The Sultan's seal

38

Kamil accepts the long chubuk pipe Ismail Hodja’s servant has filled with fragrant tobacco, draws up his legs, and leans back against the divan cushions in the hodja’s study. The morning ride was brisk and Kamil is glad of the warmth between his lips. The hodja is smoking a narghile, the long cord looped once around his arm, amber mouthpiece in his slender fingers. The servant checks the coal atop the rose-colored glass flask. As Ismail Hodja draws from the mouthpiece, the coal glows beneath the tobacco, its smoke bubbling down through the cooling liquid and along the tube to the hodja’s mouth. His face beneath the turban is calm, but his eyes are troubled and red-rimmed with exhaustion.

“Have you learned anything, Magistrate Kamil?” he asks softly. “The police last night told me only that they arrested Hamza and wished me to make a complaint about his violent behavior.” His eyes rest on the hole in the door. “I declined, of course.” He adds angrily, “I can’t imagine how they could presume to know what goes on in my house.”

“I visited Hamza in jail on my way here this morning,” Kamil says. “The police are accusing him of murdering the two Englishwomen.”

“What? That’s preposterous.”

“Hamza admits he betrayed your hospitality last night, but denies having anything to do with the murders. I must admit his arrest was a surprise to me. The police say they have evidence that Hamza met Hannah Simmons in your garden pavilion on the night she was killed.” He looks at Ismail Hodja curiously from under his eyebrows, respectfully avoiding eye contact.

Ismail Hodja looks surprised. “When my niece was a child, Hamza used to come to Chamyeri to tutor her and then spent the night in the men’s quarters. I banned him from my house after my groom Jemal saw him sneak out one night and bring a woman into the pavilion.”

“You didn’t tell the police this?”

“I never spoke of it to anyone.”

“Did your groom identify the woman?”

“No. You may ask him if you like. It was in the months before that poor young woman was found dead. Jemal said he didn’t see the woman up close, but thought she might be foreign by her dress. I remember because he was worried it might have been my niece’s governess. But we had her room checked, and she was asleep.” He puffs on the narghile. “I suppose it could have been Hannah Simmons.”

Ismail Hodja’s narghile has gone out. He gestures to the servant, who fetches a fresh piece of coal in his tongs and places it on the flask.

When the servant has withdrawn to the far side of the room, Ismail Hodja continues in an urgent voice. “There is no proof that Hamza did this crime. I know Hamza well, and I do not believe him to be capable of it.”

“Did Jemal see a carriage?”

“Yes, and the driver. He was parked outside the gate by the road. Jemal went to ask him who he was waiting for and apparently received an insolent answer.” He smiles fondly. “Jemal does not suffer insults lightly.”

Kamil’s pulse races. “What color was his hair?”

“I don’t believe Jemal said. We can ask him. A great deal of time has passed, but since we were so concerned about the matter at the time, it’s possible he might remember.”

“You said you had banned Hamza from Chamyeri some time before Hannah’s death.”

“Yes, but there is something I must tell you. I had a long talk with my niece before she left for Paris. She admitted to me that Hamza flouted my ban and continued to come here to see her. He had a secret call, like a nightingale, to tell her when he was in the pavilion. She was a child at the time and they were very close. She said when he came, they used to sit in the pavilion reading and playing games.”

“So it’s possible that he continued to use the pavilion at night for his trysts.”

“Yes, I suppose so, but indiscretion does not make a young man a murderer. It was a long time ago, when he was a crazy-blooded youth”-he smiles at Kamil-“as I believe we all were at some point. I don’t believe he had anything to do with the killing of those unfortunate women.”

“Why did he come here last night?”

“He wanted to see my niece. And to ask me for some small service, which, unfortunately, I was unable to grant him.”

Kamil waits, but the hodja does not elaborate.

The arrest report stated Hamza had threatened Ismail Hodja. Kamil asks, “Did your refusal make him angry?”

