Shamed by her gaffe, Sybil watches as Asma Sultan, ignoring Leyla’s protestations, walks to the door and raps on it. It is opened immediately by her eunuch. She waits while Perihan kisses her hostess on both cheeks in farewell. Sybil feels Asma Sultan’s eyes on her, but when she turns, Asma Sultan is gone.
32
It was early in the day. The lane leading to Chamyeri Village was still cool beneath the pines and I shivered in my light feradje. The air was lush with the smell of pine. I tasted salt on my tongue.
“It’s been nearly a year. Why should I be banished any longer? There’s no one to talk to here and nothing to do,” I added petulantly.
I did not mention Mary. Violet did not like her, as she had not liked Hamza, my only two friends. I had scolded her for withholding Mary’s messages. If Violet had not been a servant, I would have suspected her of jealousy. It was true that I no longer enjoyed her company as much as in the past when I had no friends of my own. It was true that I had outgrown her touch. The last time she came in the night wanting to share my quilt, I told her we were no longer children who could tumble about unconcerned like the kangal dog’s new puppies. She sat on the edge of the quilt, sullen, her mouth downturned. I noticed the deepening lines beside her mouth and between her eyes. I reached, out of habit and concern, to smooth them away. She caught my hand and nestled her cheek in my palm. When I tried to withdraw it, she caught the edge of my hand between her teeth and shook it, for all the world like a kangal, before releasing me and slipping out of the room. I stared at the indentations left by her teeth in my flesh, wanting to laugh, but also curiously afraid, as if a violent current had disarranged the air.
She was dear to me nonetheless, as she ought to have known. We were always together, except when Mary fetched me for our excursions. During the coldest months, snow-blocked roads had ended our meetings. The boat that delivered our coal also brought letters from Mary early that winter. But I had not seen or heard from her in months, even though the roads were now open. She had written that she had some business to see to and would come to me as soon as she could. But I no longer wished to circle the shallows waiting, and decided to throw myself back into the current of life.
“Ismail Dayi is hardly ever here and Mama refuses to listen to anything. It’s as if I’m a child again.” I thought of poor Mama lying on her divan, coughing, wrapped in her fur cloak despite the warm balm of spring, and felt my complaint stick in my stomach. “I hope Mama gets well soon,” I whispered by way of apology. What is written will come to be, but what is spoken also provokes fate.
Violet walked silently by my side. I had become accustomed to her new silences. I remembered her crying in her room when she first arrived at Chamyeri. She must be lonely, I decided. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. Her mouth was tight and a frown had settled onto her forehead. Perhaps it was time I asked Ismail Dayi or Papa to find her a husband.
We passed orchards behind crumbling brick walls. Fig leaves draped the walls like dark green hands moving in the slight breeze, guarding the small, prim sacs of fruit. Pairs of doves with wine-red necks called softly to one another. We entered the shade of a narrow lane beneath overhanging second stories.
Violet looked about nervously.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Violet was lying. Something was worrying her.
At the open square in the center of the village, the small grocery stall was still closed. Two bony dogs slunk grudgingly around the back of the stall at our approach. Another dog lay on his side in the dust, his back leg twitching. Several old men were sitting on low, straw-thatched wooden stools under a tatty awning, drinking tea. Their eyes shifted to watch us pass.
We crossed the square quickly and plunged into the darkness of a narrow street leading to the shore. The overhanging upper stories of the wooden houses almost met overhead. We were here to rent a boat that would take us down the strait to Beshiktash, the nearest pier to Nishantashou. I knew Mama would not allow us to go. Without her authority, I could not send a servant to hire a boat, so I convinced an unwilling Violet to come along. I left a note for Mama and Ismail Dayi, telling them I had gone back to Papa’s house. My uncle’s house would always be home, but I felt the need to resume my life. Now that I was no longer to be married, I had to think about what to do. I had never much desired the company of society, but I was lonely too. In the city, I hoped at least to resume my education.
As we passed beneath the Muslim houses, I heard women calling to one another behind the wooden lattices covering the windows. Suddenly a bucketful of foul water landed beside us and exploded over our cloaks. Appalled, I stopped and looked up at the woman still leaning from her window, bucket in hand, smiling. Voices and muffled laughter came from behind the lattices along the street. Violet took my hand and rushed me forward, almost knocking over the man ahead of us.
We ran to the open area by the shore. Young men sat on the stones and mended nets. The fishing boats had left long before dawn. The men stopped their work and looked at us curiously. Our feradjes were spattered with yellow stains. We adjusted our veils more tightly. My hand was still in the vise of Violet’s grip. I had understood what Violet already knew. We had to leave here. Surely the matrons of Nishantashou would not throw slop on us. I felt certain they had more sophisticated means of cutting the rope that tethered me to society’s ship.
I was suddenly very angry. I loosed my hand from Violet’s, straightened my shoulders, and walked to the man tending the samovar.
“I would like to rent a boat and a boatman to take us to Beshiktash pier. You will be well compensated.”
Violet’s small face was dark and strong, almost muscular, made up of planes and angles. She was attractive in a masculine way, the only hint of softness rich, liquid brown eyes that tilted up at the outer corners like almonds. Impatient, she continually shifted and readjusted her position, her thin fingers pulling at her clothing, so unlike when she was naked in the water, where she became tranquil and sleek.
I remember how disgusted she was at the exorbitant price of ten kurush the boatman demanded. Then he had the temerity to require another two kurush for the tea seller.
“They can smell desperation, these lowlifes,” she whispered through our yashmaks. “They’d take advantage of their mothers.”
The trip down the Bosphorus was uneventful. The boatman hardly had to move the oars; the current did all the work. He spent his time leering at us. When we landed at Beshiktash, however, he handed us onto the pier without incident.
Violet had charge of the purse. She was much better at keeping an eye on it in a crowd. The quay was crowded-boatmen, passengers, fishermen unloading their catches, buyers for the fish, and the usual street vendors, porters, and beggars. Violet kept hold of my arm as we pushed through the crowd, looking to hire a carriage to take us to Nishantashou. We were not on a main street. She pointed to a large carriage-really, much too large to have any business on that street-stopped right by the pier. We noticed it right away because the horses had such colorful traces-red and blue. The driver was short and powerfully built, with light-colored hair in tight curls, like the spring lamb Halil once bought to be slaughtered for our feastday meal. Dressed in ordinary working garments, he wore the black shoes of a Jew. Violet haggled briefly and then helped me into the box, while the driver climbed up front. I remember she was puzzled by the low price. “He wasn’t at all interested in bargaining,” she told me. “He looked rather like he was in a hurry.”
The carriage was very dark when I climbed in. When I turned to look for Violet a smell suddenly caught at my throat. The coach jerked harshly forward. Dark wings gripped me in the small space. I saw a flash and Violet flung into the light. Then only the light remained, then nothing.