hurled himself to his knees.

“Aga!” He was deathly pale. His eyes rolled in his head. Through chattering teeth he cried out: “I think she is dying! Everywhere is blood, aga. Come!”