“Hamza’s anger is directed at himself and against those who love him. We hate those who have seen us weak, magistrate bey. Our deepest rage is reserved for those who have seen us shamed and vulnerable and who responded with generosity. To be the object of a person’s generosity is, in some basic way, to be humiliated. My brother-in-law treated his sister’s son like his own, gave him a home, supported his education, helped him find a government position. What you might not know is that, without his uncle’s help, Hamza would have had no life at all. His father had squandered his future before Hamza ever had a chance to claim it. Unfortunately, the fruit does not fall far from the tree.”

“His father was kadi of Aleppo, I believe.”

“Yes, a wealthy and powerful man, but a man with expensive habits and a pragmatic sense of loyalty. Hamza’s father acted as liaison between a few of our Arab subjects and the French who hoped to wrest the province of Syria away from the empire. That was in the time of Sultan Abdulaziz, may his memory be blessed. When the plans were discovered, Hamza’s father was ruined. He was accused of embezzling money from the treasury to finance a revolt, although it’s possible he did it to pay his own debts. He was stripped of his position.”

“Was he exiled?”

“In a sense. He was forbidden ever to return to the capital.”

“Did Hamza know the reasons for his father’s banishment?” Kamil beckons the servant to relight his pipe.

“He was studying in France at the time. When he returned to Aleppo, apparently he found his father sitting on a chair in the middle of an empty apartment. The creditors had taken their konak and even their furniture. His father refused to speak or eat, just sat staring at the wall. Hamza tried to rouse him, told him about Paris, his plans for a career. He promised to take care of the family’s expenses, but his father never even looked at him.” Ismail Hodja pauses to take another draught from his narghile. He exhales a thin stream of smoke.

“My brother-in-law learned all this in a letter from his sister,” he continues. “After seeing the letter, I was inclined to view Hamza’s behavior with more compassion. I am also certain that he meant Jaanan no harm. Quite the contrary.” He frowns and shakes his head. “I tried to tell my niece this, but I’m not sure she is convinced. She has had more than her share of disappointments.”

“I’m glad no greater harm has come to her.”

“I was inclined to think badly of Hamza when I learned it was he who took her to Galata. She never spoke of it until recently. She thought I knew, since Hamza had promised her he would tell me where she was. He never did. Last night, he told me he had been in hiding since then, fearing for his life, and so was unable to keep his promise to tell me. He said his driver had been killed.” He looks up at Kamil. “Is it the same man Jemal saw?”

“Yes. It must be. A man called Shimshek Devora. Jaanan Hanoum was held in his mother’s house. Shimshek was killed that same week. Supposedly in an accident.”

“May he rest in Allah’s care.”

They are silent for a few moments, their thoughts tangled in skeins of smoke. Birds squabble outside the window.

Finally, Ismail Hodja continues. “I’ve come to believe since then that Hamza was telling the truth. My brother-in-law-Jaanan’s father-thinks it’s possible that Amin Efendi was planning to abduct Jaanan from his home, with the connivance of…well, that is a matter for my brother-in-law. It would satisfy Amin Efendi’s desire for revenge against the family and, if he could force the marriage, his need for money. So you see, Hamza, in his own misguided way, was trying to protect my niece. As for those unfortunate Englishwomen, my heart refuses to accept that he would harm them. Indeed, given what happened to his sister, I would have expected him to be kind toward women.”

“What happened to his sister?”

“Ah, that poor girl. As the penniless daughter of a traitor, she was unable to contract a marriage. Who would bring her into their family and risk official displeasure? She was quite attractive, I understand, and many good families had inquired about a possible match when her father was still kadi. She had her heart set on one particular young man, so she refused the others. Her father doted on her and didn’t insist, but he disapproved of the man she preferred because he was merely a merchant, although quite wealthy. After the disaster, even that family withdrew their suit. She threw herself into the moat of Aleppo’s citadel when it was swollen with rainwater and drowned.”

Ismail Hodja takes another long draw from his mouthpiece and lets the smoke dissipate before continuing. His shoulders slump with exhaustion.

“I can’t tell you, my dear magistrate efendi, what any of this has to do with the deaths of these young Englishwomen. It is true that after his sister’s passing, Hamza became harder. But that is a long way from a man capable of killing. For murder you need powerful meat-hatred, greed, jealousy, or ambition-not the thin gruel of self-hate.