Avi stretched out his hand, palm up, and commented shyly, “It’s a problem that doesn’t fit easily in the palm, bey.”
Kamil stroked the boy’s soft hair. “What was it you said? ‘However high the mountain, a road goes over it.’ If we use our heads, we’ll get there.”
“And our feet.”
Kamil laughed and felt the tension fall from his shoulders.
19
Saba lay naked and sweating on the hot bellystone, arms by her side, legs pressed tightly together. Steam enveloped the small chamber and weak columns of light fell toward her from the round windows in the dome. She stretched luxuriantly, arching her back, letting the steam and the heat caress her. It was early and only the servants were awake. She was alone in the hamam at the back of the house.
She felt languorous. Slippery with soap, she began to explore. Her hand trailed slowly across her collarbone, then her breast and her belly. She reached between her thighs and let her fingers slide across the damp swollen flesh, the delicate mounds and mysterious valleys. Her body charged up to meet her touch. Her fingers fell into the ready space, the opening that flared with exquisite pain, obliterating all else. She cried out. The pain was irresistible.
Once, while Malik was out, she had discovered hidden in his library a folder of graphic miniatures. She had frozen with shame, but only for an instant. Then she had become intrigued, stealing back several times to memorize every detail. The images colonized her dreams and made of them lush gardens in which she lingered willfully long after the dawn call to prayer. Although Malik’s death darkened her mood, it had also heightened her senses.
Suddenly, a short, heavy figure emerged from the mist and pressed a bath mitt against her face. Saba struggled but couldn’t get away. She felt a rough hand push her legs apart. When the finger impaled her, her back arched in pain and terror.
“Slut, slut, slut.”
Saba recognized Gudit’s voice. The mitt covered her mouth so she couldn’t scream.
“I saw you try to seduce the pasha with your honey cakes,” Gudit said in a harsh tone. “I know everything and you, you little slut, know nothing. Someday you’ll be grateful that I stopped you.”
She took the flesh between Saba’s legs between her fingers and pinched and pulled at it as if she were trying to tear it off. The pain was intolerable. Saba fought and this time managed to pull the mitt off her face and wriggle out of Gudit’s grasp.
Gudit slapped her. “You belong to us.”
The two women struggled on the bellystone. Saba was amazed at the old woman’s strength, but pushed her off again. A knife clattered to the floor. Slipping across the wet marble, Saba ran through the door to the cooling-off room. She turned, slammed it in Gudit’s face, and bolted it. Heaving with terror, Saba fell to her knees, the marble beneath her blooming pink with blood.
Saba didn’t tell her mother about the attack. She was ashamed and, she acknowledged to herself, nervous about what other subjects such a conversation might open up. She said nothing because she knew her mother relied on Gudit, her lifelong friend who had helped her carry the burden of leading the Melisite community. Instead, Saba avoided the midwife, who had been released from the hamam by a puzzled kitchen maid. Saba concealed her bruises with fine clay under her veil. Although the physical pain began to subside, her fury multiplied. When she became priestess, she vowed, she would see to it that Gudit regretted her cruelty.
20
Kamil took Avi to the Brasserie Europe for lunch. Avi was fascinated by the mirrors, and his eyes were continuously drawn from the complicated choreography of knives and forks on the table before him to the reflections of other diners. He ordered the same as Kamil and copied his table manners exactly.
Afterward, they took the phaeton to the Fatih police station. Omar wasn’t there-he had gone home for lunch-but Kamil was restless and decided to look for him instead of waiting. They left the phaeton at the station and followed the directions they had been given. They walked down a dirt lane between dilapidated two-story houses, passing under colorful washing strung across the street. They arrived at a small square in the middle of which stood a fountain. A woman in wide flowered pants and a hand-knit vest leaned toward it, filling a large copper jug. With a nonchalant gesture, she adjusted her cotton headscarf, which had come loose at one side, and deftly hefted the jug onto her head.
When she saw Avi, she smiled, showing a gap between her two front teeth. “Good day, my son,” she said warmly.
Avi ran over to her. “Teyze, does Police Chief Omar live here?” he asked, politely addressing her as aunt.
She paused, her eyes flicking to Kamil, who waited a short distance away. “What do you want with him?”
“Kamil Pasha is a friend of his,” Avi explained.
“Ah, so you’re Kamil Pasha,” the woman turned to him, the smile again lighting up her face. Toil had aged her prematurely, but she was still a handsome woman. “I’m his wife, Mimoza. I’m sure he’s complained about me.” She laughed. “Come. I hope you’re hungry.”
“May I take the jug, teyze?” Avi asked.
Mimoza looked him over, then gave it to him to carry. It was clearly heavier than he had expected, but he didn’t complain.
They came to a wooden gate and passed through a garden deep in late-season blooms to a small cottage.
“Is that you, wife?” they heard Omar boom good-naturedly from the window. “I’m dying of hunger.”
“I’ve brought company,” she warned him. “You’d better put on your honey face.”
Omar appeared at the door in a loose robe that was open at the neck. The thin skin over his collarbone betrayed his age. “Pasha,” he cried out. “Well, this is my honey face. Wouldn’t you rather the old one?” He laughed. “Come in. You are welcome in my home. And who is this young lord?” He bent down toward Avi.
“Avi, Chief.” The boy saluted.
Omar laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “If I had gotten that kind of respect in the army, we would have won all those bloody wars.”
The house was painted a cheerful blue inside and out. Kamil slipped off his boots at the door, and his stockinged feet sank deep into brightly patterned wool rugs. They were tribal rugs, traditional wedding gifts from the bride’s family. The central room was lined around three sides with cushioned divan benches beneath large windows that looked out into the garden. White crochet work curtains hung along the bottom of the windows for privacy. Each cushion was draped with a white cotton cloth embroidered with carnations. High above the entry door hung a tablet on which Mashallah, by the will of Allah, was written in fine calligraphy. Next to it hung a large blue glass bead, with contrasting circles of dark blue, turquoise, and white glass, to ward off the evil eye. They were taking no chances. Kamil wondered which had been placed there by Omar and which by his wife. Two closed doors led off the middle room, as did a long hallway down which Mimoza disappeared.
They took their places on cushions on the floor around a low table. Mimoza brought bowls, spoons, and a single glass, which she filled with spring water from the jug. They tucked the crumb cloth across their laps and waited while she brought out a pot of yoghurt soup. This was followed by peppers stuffed with rice, dill, and currants in a warm yoghurt sauce.