The Sultan's seal

31

To Sybil’s surprise, it is not difficult to arrange to see Shukriye. The women’s gatherings buzz with the news that she is staying with her sister, Leyla. The women prepare to visit the house in droves to offer sympathy to the sisters, whose father lies dying, and to assuage their curiosity about this member of their society so long gone. On the family’s first receiving day, Sybil joins the assault of the concerned and curious. Sybil hears the woman beside her whisper to a neighbor that Shukriye has borne three children, but that only one survives, a boy, just two years old.

“Mashallah, by the will of Allah,” the other woman answers in surprise, turning her head and looking appraisingly at Shukriye. “The poor woman. But at least she has a son.”

Shukriye, a plump woman in a caftan of exquisite brocade, sits on the divan, her face half hidden behind the wings of a gauze scarf that hangs to her breast. Sybil can see that her eyes are red from weeping. Shukriye’s sister, Leyla, keeps up the formal greetings and directs the servants to offer the guests tea, cakes, and savories from large silver trays. Another servant stands in the corner with a small stove and implements, ready to make coffee for anyone desiring it.

Sybil notices Asma Sultan’s daughter, Perihan, sitting next to Shukriye, her hand occasionally reaching to smooth Shukriye’s robe. She remembers that Shukriye had been engaged to the man Perihan wanted to marry. Perhaps, she thinks, they are united as friends in sorrow at his death.

An old woman in a corner of the divan by the window moves her head rhythmically side to side, intoning a litany of prayer, interspersed with loud sighs and appeals to Allah.

“That is Shukriye’s grandmother.”

“May Allah protect her. She is praying for her son.”

There is a commotion among the women, a rising whisper and flurry of silk as they make way for a tall eunuch that Sybil recognizes as the one that had ushered her into Asma Sultan’s house. The women fall silent. Behind him, Asma Sultan enters the room. She looks tired and older than Sybil remembers from the circumcision party two weeks before. She is dressed in a tight-waisted European gown and walks stiffly past the row of women in loose Turkish robes propped comfortably on the divan.

Leyla hurries toward her, arms extended in welcome. Signaling to Shukriye and Perihan to follow her, she leads Asma Sultan into an adjoining private room. As Asma Sultan passes Sybil, she stops and, with an amused smile, gestures that she should come with them. This occasions a flurry of whispers among the other visitors. The eunuch waits beside the door, arms folded, and when the five women have passed through, closes it behind them.

Sybil finds herself in a sitting room furnished only with a low cushioned divan around three sides of the room. In the middle is a carpet of cheerful colors on which are scattered small low tables of wood inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. The windows behind the divan open onto the Bosphorus, quaking with light. She hears the sad query of a dove from the garden.

Asma Sultan is given the seat of honor in the corner of the divan, Perihan beside her. With a curious look, Leyla seats Sybil to Asma Sultan’s left.

This is followed by the formalities of introduction and inquiries about health. Servant girls bring refreshments, then withdraw. Shukriye slumps on the divan. She does not eat or speak beyond the required formulaic responses.

Finally, Asma Sultan asks, “What is the matter with her?” To Shukriye she says encouragingly, “Pull yourself together, dear girl, and tell us what has befallen you in these eight years since we last saw you.”

Leyla, beside her, adjusts the cushions at her back and gently draws the veil back from her face. She speaks to her in a low, soothing voice, as to a child.

“My rose, remember, I’ve petitioned the palace to bring you back to the city. Everything will be all right.”

Shukriye stops crying and sits up straighter. She squeezes her sister’s hand. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but her face is white and round as a full moon, with even features and a small red mouth. A headdress of tiny gold coins sweeps across her forehead.

Asma Sultan continues in a kind voice, “That’s better. Now we can see you. What is it that is troubling you, my dear? I know. Your poor father, of course. May his illness pass.” Sybil knows this is simply a formula of comfort. She has heard that the man is near death.

Leyla holds her sister’s hand and strokes her cheek, murmuring, “Shukriye, my dearest, my rose. You’re home at last. We’ve missed you very much.”

Shukriye sighs deeply, as if reaching for all the air in the room. When she finishes, she says to no one in particular, “What is to be done? It is in Allah’s hands.”

She notices Sybil for the first time.

“Who is that?” she asks.

Leyla introduces Sybil again, emphasizing the fact that her father is the British ambassador.

Sybil begins repeating the ritual formula of greeting. Leyla interrupts, waving her hand exhaustedly and says, “Sybil Hanoum, you are welcome. We consider you a member of our house. Please sit.”

Leyla calls to the servant waiting by the door and tells her to bring coffee and then to leave and make sure they are not disturbed.

When the girl has served the coffee and gone, Leyla says, “When you’re ready, my rose, tell us everything.”

“I have a large house,” Shukriye begins slowly, “with enough servants that I cannot say I’m not comfortable. And people say that my husband is a good man.” She pauses and loses her eyes in the play of light beyond the window. “Perhaps he is,” she whispers, “but he’s also a weak man. I feel as if I’m married not to him, but to his mother.” Her face winds into a grimace and she begins to cry again, an ugly outraged crying.

