The Snake Stone

90

The valide lay back on the divan, against a spray of cushions.

“The bostanci makes me tired, Yashim. No, don’t go. I have something to tell you. A coffee?”

Yashim declined. The valide settled the shawl around her legs.

“I thought I would die of loneliness when the sultan moved first to Besiktas. I have not been alone for sixty years, and I had grown so used to people around me, everywhere, at all times. For the first few weeks, I was in mourning, I admit. And you were very charming, to visit me-even if it was only my novels you wanted! No, no. I am teasing.

“But then I discovered something, Yashim. How to explain? Look: there is a little bird which comes to my window every day, to get food. The gardeners showed him to me-I had never noticed him before. Just a little bird! You may laugh, mon ami — but I scattered crumbs.”

Cross-legged on the divan, Yashim hunched forward and stared at his hands. He had a peculiar sense that he knew what the valide was about to describe. Years ago, as a very young man, almost a boy, he had constructed hope.

“Believe me, Yashim, the place was quiet. One little bird- c’est rien. But little by little I began to see that it was not a matter of one bird at all. There were many. And more than birds. The gardener told me there were djinns. He said, ‘Now they have room to breathe, at last!’” The valide paused. “I come from a superstitious island, Yashim.

“Remember the great women who have passed through these apartments, Yashim. People remember them. Kosem Sultan. Turhan Sultan. These are the rooms they kept, the corridors they used. I think of them, and I feel that I am still valide sultan-for them. For all the women who have lived here, within these walls. So many, Yashim.”

He bowed his head. He wanted to say that when one is spent and useless in the world’s eyes, it is still possible to live for others. For the living or the dead.

“Yes, Valide,” he murmured. “I understand.”

She regarded him narrowly.

“I think you do, Yashim. Djinns, ghosts: these are the privileges of age. But like the little birds, there are men of flesh and blood who inhabit this place. One sees them more clearly.”

Her world is shrinking, Yashim thought: the girls, the eunuchs, nothing more. Every day, the circle will grow smaller.

“Don’t suppose I am thinking of Hyacinth or my slaves,” the valide said. “The sultan-and his pashas-may have thought that everything in this palace depended on them, but they were wrong.”

“Valide?”

“Each year, on the same day, someone puts flowers on the column where they displayed the heads of rebels.”

“I see.”

“It’s only an example. But when things are calm and clear, and you watch, you find that many things haven’t changed. I have not changed because I am used to these walls, these courtyards and apartments. Just as the watermen are used to meeting in the arsenal.”

Yashim blinked. “The watermen?”

“They are, as I understand it, the oldest guild in the city. They would not go to Besiktas.”

Yashim pictured the arsenal, an ancient basilica that formed the lower corner of the first, most public court of the old palace. It had been used as a storehouse and a treasury; the last time he had seen inside, its walls were hung with flags and standards, and patterned with an arrangement of pikes and halberds from another age.

“But I don’t understand. Why would they meet there?”

The valide gave a pretty shrug. “Not why, Yashim, but when.” She raised a finger. “Tomorrow morning. They have a ceremony to introduce a new member to the guild.”

She watched Yashim’s astonishment with satisfaction. “I may attend,” she added. “As the oldest representative of our House, it is my right. But I am not so strong as before. I shall need assistance. Perhaps, Yashim-”

“I am at your service, Valide,” Yashim said humbly.