“A very proper expression of sentiment, Yashim,” Palewski said warmly. “‘Blows that strike to the depths of a woman’s soul.’ Dear me. You’re probably sorry she’s gone. I think I am.”
Yashim wrung his hands. His lips still burned where she had kissed him.
“The embassy was my first suggestion. I must have made her feel unwelcome. She was my guest.”
Palewski looked at him intently. “My dear fellow, this won’t do. Is Marta awake?”
“She made the tea.”
“I was afraid it might be too early.” He flung back the coverlet and went to the door.
“Marta!”
Yashim heard Marta hurrying up the stairs.
“Marta, my dear. Our friend Yashim is feeling a little out of sorts and wants a capital breakfast to set him up. Coffee, eggs, bread. Can we manage? There’s a blueberry jam that’s just arrived from the village, we’ll have some of that. Cheese, olives. What else? Perhaps some of the—ah—diplomatic sausage, too. Lay it out in the salon, will you? Looks like a lovely day, we can eat at the window. Bit of fruit? Thank you, Marta, you’re splendid.”
He turned to his friend and rubbed his hands vigorously. “No more misery, Yashim. The girl’s gone—Lefevre’s girl, I mean—and she’s done the best thing. Can’t have her moping around in a foreign city with no one to talk to but you. France, that’s the place for her. Just let me pull on a few things, and I’ll be down in a moment.”
Yashim was having coffee in the sitting room when Palewski rejoined him.
“She doesn’t know that her husband was Meyer,” Yashim said. “But yesterday she met Millingen.”
He told Palewski what Amelie had said.
“And she was holding something back?” Palewski frowned. “I don’t get it, Yash.”
Yashim sighed. “Neither do I,” he admitted.
99
SUPPORTED by a sturdy slave girl on either arm, the valide descended from the litter in the great hall of the sultan’s palace at Besiktas. At the foot of the steps she graciously inclined her head to acknowledge the attendance of the sultan’s highest household officer, the chief Black Eunuch.
He stood at the head of a party of ladies, all dressed in the latest French fashion, ranged with their parasols for a stroll through the palace gardens; many of them craned their heads to see the valide better. She smiled at them, nodding.
“Ibrahim Aga,” she said. “Mesdames.”
The sultan’s concubines returned a murmured greeting. The chief Black Eunuch bowed deeply. “Valide.”
“I see you are filling out, Ibrahim. It’s most becoming.”
Ibrahim Aga smiled uncertainly. “Thank you, Valide. May I present the ladies?”
He escorted her down the line. The girls curtseyed, modestly lowering their eyes until the valide had passed. Now and then she put up a pale hand to straighten a lace jabot or to pinch a cheek, and for every girl she had a flattering word or two. “What lovely hair! Very pretty. A little less rouge, mademoiselle, perhaps. Your smile is charming,” and so on. The ladies blushed and smiled.
At the end she turned to the kislar aga. “They are a credit to you, Ibrahim. They dress well, and seem altogether charming. I am delighted to see them taking advantage of the garden. We did not always have such a luxury in my day.”
“Yes, Valide. We walk out every morning.”
The valide nodded and sighed.
“They need exercise, Ibrahim. Take me to the governess.”
The ladies bobbed politely as she began climbing the stairs. How very trivial they looked, the valide reflected, in their French gowns and corsets, their shawls and silk pumps: no more consequential than a tray of Belgian chocolates. A manufactory: yes. In her day, at Topkapi, how she and the others had prided themselves on their style—the way they wore color, the arrangement of their hair, the artful collage of shawls and pelisses, silks and furs. Then they had paraded like a pride of she-tigers, jewels ablaze, loose-limbed and glorying in their fine skin and perfect teeth! Not like these girls, these fashion plates, these trained canaries in their cage.
It was such a shame!
She paused at the top of the wide stairs, leaning on the rail. How very dead this palace was, how still. The French paintings hung unexamined on the stairs, like the epitaphs of soldiers who had died and were not remembered. Empty, straight-backed English chairs were ranged against the walls.
At the top of the stairs the chief governess was waiting to make her obeisance. Tall and plump, wearing traditional harem dress, she carried a long staff tipped in silver; a bunch of keys at her belt clanked softly as she bowed. At her signal, several girls stepped forward to help the valide out of her satin coat and conducted her to a sunlit room overlooking the sparkling water of the Bosphorus. She felt the breeze on her face. Sinking onto a gilded sofa she let the girls gently arrange her hair and smooth the creases in the folds of her robes. One girl plumped the pillows at the valide’s back; another fetched a stool for her feet.
“May we humbly offer a cooling sherbet, Valide Sultan?” The governess indicated a tray.
The valide settled back against the cushions and sighed. Always the same tender rituals, the same half- concealed glances of affection and respect: she should have made her visit sooner.
