The Sultan's seal

3

Kamil stands in a reception room at the British Embassy while a servant carries his calling card on a silver tray to the ambassador of Her Majesty’s government to the Ottoman Empire. Someone has tried to offset the heavy, dark furniture with rich, warm fabrics and a bright carpet. Kamil steps over to a small fireplace behind an ornate ironwork grate and is disappointed to see it is not lit. He can’t shake off the chill of the old building, despite the early summer heat gathering outside the windows. His eye is drawn to a large oil painting above the mantel depicting what he assumes to be a scene from classical mythology: a pale, naked youth reaching for a nubile and equally bare young woman fleeing his embrace. Discreet billows of white cloth snake across their loins. The woman’s limbs are round and solid as pillars so that, incongruously, she appears stronger than the delicate young man pursuing her. Her small, plump lips are parted in a half smile, her nipples bright pink and erect, and a wash of red over areas of her pearly skin hints at arousal. Kamil wonders what the outcome of this chase would be.

He thinks sadly of his own limited experience: the French actress who played for a season at the Mezkur Theatre; the young Circassian slave to whom, after a time, he had given enough money for a dowry so that she could be freed and married to a young man of her station. He thinks of her now, her long, white limbs blending with those in the painting. He wonders if she ever thinks of him. Dust motes dance in the weak sunlight filtering from behind the heavy plum-colored drapes.

The door opens behind him. Kamil is startled and does not turn right away. Suddenly he has a deeper understanding of the Muslim prohibition of depictions of the body. How odd to hang such a provocative artwork in a room where guests are to be formally received. He notices that the light has changed. How long has he been left to wait in this room?

The elderly servant stands just inside the door, staring at a spot beyond Kamil’s left shoulder. Kamil wonders whether the man sees the angel sitting on the shoulder of every Muslim, one on the left, one on the right, or is looking at the naked woman on the wall behind him. Is that a smirk in the corner of the butler’s mouth? Perhaps he finds it amusing to trap Muslims in a room with a naked woman. Kamil presumes there are other, more sedately decorated reception rooms. Surely women visitors are not brought here. He struggles to hide his annoyance. He remembers other butlers from his stay in England, all the warmth and personality bred out of them. While Kamil respects and admires European knowledge and technology, there are many areas in which they have much to learn from the Ottomans.

Kamil does not acknowledge the butler, but stands unsmiling, his hands clasped behind his back.

“The ambassador will see you now, sir.” Kamil is certain there was an infinitesimal pause before the “sir.”

The butler leads the way across the white marble tiles, through the echoing, arched hall and up a magnificent curved stairway. As he follows, Kamil admires the frescoes and peers into the dark lacquered depths of the paintings that line the hall. A frowning Queen Victoria, her neck sheathed in a painful ruff, stares at a point above his head. A race of butlers, he thinks again, bloodless butlers. How have they managed to make such inroads into his lovely, vibrant society, so rich with color and emotion? He remembers the clean logic of his college texts and sighs. Perhaps this is the future, he thinks gloomily. Chaos vanquished by cleanliness, nuance lost to order.

The butler knocks on a heavy white door embossed with gold. At a sound from within, he pushes the door open and stands aside. Kamil enters. The door closes behind him with a click.

THE AMBASSADOR’S OFFICE seems even colder than the reception room, despite the heat Kamil can see shimmering beyond the heavy velvet curtains. Kamil suppresses a shiver and crosses the expanse of gold and blue carpet toward an enormous desk that dwarfs the man sitting behind it. The room has an unwashed smell, as if it has not been aired in a long time. As Kamil approaches, the man stands and moves to greet him, placing one lanky leg before the other in slow motion as if to mime a stride across a larger space. The ambassador is taller than he appears when folded behind his ship of a desk. Almost painfully thin beneath his dark, tailored suit, he has a long, elegant face devoid of expression. Thick whiskers swallow his cheeks, making his face appear even narrower. Kamil remembers that the English call these “muttonchops.” The reason escapes him. As he approaches, Kamil sees that the ambassador’s cheeks and nose are dusky red, his skin a lace of broken capillaries. His small eyes are a watery blue. The ambassador blinks rapidly, then reaches out a bony hand to Kamil. Kamil, pleased at the courtesy, smiles as he shakes his hand. It is dry as paper and exerts almost no pressure. The ambassador’s smile is thin. His breath has the same damp odor as the room.

“What can I do for you, Magistrate?” He motions toward a padded leather armchair and retreats behind his desk.

