The pain spread outward from my loins until I glowed with it. It made me feel strangely powerful. I told him everything.
I was brought home, put directly to bed, and sedated with a tincture of opium. Violet lingered downstairs. The pasha himself came, she told me, along with his doctor. Papa stood frozen by the door. Aunt Hüsnü leaned against the mantelpiece. The pasha apologized that such a terrible thing had happened while Papa’s family had been under his protection. Violet said that when they finished, Papa tried to say something in response, but was unable to speak. The two men helped him to a chair and brought him a glass of brandy. Aunt Hüsnü’s expression, however, did not change, Violet noted. When the men had settled Papa into his chair and had managed to calm him somewhat, Aunt Hüsnü offered them refreshments. They declined and, embarrassed and confused as to what else to do, took their leave.
When I woke, I found Papa sitting on the divan, looking out my window, smoking with a soldier’s intensity. The glass tray beside him was full of cigarette stubs. When he heard the bedcovers rustle as I attempted to sit up, he turned his face to me, but it was shadowed and I could not read his expression. Did he believe me? Blame me? What would he do now? I was too inexperienced to know what repercussions this would have on Papa, but knew well enough that the honorable standing of a man’s family always affected his career.
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
He did not seem to hear me, so I repeated it more loudly.
“I’m very sorry, Papa. Please forgive me.”
Papa stood and walked slowly toward me. He settled himself with a sigh onto the chair next to my bed. His big body in its uniform of dark blue worsted looked too large and out of place in this room of delicate pastel embroideries and doilies. Lace fringe from my bedsheet clung incongruously to his woolen trousers.
“Jaanan.” He stopped, embarrassed. He took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and inhaled deeply.
“Jaanan, I haven’t been able to provide you with a good upbringing,” he said into the smoke. “You’ve grown up wild. I blame myself for that.”
“But Papa-”
“You must listen.” His voice had regained the familiar clipped tones of authority, but I could hear the urgency in it. “This family has acquired a formidable enemy. Amin Efendi.” He choked at the title. Efendi is not only a title of honor, but implies an exemplary lifestyle, a man of honor. “He has lost his position at the palace and the support of his patron, but he still has other powerful friends. And he has lost an eye.” Here Papa looked at me curiously. The cigarette dangling between his fingers released arabesques into the air.
I did not respond, but waited for him to continue.
“He is not a man to forgive these things. He will work to destroy us.”
I could not imagine what it meant to be destroyed. I thought of the fish hung by a rope. I began to cry.
His eyes swept the room as if an object there might rescue him, but saw only the delicate, fragile weavings of a girl’s life, nothing to hold on to. When he turned back to me, I thought the corners of his eyes were moist.
“It’s not your fault, my daughter. I shouldn’t have forced this marriage on you. I had no idea of this man’s low character. He was highly recommended by all who knew him professionally. Hüsnü Hanoum made inquiries into his character among the women. She assured me they all said he was a kind and generous man.”
He paused as if something had just occurred to him.
Frowning, he continued, “I think it best if you went to your mother’s side. You can rest there, while we decide how to proceed.”
He patted my hand without looking at my face, then got up and strode quickly out of the room.
28
Dearest sister,
If it is not too much of an imposition on the bond between you and your husband, I would ask that this letter remain between us. I am in need of advice from you. There is no one here I can ask or trust. How I miss Mother. I’m sure she would have been able to guide me. No, there is nothing seriously amiss, although I am feeling quite dislocated these past few days. I find myself spending altogether too much time thinking about Kamil Pasha, the magistrate I mentioned before. After all, despite his civilized demeanor, he is an infidel and I have no right to imagine a life that would cast any aspersions on Father’s career. Kamil Pasha has not stated his case for me in so many words-he is not given to rambling protestations-but his meaning is clear. What shall I do, dearest Maitlin? It is impossible to say I will not see him again-he comes here on official business regarding the murder of Mary Dixon. I have never before felt such attraction. It is quite as if I were astride an uncontrollable horse where my only choice is to follow his lead or to fall off at great pain to myself. Is this what happened between you and Richard?
But my real fear is that I might shame Father. I am filled with self-loathing that such thoughts should even enter my mind. I am speaking of marriage, of course, Maitlin. I would not countenance anything else, regardless of the attraction. We all have seen what happens to young women who are too eager to give up their only asset and find themselves devalued before society. I am less concerned with society for my sake, but much more for Father’s sake. He could not do his work here if there were any taint of scandal. And there is the question of religion-the scandal of his daughter marrying a heathen would do almost as much damage.
Lately, Bernie has been spending the night. He says he has put his writing project on hold for the moment, that he needs time to rethink his approach. I’m so glad he has decided to stay here. I do so enjoy his company and welcome the diversion during the long evenings. I have for some time suffered from loneliness, particularly at night, something I never shared with you because I didn’t want you to worry about me. That loneliness is now accentuated by the absence of someone whose figure does not even fit into the composition of my life, at least as it has been painted by British and Ottoman society. There is a stubborn strain in the women of our family, a deep need to alter the frame into which we have been placed. But I cannot sacrifice Father to that temptation. You know of what I speak.
I look to you, my wise and dear sister, for advice.
Ever yours,
Sybil
Sybil puts down her pen and, taking the sheer white veil from the bed, sits before a mirror and pins it to her hair, snugging it against her forehead. She flings the veil over her head so that it hangs like flowing hair down her back and laughs. The laughter bubbles from deep inside, from a place Sybil has not realized was hers. The veil is nothing, a bagatelle, if by wearing it she will be able to move in society by Kamil’s side.
But she doesn’t believe he will require her to wear it. She pictures a house, one of those lovely Ottoman confections overlooking the Bosphorus. She will decorate its rooms in Oriental style-flowered carpets, damask cushions, velvet drapes-with enough chairs and couches to host the receptions she is sure will be part of her role as wife of a high Ottoman government official. One could say, she thinks, that she has been training for this role all her life. She will also help Kamil with his work, as she has helped her father. She could be his eyes and ears among the women. Finding Shukriye, a witness to the circumstances surrounding Hannah’s death, will prove her worth.
In her mind, Sybil populates her new house with children, a son and a daughter, and her dear nephews. Perhaps they would choose to stay. The boys could attend Robert College, in its forested eyrie high above the Bosphorus. Surely once they had seen it, they would want to stay. Maitlin could start a hospital for women. Richard would agree, as he always has. Perhaps he could hold an embassy post, finally take the reins from her exhausted father. And Bernie would be here, a familiar face.