The low, plaintive call of the itinerant scrap merchant. It was so familiar; the drawn-out first letter, a rapid stutter of consonants, then the tail of the word, laid like a peacock’s fan over the street behind his cart. I was in my room at Nishantashou, waiting for Violet to draw the curtains and wake me. I began blissfully to stretch my limbs, but the dimensions of the bed were wrong, the covers too heavy.
I opened my eyes and saw an unfamiliar ceiling high above me, consisting of parallel rows of shallow arches. The tall windows were blocked with white-painted iron shutters, held shut by a heavy crossbar. I was in a narrow bed, covered by a heavy blue comforter. I was fully dressed, except for my shoes, feradje, and veil. I walked to a window, but the bar was locked in place. Street sounds penetrated faintly through the shutters-the rattle of a cart, vendors calling their wares, the sudden shriek of a child. I put on my shoes. My cloak hung from a hook on the wall. It had been cleaned and pressed. The yellow stains were gone. I moved quietly to the door. To my surprise, it was unlocked. I pulled down the handle slowly, opening the door only a fraction, then pressed my eye to the crack.
An old woman was sitting on a carpet on the floor, a copper bowl of aubergines between her legs. She took a vegetable in her hand, carefully cut off the stem, then skillfully cored it. Replacing the end, she laid the now-hollow eggplant into another bowl beside her.
“Come,” she said, without looking in my direction. I opened the door another fraction. Where was Violet?
“Come, come.”
I opened the door wide. There was no one else in the room. It was furnished with a divan covered not with silk and velvet cushions, but with colorful flowered cotton. The carpet was threadbare, but the broad wooden boards beneath it gleamed. The windows were open and a soft breeze carried into the room the sounds I had heard before. From one window, I saw the façade of another building through the lace curtains; from the other, the leaf-laden branches of a linden tree, wagging in the sunlight. The room was cool.
The woman looked at me and smiled. I could see that she was missing several teeth. “Welcome.”
I squatted on the carpet. She continued disemboweling the aubergines.
“Please, can you tell me where I am? How did I come to be here? There was another young woman with me. Where is she? Do you know?”
The old woman laid aside her knife, wiped her hands on a cloth, and stood. She adjusted the wide white apron attached to the front of her dress. I recognized the style. She was Jewish.
“Come, sit over here,” she said, pointing to the divan. Her Turkish was lightly accented. I climbed onto the flowered cushions, tucked my legs under me, and waited in the dappled light. I felt unaccountably peaceful, given the situation. What was the situation? Had I been kidnapped?
The woman returned with two glasses of tea on a gleaming silver tray with ornate handles, the only item of luxury I had seen. I thought: from her dowry.
We sat in silence for a few moments. Her face was serious, but her rheumy blue eyes regarded me kindly.
“I cannot tell you my name and I do not know yours,” she began, in her lilting accent. “It is safer that way.”
“Am I in danger, then?”
“I understand you are in very grave danger. That is why you were brought here.”
I was stunned. “What danger am I in? And who brought me here?”
“It is better for you not to know right now. My son understands these matters. I don’t interfere.” She regarded her tea glass. “Although I am not in agreement. It’s much too dangerous.” She looked at me so that our eyes met. “He is my only son.”
“It’s generous of your son to help me. What is his name?”
She examined me cautiously, then looked away.
I was suddenly anxious. “Violet? The young woman who was with me at the pier?”
The old woman frowned. “Your maid ran away. This creates a dangerous situation for us. She will raise the alarm and they will try to find you in Beshiktash.”
She looked at me questioningly. I nodded in agreement. She added thoughtfully, “But they should have no reason to widen the search to Galata.”
I’m certain Ismail Dayi went for help as soon as he realized we were missing. I suppose, after reading my note, he would go directly to Papa’s house, but find we had never arrived there. He would send Jemal to Chamyeri Village to ask whether anyone had seen us. The fishermen might report that two girls rented a boat and that the boatman dropped them at the Beshiktash pier. But the trail would disappear there. Was my uncle angry at me for leaving? I suppose he would seek advice from his old friend, the white-bearded kadi of Galata. What could a kadi do? He was a judge. The situation was still incomplete, like a cooked egg not yet peeled. Too early for judgment. The kadi would set the police on our trail.
The police would suspect the fishermen, of course. The lower orders are always looked at first, since, having so little, they have the most to gain or reason to envy. But if the police only thought about it, they would realize that the fishermen would never harm two girls from a well-known and important household. The police would disagree, arguing that someone might have paid the fishermen to abduct me. They would have learned from Papa-or, really, from anyone-that Amin Efendi was out for revenge.
Or perhaps Ismail Dayi told no one I was missing for fear of destroying what little remained of my reputation.
I felt no tug on the crimson thread around my waist that tied me to Mama. Did she think I was safe?
Violet would be awake, I knew, black eyes gleaming like fireflies in the dark, as I had often found her in my childhood when I couldn’t sleep and asked to spread out my quilt next to hers.
The Jewish woman sat on a cushion against the far wall, hands tatting furiously. Beside her squatted the broad-chested young man with the tight cap of blonde curls, the carriage driver, whom I assumed to be her son. Her agitated whispers refused to be calmed by his low, measured responses. They spoke what I recognized as Ladino, the archaic Spanish of Istanbul Jews who fled to the benign reign of the Ottomans after Queen Isabella expelled them from Spain. They kept their eyes averted from the divan where I sat. An untouched glass of tea rested on the divan between my knee and Hamza’s.
“I’ve been here for days with no idea why and no way to tell Ismail Dayi that I’m safe. Allah only knows what he is thinking.”
Hamza was dressed as a simple workman in baggy brown trousers and white shirt, a striped shawl wrapped around his waist. His cotton turban was gray from many washings. He had grown a beard.
“Forgive me, Jaanan. This was the only way I could think of to keep you safe.”
“Safe? Safe from what?”
“I tried to reach you at Chamyeri but your Violet has set up an impenetrable cordon around you. Did you get any of my letters?”
“Letters? No, I haven’t heard from you since that evening at Papa’s house.” A note of bitterness crept into my voice. “That was nearly a year ago. I assumed you had gone abroad again.” Suddenly I remembered Mary’s undelivered messages. Had she intercepted Hamza’s letters too?
Hamza shook his head in frustration. “I was in Paris until recently. I wrote to you.”
When I shook my head, he continued. “So that’s why you never answered. Anyway, when I couldn’t get in touch with you, I hired someone in the village to keep an eye on you. He learned where you were going, then overtook your boat to send me word that you were heading for the Beshiktash pier.”
“You had me watched? Why?”
“You’re in danger. I was worried about you.”
“You keep saying that, but I don’t understand what danger. Why didn’t you just come to see me at Chamyeri and warn me against whatever it is that so worries you?”