“I have come on a grave matter, sir,” Kamil begins in his accented English, the careful formality of the Orient burnished by a British lilt. “This morning we discovered a woman, deceased. We think she may be one of your subjects.”

“A deceased woman, you say?” He shifts nervously in his chair.

“We need to know whether someone has been reported missing, sir. A short, blond woman, about twenty years of age.”

“Why are the Turks involved in this?” the ambassador mumbles, as if to himself. He squints quizzically at Kamil, drawing up one side of his lip, exposing a yellowed tooth. “What did she die of?”

“She was murdered, sir.”

“What?” The ambassador is surprised. “Well, that is a different matter. Awful. Awful.”

“We don’t know whether she is English or not, and we don’t know the circumstances of her death. I had hoped for your assistance in that.”

“Why do you think she’s one of our subjects?”

“We don’t know that she is. She was Christian. A cross was found around her neck. Judging from her jewelry, she was well off.”

“What was she wearing? That should give it away, shouldn’t it?”

“She was not wearing clothing.”

“By God.” The ambassador reddens. “A crime of the most heinous kind, then.”

“It may not be…such a crime. There was no evidence of a struggle. She was wearing a pendant with an inscription. I have it here.”

Kamil reaches into his jacket and withdraws a small bundle wrapped in a linen handkerchief. He unties the cloth and places it on the desk.

“The cross and gold bracelet were hers too.”

The ambassador cranes his neck and with the tips of his fingers slides the handkerchief nearer. He picks up the gold bracelet to test its weight.

“Nice piece of workmanship.” He replaces the bracelet carefully on the cloth and touches the bent enameled cross with the tip of one bony finger.

“Where is the inscription?”

“Inside the silver pendant.”

The ambassador picks up the small round ball of silver, opens it, and peers into the two halves.

“Can’t see a thing.” He returns the pendant to the handkerchief. “What does it say?

“Sultan Abdulaziz’s tughra is on one side and a design or an ideogram of some kind is on the other.”

“Interesting. Any idea what it all means?”

“No, sir. Do you recognize these?”

“What? No. What do I know about ladies’ jewelry? I’ll tell you who will know. My daughter. Not much for jewelry herself. Like her mother that way.” The ambassador stops for a moment, his face still except for the nervous fluttering of his eyelids. “Just like her mother.”

Kamil is embarrassed. One never speaks openly to a stranger of one’s family. It is almost as if the ambassador has pulled his wife into the room naked.

“She’s all that’s left to me now.” The ambassador shakes his head slowly, his hand toying absently with the pendant.

Kamil searches for the correct words of condolence, but English is so frustratingly devoid of formulaic responses. In Turkish, he would know exactly what to say. In Persian. In Arabic. What does it say about the Franks, that the language for every important event in life has to be invented anew each time?

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Ambassador.” It seems a feather-light phrase to Kamil. The Turkish formula, “Health to your head,” seems more caring and immediate, but he isn’t sure how to translate it.

The ambassador waves his fingers in Kamil’s direction, then reaches for the brocade bellpull on the wall behind his chair. A moment later, the butler steps in. Kamil wonders whether he has been listening at the door.

“Sir?” “Please ask Miss Sybil to join us.”

SOME MINUTES LATER, with the sound of silk rubbing against silk, a plump young woman enters and stands by the door. She is wearing a lace-edged indigo gown. A single teardrop pearl, suspended on a gold chain, rests at the base of her throat, matching the pearls at her ears. Her light brown hair is caught in a halo around her head. Her face is round, with small features, a plain face given grace by a dreaminess that animates her mouth and wide-set violet eyes. She reminds Kamil of the sturdy but perfectly proportioned Gymnadenia orchid common in forests around the city. Its sepals curve downward and with the petals form a shy pink hood that releases an intense perfume.

The young woman’s brightness is shaded by sadness, perhaps resignation. She moves with the comfortable efficiency of a treasured servant.

“Yes, Father. You asked for me?”

Kamil stands hurriedly and bows. Her father waves her over.

“Sybil, my dear. This is Magistrate Kamil Pasha. He says someone was found. Well, it’s rather awkward. I’ll let the magistrate explain.” His eyes drift to the papers on his desk.

Sybil turns to Kamil with a questioning look. She reaches only to his shoulder. Her curious violet eyes regard him earnestly.

“Madam.” He bows deeply. “Please sit.”

She sets herself down primly onto the chair opposite him. The ambassador has begun to read his dispatches.

“What is it that you wish to know?” Her voice is soft but lilting, like water in a stream.

Kamil feels awkward. He is not used to speaking of such things to ladies. He hesitates. What should he say to cushion the effect?