“She is responsible for the death of my children,” she chokes out.

The other women sit tense and rapt. Sybil is startled to see a smile of satisfaction flash across Perihan’s face, but then decides she must have been mistaken.

Finally, Shukriye calms down and continues in a hoarse voice. “My daughters fell ill after eating her food. I think she poisoned them out of spite because I hadn’t borne a son. She didn’t allow me to take the children to the doctor in town. Instead, she called her faith healer. All he did,” she says disgustedly, “was write some Quranic verses on a piece of paper and throw it in water, then had the girls drink the water. Can you imagine?”

Perihan says softly, “Imbibing the word of Allah is a blessed remedy, Shukriye dear. Perhaps they were not meant to live. It is Allah’s will.”

Shukriye closes her eyes. “Surely treating illness with medicine also finds favor in Allah’s eyes.”

Asma Sultan asks, “Are you not worried about your son during your absence?”

“Of course I am, but he has a guardian now.”

“Your husband?”

“No, he’s still his mother’s slave. After my children died, my husband took a kuma. His mother suggested it, of course. Then she handed him the stick for our backs,” she adds angrily.

A second wife, thinks Sybil, appalled.

Seeing the women’s stricken faces, Shukriye tells them, “It’s not so bad. She became like my daughter. I tried to protect her, but every month laid a year on her face. She became pregnant and miscarried in midwinter, with no midwife able to reach her through the snow in time. She can have no more children, the poor girl.”

Shukriye’s hand traces the flowers on a cushion.

“Since her misfortune, her spirit has hardened. Even our husband fears her temper. And she has the support of three brothers who live nearby. My son is safe in her hands.”

The room falls silent.

Finally, Sybil ventures, “You must miss your family terribly. I haven’t seen my sister in England in more than seven years, and I’ve never met my nephews at all. Sometimes it’s hard to bear. Tell me, why did you marry so far away?” Flustered, she adds, “I mean, if it’s not impertinent of me to ask.”

“I don’t know, chère hanoum. I was engaged to marry my cousin, Prince Ziya.” She struggles to control her voice. “He was killed and then my life was taken from me. Whoever killed him, killed me too. I refuse to believe that my life in Erzurum was kismet. Someone besides Allah had a hand in it.” She adjusts her veil so that it covers the lower part of her face, then looks up at the women and adds softly, “Those who take fate from the hands of Allah are guilty of pride and will surely be punished.”

“Allah knows our fates,” Perihan counters. “They are written on our foreheads at birth. No earthly being can alter them.” Her voice has a sharp edge that can easily be confused with sorrow. She pulls her veil across the bottom of her face, but Sybil sees the deep crease between her eyes.

“Perhaps you’re right. But what was the point of his death? I don’t believe for a moment that he was killed by thieves in a house of ill repute, as they told me. I’m sure the palace had him killed. They think all the Turks in Paris are plotting against the sultan. But they’re wrong. Ziya was there to oversee the signing of a trade agreement, nothing more.”

Leyla tries to hush her sister. “My dear sister, please don’t excite yourself. Allah is the only witness.” Trying to change the subject, she turns to Sybil.

“You remind me of a governess we had in the palace long ago, may Allah rest her soul. You have the same pale eyes.”

“Hannah Simmons?” Sybil feels her skin prickling with excitement.

“Yes, that was her name. Did you know her?” Leyla leans closer to Sybil. “You seem too young.”

“My mother did. Please tell me about Hannah.”

“A calm girl, sweet as honey lokum.” Leyla looks around the room. “What else is there to tell? Asma Sultan, you must remember her.”

Asma Sultan thinks a moment, then answers, “No, regrettably I do not. Though, of course, we all know what happened to her.”

Perihan looks at her mother in surprise and seems about to speak, then thinks better of it.

Leyla also appears surprised. “But she was a governess in your house.”

“We have many servants,” Asma Sultan snaps irritably.

Perihan adds in a conciliatory tone, “She wasn’t very memorable. I’m sure her death is the only reason we can remember her at all.”

“I thought her quite pleasant,” Shukriye chimes in. “I often saw her at the women’s gatherings and at the hamam. She had charge of the young girls. I once tried to give her some satin cloth, but she seemed content to dress like a colorless sparrow. Poor woman. She seemed uninterested in even the simplest embroidery or jewelry.”

“Just that silver necklace she always wore,” Leyla adds. “Do you remember it, Shukriye? The only time she ever took it off was to sleep and at the baths. I was surprised that she took it off even then, since she insisted on wearing a chemise. Perhaps she had a disability?” She looks at Sybil inquiringly. “I never understood why she hid her body in the bath. It’s ridiculous. We’re all women. What is there to hide?”

Sybil can think of no response that wouldn’t offend her hosts. On the lowest physical surface, what Leyla says makes logical sense, but it takes no account of higher, more civilized notions of modesty. She smiles nervously.

“Why didn’t she take the necklace off? Was it something special?” asks Shukriye.

“I don’t think so. Just a round silver bauble,” Leyla says dismissively.

Sybil speaks up. She wants to defend Hannah from these women’s disparaging judgment. “I think it was probably quite a valuable piece. At least, it seems to have been made at the palace.”

