One image remains clear and frightening: the eyes of Omolola as she rescued her lover. I could see that she would have burned through any number of enemies and razed the forest to the ground if it stood between her and Olufemi Budo.
It will soon be time for me to leave this world for the next. My breath comes a little harder, my thoughts a little cloudier.
My tale is done.
The Şehrazatın Diyoraması Tour
S. J. Chambers
The Constantinople street is drenched in pure sunlight, saturating almost all color from the scene. The tall, alabaster stone building that zigzags and narrows the passage casts a Payne’s grey shadow onto the ocher cobblestones. Despite its disparity in hue, the street is made interesting by the people who populate it. In the background, children escorted by an old man are wrapped in tattered rags. In the midground, two women wearing blue and white çarşafs steady themselves to march past a female family of ill-repute who catch the eye by leaving their marigold, emerald, and ruby silk brocade entaris uncovered.
The shrouded women also pass and ignore the dozen or so British tourists who stare at them wide-eyed and in awe. The concubines, however, leave the street and beckon these Westerners inside. It is with these women that the image transitions and the tourists who have been viewing this scene are escorted into the realm of Turkish delights without taking one actual step into the vice-den.
Of course, they don’t realize that. As far as they are concerned their bodies are being propelled. The tourists are so enthralled with the scenery around them they don’t notice it is nothing but light streaming from the Şehrazat’s orbs, and that they are standing and static around her in the diorama gallery of the Imperial Ottoman Museum.
The immersion begins the moment they enter the building.
Waifs hired from off the street usher them into an empty and barren gallery. The only artifact in the room is what appears to be a life-sized sculpture, but is, in fact, the main attraction: the Şehrazatın Diyoraması.
Dressed like a sheik’s daughter with only her face and forearms exposed, she wears a beautiful variegated turban knotted at the side of her temple, and an aigrette of gold coins adorns her brow. She wears ribboned amulets and pay-i-çifts of pearls and turquoise, and underneath her kaftan flashes the violet-embroidered, rose-dusk silk of her shalwar. Her flesh is carved from ivory, and upon close inspection, was delicately put together with bronze ligaments and socketry. This allows for some movement—her head can swivel and her arms gesture and rest—but she is for the most part immobile. Her face is completely inanimate; her pulchritude is composed of general features, high cheekbones and full lips. She has solid glass eyes sans pupils and a face with a frozen, pensive gaze. Special attention has been given to the earlobes, which are carefully carved and inlaid with bronze to better capture the gallery’s acoustics. Sound is her only means of collecting information and receiving commands. Other than that, she does not mimic any of the other human senses.
She stands on a stage in the middle of the gallery with one arm extended to the door wherein entered her creator and master, Werner von Froeschner, a charismatic German scientist who before his renown as the Şehrazat’s creator had gained repute for his achievements in Genevan Galvanism, von Kemplen mechanics, and advances in scaling down difference engines while optimizing their performance. Because he insists on being the only one who operates the machine, he has stayed in the capitol and become the master of ceremonies to the diorama tour.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Constantinople!” Waifs circle the tourists with tea and biscuits. “I know you are all eager to begin our trek, but first I want to introduce you to our guide.
“Now I know what you all must be thinking: here is just another Chess Player. But I assure you, this is no chess player. This…this is the future of—well, everything—but we get ahead of ourselves. But, today—for today—this is the future of travel, yes? How many times have you seen a Delacroix set outside of Constantinople and thought that you too would like to see that scene? Be a part of that exact scene? Ah, but you come to the Empire and you no longer see that exact scene.” There are a few agreements among the audience. “We live in an Industrial world now. There is not much room left for Romance—no, my friends, I am afraid the visions of Gêrome and Delacroix are quickly becoming nothing but dusty relics hanging on an aristocrat’s wall, and the experience you so longed for is ever fleeting…until now!
“You see, my friend Abdul Hamid is a traveler as well. He understands the romance that fuels such excursions, and as he visited my homeland he had his own vision—why not use all of this industry, all of this progress, to make a new thing of beauty? To make a new experience for the worldly traveler? To keep the East as it was without having to stay stuck in the past! His vision—the Şehrazatın Diyoraması!
“What you see before you is the marriage of art and science—the brainchild of some of the best minds in both the East and West. He hired me to oversee the Şehrazat’s design and construction. Osman Hamdi Bey, the Turkish painter who was one of the first here to embrace the French techniques and was so well acquainted with the style we needed, curated and created the synthesized images you will shortly see. Louis Majorelle, the French furniture maker who can often be found in a Constantinople café, was commissioned to design her body, but would you believe the Sultan himself—a great carpenter—constructed it!” He pulls her flowing costume away from her abdomen to reveal the elaborate Marjorelle cabinet made of juniper wood inlayed with beech and ivory crocuses. Although it is shaped in the voluptuous style of a de Milo torso, its realism is blemished by two oblong doors inlaid with bronze knobs, which von Froeschner opens to reveal the contents within: a plethora of mechanical intestines that intertwine so densely that one cannot fathom what any of it is for.
Smiling at the quizzical expressions of those who gaze inside the cabinet, he closes her up. “You see, inside here is the karanlık oda—the darkroom—the camera obscura that projects this tour. This,” he knocks on the torso, “this is the pride of the Ottoman Empire, for the diorama was devised and constructed by the Sultan’s favored photographer, Bora Fahir Çağlar.” He lets the skirts fall over the cabinet-torso and walks behind the Şehrazat with a melancholic expression. “Sadly, he disappeared before he could see his genius realized. No doubt, he would have marveled at the illusion he helped create.”
On that somber note, the waifs pull shut the black curtains. Someone from the audience exclaims: “Professor, you have evaded explaining how she works.”
Von Froeschner wags a finger. “Yes I have. With all due respect, ladies and gentlemen, if I explained how this marvel works, I would destroy the illusion you came here to enjoy. We, here, are not interested in bragging about our scientific discoveries, although we easily could do so and change the world. No, we are here to provide you with an experience—so please, worry not on technicalities, just enjoy your holiday.” He bends back down behind the Şehrazat, fumbling with her back as the room turns to pitch.
The tourists hold their breaths as a loud humming begins and exhale in delight as light composing the pale yellow and Prussian blue of Cappadocia shoots from her eyes and fills up the room. They forget about von Froeschner and the inner-workings of the machine, and journey forth into the fantasies of poets and painters.