She tilts her head and says encouragingly, “Please, just tell me what the problem is. Who was found?”

“We found a woman, dead.” He looks up quickly to see the effect of this on the ambassador’s daughter. She is pale but composed. He continues, “We think she may be a foreign subject. I have been given charge of the matter because it is possible that she was murdered. At the moment we are trying to identify her.”

“What makes you think she was murdered?”

“She drowned, which, in itself, is not unusual, given the powerful undertow in the Bosphorus. But she was drugged.”

“Drugged? With what, may I ask?”

“We believe she ingested belladonna. I think you call it deadly nightshade.”

“I see. Belladonna,” she muses. “Does that not make one drowsy?”

“Not drowsy, but, in sufficient quantity, paralyzed. In such a state, a person could drown even in a puddle.”

“How awful. The poor woman. What else can you tell me about her? What was she wearing?”

“She was found without…” Kamil pauses, wondering how to continue.

“Without clothing?” The young woman’s face flushes pink.

“She was found in the Bosphorus within hours of her death. It’s possible that the currents are responsible for her state, but it’s unlikely.”

“Why would that be outside the realm of possibility? You said yourself there are powerful currents.”

Kamil considers how to put this. “European women’s clothing is not easily disarranged.”

The ambassador’s startled face rises momentarily from his papers.

Sybil’s eyes flash with amusement. Then she says softly, “How terribly sad. You say she was young?”

“Yes, in her twenties. Small, slim, blonde hair. Some jewelry was found with her.” He reaches for the handkerchief still on the ambassador’s desk. “Would you permit me?”

“Yes, I’ll look at them.” Her skin has gone the color of parchment, revealing a scattering of tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose. She leans over to take the bundle from Kamil. Her hands are plump, dimpled at the knuckles. Her fingers taper to tiny oval fingernails translucent as seashells. She places the bundle in her lap and unwraps it.

“Poor woman,” she murmurs as she strokes each item in turn. She picks up the cross, her face creasing into a frown.

“What is it?” Kamil asks eagerly.

“I’ve seen this, but I can’t remember where. At an evening function of some sort, probably at one of the embassies.” She looks up. “Can you tell me anything more about her?”

“Only that her hair was cut rather short and that she had a large mole on her right shoulder.”

“Yes, of course!” Her face crumples. “Oh, how simply awful.”

Kamil feels a thrill. She knows who it is.

The ambassador looks up at her, then over at Kamil, his face disapproving. He sighs heavily, “I say, Sybil, dear.” He remains in his chair, his fingers compulsively smoothing the paper before him.

Kamil stands and walks to her chair.

“Sybil Hanoum.” He gently takes the bundle from her hands and replaces it with another clean handkerchief drawn from his pocket. Her slim, tapered fingers twine themselves in the fine linen and she dabs her eyes. Kamil never uses handkerchiefs for their intended purpose, a disgusting Frankish practice, but has found many other uses for a handy square of clean cloth.

“I’m sorry, Kamil Pasha.”

Kamil sits again and looks at her expectantly.

“It must be Mary Dixon.”

“Who is that, my dear?” the ambassador asks.

“You remember her, don’t you, Father? Mary is governess for Sultan Abdulaziz’s granddaughter, Perihan.”

“Abdulaziz, yes. Neurotic fellow. Committed suicide. Couldn’t take it when those reformists deposed him. Pushed him right over the edge. Must be hard when you’ve been all-powerful for fifteen years, and then, suddenly, nothing. Asked his mother for a pair of scissors to trim his beard. Used them to open his veins instead.” He regards the palm of his hand, then turns it over and stares at the back. “Nothing left. Just a suite of rooms in some hand-me-down palace.”

He looks up at Kamil, showing a row of crooked yellow teeth. “Been a decade now. 1876, wasn’t it? June, I remember. Seemed an odd thing to do on such a warm day. Nice chap, dash it all.” He moves the piece of paper before him to the corner of the desk, then looks puzzled, as if he has lost something.

“Didn’t go much better for his replacement, eh?” he continues. “That Murad fellow, a tippler, from what I hear. Wasn’t sultan long enough for me to meet him. Had a nervous breakdown after only three months. Seems to be an occupational hazard.” He whinnies a laugh. “Can’t imagine why these reformists keep trying to put him back on the throne. Congenial fellow, I hear. Maybe that’s why.”

Kamil avoids meeting the blue eyes that are seeking his. Critical as he is of his own government, he feels offended by the ambassador’s disrespectful commentary.

He is startled by Sybil’s cheerful voice. “Wouldn’t you like some tea, Kamil Pasha?”