“Why do you think that? I don’t remember anything particular about it,” asks Leyla curiously. “Of course, it was all such a long time ago.”

“It has a tughra inside,” Sybil says brightly, relieved at not having to defend British modesty and proud that she has something to contribute to the conversation.

Leyla draws her breath in sharply. “What? Where would a foreign girl get such a thing? You must be mistaken.”

“No, really. I saw it myself.”

Leyla looks at Asma Sultan. “It must have been a gift from someone in the harem.”

“I’m not in the habit of giving valuable gifts to servants,” Asma Sultan answers with mild reproach.

“Sybil Hanoum,” Perihan asks, “did you say you saw it? I thought the police would have taken it.”

The women’s heads all turn to Sybil.

“The young Englishwoman-Mary Dixon-who was killed last month had it around her neck. You’ve heard of her death, surely.” Turning to Perihan, she adds, “She was your governess, I believe.”

“Mary Hanoum,” Perihan mutters. “An odd woman, but I wished her no ill. May Allah have mercy on her soul.” To Sybil, “I never saw her wear such a necklace.”

“How do you know it’s the same one Hannah had?” Leyla asks.

Sybil explains about the box. “It’s also special because it has Chinese writing in it.”

“Chinese?” the women exclaim.

“Then it must be something from outside the country,” Perihan suggests. “Maybe the sultan’s seal was added later.”

Leyla agrees. “Our food in the palace is served on porcelain brought from China.”

“And aren’t those enormous vases in the reception rooms from China?” Shukriye adds. “I remember almost knocking one over as a child.”

“Didn’t your mother have a collection of Chinese art?” Leyla asks Asma Sultan.

Asma Sultan doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she asks Sybil, “How do you know it’s Chinese?”

“My cousin Bernie is visiting here. He’s a scholar of Asia. That is, he’s writing a book on relations between your empire and the East. Anyway, he was able to read it. It’s part of a poem.”

“A poem,” Asma Sultan repeats knowingly. “Of course. It was probably a gift to Hannah from her lover. But how did this woman Mary come to have it?”

“Hannah had a lover?” Sybil tries to hide her excitement.

“Someone she met on her day off. She was allowed to leave the palace once a week, but Arif Agha kept an eye on her.”

“Arif Agha?”

“One of the eunuchs. Every week, Hannah got into a carriage with the same driver and didn’t come back until early the next morning. Arif Agha asked her where she went, but all he could get out of her was, ‘To visit a friend.’ He tried to have her followed, but that incompetent fellow couldn’t manage it. And then it was too late.”

“Did Arif Agha describe the driver?” Sybil asks.

Asma Sultan thinks about this. “He said the driver was scruffily dressed, not in livery as one might expect if she were visiting a home in good society. But such families would have sent an escort. Anyway, Arif Agha told all this to the police.” Then she mutters to herself, “That fox-tongued fool always talked too much.”

“Is Arif Agha here?” Sybil thinks Kamil might wish to speak with him.

“He retired. His incompetence lost him our trust.”

“And his venality,” adds Perihan.

“It was stupid of the girl to get into a carriage unaccompanied,” Asma Sultan observes. “Anything could happen.”

“And clearly did.” Perihan completes her mother’s sentence in a satisfied voice.

“Was the driver a Turk?” Sybil asks.

Asma Sultan sighs deeply, unable to hide her annoyance at the continued questioning. “I don’t think so. According to Arif Agha, the man had Arab hair the color of sand. Perhaps a Kurd. Their hair is curly like that, but they are usually darker. One of the minorities? But which one?” She throws up her hands in mock despair. “How is one to tell?” After a moment, she adds darkly, “If you toy with a snake, it will bite you.”

Perihan asks Sybil, a bit sharply, “Why do you want to know this?”

Leyla intercedes. “Of course, she was one of your people,” she tells Sybil kindly. “It’s natural that you should want to know as much as possible about her.”

“Her killer was never found,” Sybil adds.

“Under a rock, no doubt, among others of his kind.” Asma Sultan shrugs.

“Do you think it’s of any importance now?” Shukriye asks.

“I don’t know. I’m helping Kamil Pasha, the magistrate investigating Mary Dixon’s murder. He seems to think there’s some connection between the two deaths.” She turns to Asma Sultan. “Did you say your mother had a collection of Chinese art? My cousin would be most interested to take a look at it, I mean, if that’s permitted. And I’ll be sure to tell Kamil Pasha about it.” She says his title proudly, as if it already belongs to her, relishing the heft of it on her tongue. “He’s coming to dine with us the day after tomorrow.”

“My mother has passed away,” Asma Sultan replies stiffly.

Sybil is mortified. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t know. Health to your head.”

“It was a long time ago.” Asma Sultan rises to her feet. “Now it is time for us to leave.”

Shamed by her gaffe, Sybil watches as Asma Sultan, ignoring Leyla’s protestations, walks to the door and raps on it. It is opened immediately by her eunuch. She waits while Perihan kisses her hostess on both cheeks in farewell. Sybil feels Asma Sultan’s eyes on her, but when she turns, Asma Sultan is gone.