The Sultan's seal

20

The high, clear notes of the boy’s voice rise above the clamor of Kamil’s outer office.

“I can’t tell you. I’m only supposed to tell the bey.”

Suddenly the boy begins to cry. There is the sound of a scuffle.

Irritated, Kamil calls his assistant and asks him what is going on.

“A boy claims to have a message for you and refuses to divulge it to the head secretary.”

“All right,” Kamil sighs, “send him in here.”

The boy is about eight years old, slim and wary as a street cat, his hair cut close to his head. He is dressed in lovingly patched trousers and a colorful knit sweater. Upon seeing Kamil, he falls to his knees and prostrates himself on the floor, his nose pressed against the blue arabesques on the carpet. Kamil sees that he is shaking. He walks over and puts his hand on the boy’s bowed back.

“Stand up,” he says gently. “Stand up, my boy.”

The boy cautiously lifts himself from the floor, but stands with his head lowered. Kamil sees, however, that the boy’s eyes dart around the room, noting everything.

“What is your name?” he asks, trying to put him at ease.

“Avi, bey.”

“Well, then, Avi, why did you need to see me?”

Avi looks up at Kamil. His brown eyes are enormous in his fine-boned face. Kamil thinks to himself that these are eyes that see everything, ravenous eyes. He feels a pang of longing for the omnivorous freedom of a child’s appetite for life, not yet disciplined to distinguish raw from cooked, feasting without caring whether life is served at a table or from a tray on the floor. He smiles at Avi.

“Amalia Teyze sent me. From Middle Village. She said to tell you that she has some important information for you.” Kamil notes with approval that the boy’s words are unhurried and that he has regained his self-confidence.

“What is the information?”

Hands clasped behind his back, Avi continues in a singsong voice, as if he were reciting, “She said to tell you that some weeks ago the gardener for a konak at Chamyeri found a bundle of clothing by a pond in the forest. She said you would know which house. The gardener burned the clothing, but one of the maids saw him. The maid has relatives in our village. When she came to visit, she learned that Aunt Amalia was interested in such things and came and told her.”

The boy stops, still standing ramrod straight. His eyes, however, stray curiously to the silver inkwell, pens, and open books scattered on Kamil’s desk.

“That is, indeed, important information,” Kamil says, reaching in his waistcoat for a silver kurush. “We thank you for bringing it.”

“I can’t take payment,” he replies. “I was doing my duty.”

Kamil reaches over and plucks a quill pen from its holder. He holds it out to the boy.

“For your service, please accept this pen. If you learn to use it, come back and see me.”

The radiance of the boy’s face as he solemnly accepts the pen shoots Kamil through with a delicious pain, a mixture of regret, longing, and pleasure.

“Thank you, Avi. You may go. Please thank your aunt.”

He turns his back to the boy so that he should not see the emotion on his face, he-the rational administrator, representative of the all-powerful government.