“I spoke with your dayi,” he told me, never taking his eyes from the street. “He said you should go back to Chamyeri.”
He turned and looked at me directly for the first time. Dark shadows chased across his face. His sleeves were torn.
I reached for his arm. “You look tired, Hamza. You need to rest first.”
I saw him hesitate.
We both heard the voice at the door, a man’s voice with the same inflection as the old woman’s.
“Madame, we would like to speak with you. It’s urgent.”
A neighbor? I could feel Hamza tense, an animal deciding which way to spring.
The voice at the door spoke quietly, but in my mind I already heard neighbors rustling behind the other doors on the landing. The old woman was backed into the farthest corner of the divan. I went to the door and put my ear to the wood. The man on the other side and I could hear each other breathing. I pulled at the latch, but Hamza sprang forward and caught me by the arm. As he pulled me away, there was a sharp crack; the wood splintered and the latch gave way. Two men pushed their way through. One was short and stocky, the other lean and quick, but it was the small one I distrusted instinctively, like one shies away from a snake even before recognizing what it is. Hiding behind me, Hamza held me by the waist and pulled me with him toward the window. Confused and angry, I struggled to loosen myself until, with a curse, he suddenly released me. I saw a flash of white at the window. The tall man leapt across the room and caught me as I stumbled forward.
“There.” He pointed his chin at the window and the other man turned and ran down the stairs with an agility unexpected in one of his heft.
“Are you all right?” The tall man led me to the divan. “Please sit. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re safe now.”
I nodded, shivering.
He crossed the room to the old woman and squatted before her.
“Are you here about my son?” she asked in a barely audible voice.
“Your son?”
When she didn’t answer, he turned and looked at me curiously.
“Madame Devora’s son has died,” I explained.
His green eyes rested on me a moment, evaluating. “You are Ismail Hodja’s niece?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“We have been looking for you.” He turned back to the old woman crouched on the divan. She was rocking back and forth, staring uncomprehendingly at the palms of her hands, clenched stiff as claws in a parody of prayer.
“Madame,” he said softly, “Madame, we know nothing of your son’s death. We are here for the girl. Can you tell us what happened? We’d like to help you.”
She continued to rock, as if she had not heard.
“She only just learned of it,” I explained.
“It often takes time for such a message, although heard by the ear, to be understood by the head,” the man said to me quietly. “But never understood by the heart,” he added, shaking his head sadly.
“Are you the police?” I asked anxiously.
“We didn’t involve the police. I am Kamil, the magistrate of Beyoglu. The kadi of Galata asked me to find you. My associate”-he pointed with his chin toward the door-“works for the police, but as a surgeon. He’ll be discreet. No one but your family will know you were gone.”
I didn’t respond. The experience of lying with Hamza that had so transformed me was to remain invisible, then, a footprint on wet sand to be erased by the next tide. While the other experience with Amin in the pleasure garden that had changed my body but left no other imprint was to be known to the world. I would need to formulate an explanation to my family that left out all that was important. I began to see that it was riskier to offer one’s heart than one’s body.
Neighbors were crowding in at the door. The magistrate beckoned to a buxom woman in a pink-striped entari who bustled over importantly.
He identified his position to the somewhat disbelieving woman and told her to take charge of Madame Devora. He sent another neighbor for the rabbi. It occurred to me that Madame Devora had not asked Hamza how her son had died.
The magistrate surveyed the room, pushed the crowd out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. Madame Devora keened softly and rhythmically behind the broad striped back of her neighbor.
“Are you all right?” he asked me. “Are you hurt? Is there anything we can do for you before we bring you home?”
“Home?” I said the word as if I were looking it over for possible meanings. “I can’t go home.”
“Please come over here.” He led me to the side of the divan farthest away from Madame Devora. I sat again and he squatted patiently before me. We were face to face. A handsome man, I thought, but hard.
“Tell me what you can, please, Jaanan Hanoum. Or, if you like, we can discuss this later after I’ve taken you to your father’s house. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you are safe.”
“No,” I insisted, “I can’t go there.”
“Surely your father will have you back, Jaanan Hanoum. He was very concerned about your disappearance.”
“You don’t understand,” I explained in a whispered rush. “I can’t go back because I’m in danger there.” I told him about my stepmother and Amin Efendi’s plot. I didn’t say where I had learned this.
He nodded but said nothing. There was a commotion outside the door. The magistrate’s associate pushed his way through and shut the door decisively behind him. He was panting and the sides of his forehead were slick with sweat. It seemed improbable to me that this short, bulky man was a surgeon. I put on my feradje and yashmak, hiding my face, as was proper-although some might say I remembered this too late.
The magistrate motioned for him to stay where he was, then joined him. The room was small, however, and sound carried under the vaulted ceiling. Still breathing heavily, the surgeon told the magistrate, “He ran up the street and through the front entrance of an apartment building. I followed but just outside the back entrance is a big hamam. He must have entered the baths by one of the back doors. He could have hidden in any of the alcoves, or even run through it to the street in front of the hamam. I tried, but I couldn’t find him.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No, but his turban fell off. He had curly black hair and a beard. That’s all I saw.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry,” I whispered to Madame Devora.
She didn’t respond. The neighbor, however, scowled and I backed away.
“Will she be taken care of?” I asked the magistrate. “I’d like to help, if I can.”
“I’ll let you know if anything is needed, Jaanan Hanoum. But usually the community takes care of its own people.”
He crossed the room to Madame Devora and asked the woman in pink stripes to leave them alone for a moment. She frowned again crossly, but moved away. The magistrate squatted before Madame Devora, so his eyes were level with hers. I could feel him willing her to look at him.
“Who was the man that ran from here?”
Madame Devora froze in place, only her eyes in motion, anxiously scanning the room. I looked hard at her, willing her not to answer. Her reddened hands were clenched in her lap.
“What happened to your son, Madame Devora?”
“That woman killed him.” Her eyes locked onto mine.
“That’s not true,” I cried out.
“Was the man who ran from here involved too?”
“It’s impossible,” Madame Devora whispered.
“Impossible? Why do you say that?”
“They were friends.”
“Who was?”
“It must have been…” She didn’t continue. I let out my breath.
The magistrate signaled to his associate to bring Madame Devora tea from the kettle brewing in the kitchen.
When the surgeon arrived with a glass of tea balanced on his thick fingers, the magistrate stood aside. The man handed Madame Devora the tea, took the magistrate’s place squatting before her, and addressed her in Ladino.