Late one night in the lonely period after Madam Élise’s departure, I was roaming the house and was startled to see Jemal moving stealthily in leather house socks through the dark kitchen toward the rear door, his outdoor overshoes and turban in his hands. His black hair was long as a girl’s. His face had the same expression as when he had finished with the pomegranate.
8
Light floods through the open doors onto the lawn of the British Residence. Orange paper lampions have been strung along the paths. Servants circulate with trays of savories and fruit and bottles of chilled French wine. Kamil is here in search of someone who knew Mary Dixon. He finds this the most difficult part of his work, interacting socially with strangers. As a young man during his father’s reign as governor, he had endured long hours of empty pleasantries at endless functions, each word inflicting a dull pain until he had to pull away. From a vantage point in the garden or a quiet room, he would watch as figures met and merged, then withdrew and rejoined others in a complicated board game. He could see patterns in these interactions: the wealthy, the powerful, and the beautiful, and those who vied to be in their presence; respect shown or withheld; the sheep cut from the fold by a predator; the individual of wit or erudition and an admiring but unstable crowd of consumers; too obviously averted glances; the interplay of men and women when the rules of engagement were unclear. It was endlessly fascinating. He still prefers to watch, unless he finds an engaging partner for conversation. Good conversation is becoming rarer, he muses, since the sultan increased the number of his spies and people no longer dare venture opinions on even the most mundane subjects in their own drawing rooms.
Stepping indoors, he sees the ambassador stoop to listen to a dignified man in a uniform with red piping and gold epaulets. Women in low-cut evening dresses stand in groups like bouquets of gaudy, overblown roses. None are veiled. It startles Kamil to see such expanses of gleaming hair and pale skin exposed to view. The orchestra plays a waltz. Women lean backward into men’s arms, their opposing forces channeled into a vortex of movement. The women’s wide skirts swing like bells, their jewels blaze in the lamplight. Men in dark suits and uniforms, their shadows. Kamil thinks of bright autumn leaves captured by the current.
He wanders back into the garden. Sybil came to him briefly after his arrival, a swirl of skirts and color, to take his hand and welcome him before she was swept away by newer guests. The pressure of her hand remains in his.
A middle-aged man with irregular features and carrot-colored hair corners him against the patio railing.
“So, you’re the pasha. Sybil said she had managed to browbeat you into coming to this shindig. It’s a rough game, ain’t it?” he says, shaking his head and sweeping a hand toward the buzzing crowd. “Nobody wants to talk about the really interesting stuff anymore.” He squints his small blue eyes at Kamil. “Glad you could make it, though. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’m Sybil’s cousin, Bernie Wilcott. From the U. S. of A., as I’m sure you’ve guessed.” His breath smells of mint. Serious eyes trapped in a taffy-pull face.
“Kamil. A pleasure to meet you.” Kamil extends his hand.
Bernie grasps it and pumps it, once. “Forgot. Sybil told me you learned your English in the Old Country.”
“Cambridge University. I studied there for a year. Before that, I learned English here, with tutors. How is it that Sybil Hanoum has an American cousin?”
“Sybil Hanoum? Has a nice ring to it.” Bernie chuckles. “Well, her uncle, that’s my father, was the younger brother. You know what that means. Eldest takes all, the whole farm. Or, in this case, the manor house. So he did what younger brothers have done since time immemorial, left the kingdom to seek his fortune. Found it in railroads, but his kids inherited a gawd-awful accent.” He bends over, chortling at his own wit.
Kamil can’t help but laugh along with him.
“You are visiting Istanbul?”
“Well, actually, I’m here for the year. Teaching at Robert College.”
“Ah, you’re a teacher.” Kamil thinks this unlikely, given the man’s eccentric nature, but he hasn’t met many Americans.
“Bernie Wilcott, itinerant scholar.” Bernie bows low and touches his hand to his brow and chest in a mock Ottoman greeting.
Kamil, disbelieving, asks, “What is your area of study?”
“Politics. East Asia, China, but I have a weakness for the Ottomans, and am mighty curious to know more.” He takes Kamil’s arm and steers him into the garden. “Maybe you could be my guide.”
It doesn’t take long for Kamil to feel at ease with Bernie and to recognize that what he had perceived as buffoonery was simply a lack of the formality that usually encases people like lacquer. Moving in society, people rub and clack their carapaces against one another like mating beetles. In contrast, Bernie seems immediately available. They sit on a bench, facing away from the crowd and chatting. Kamil is relieved and pleased to find an intelligent observer of the world. The embers of their cigarettes pulse alternately in the dark.
Later that evening, Bernie brings Sybil to the garden. She is breathless and appears tired, but her eyes are bright as they meet Kamil’s. Wisps of hair have come loose and are plastered to her forehead.
Kamil lowers his eyes and bows. “Madame Sybil.” It is rude to look at someone so directly, especially a woman. Nevertheless, he is smiling.
“I’m so glad you were able to come.”
Before long, Bernie excuses himself and disappears into the Residence. Kamil and Sybil sit on the bench facing the garden, their faces in shadow. Kamil is uncomfortably aware of the revealed expanse of neck and the plump mounds of Sybil’s breasts pushed upward by her décolleté gown. He imagines he feels the heat of her body radiating into his, even though they are sitting a discreet distance apart. It both pleases and disturbs him. He keeps his eyes focused on the shadowy blooms of a nearby oleander, the tree that the Quran says grows even in hell.
“Your cousin is an interesting man.”
“He’s always been like that, even as a child. Irrepressible, I think is the word.”
“I find him quite refreshing. Is the rest of your family like him?”
“No. He’s one of a kind. I do have a sister, though, Maitlin, whom I admire tremendously. She’s irrepressible in a different way-she never gives up pursuing what she truly believes in. So she’s led quite an adventuresome life.” She tells Kamil about Maitlin’s travels, and her long and ultimately unsuccessful struggle to become a physician.
“So now she volunteers at a clinic for the poor where they take advantage of her medical skills, but without giving her any formal recognition. She doesn’t seem to mind, although I mind for her.” Sybil’s voice becomes wistful. “Maitlin just takes the next step. She never lingers over setbacks.”
“And you, madame, if it isn’t impertinent to ask? Is this not an adventure?” He gestures with his hand toward the ancient city slumbering behind the garden wall.
Sybil doesn’t answer right away. She is strangely off guard with this man. She feels innocent, like a child, willing to confess, penitent.
“Yes, yes, it is. But it always seems out of reach, on the other side of that wall.”
Kamil looks at her curiously. He knows that she sometimes goes out escorted only by her driver. The police are aware of the movements of all embassy foreigners.
“Do you not go out?” he asks.
“Oh, of course I do. I’m quite active. I go on visits. Father has a busy schedule and I help him whenever I can.” Her voice is defensive.