“I didn’t want to tell you-I thought you’d be angry with me.”
Yashim began to slice the choke carefully.
“I was stuck here with nothing to do, so I decided to go and have a look at Aya Sofia. I’m afraid I got a little carried away, and I forgot that Christians are not welcome in a mosque.”
“That depends on the mosque,” Yashim said. “But Aya Sofia-no. An unbeliever-and a woman alone. At least- you were alone?”
“It was thoughtless of me. I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t offended you.”
Yashim looked down at the chopping board. “No,” he said. “What happened?”
“They chased me out. It was frightening-I wasn’t sure what they would do to me. Then a carriage pulled up and I tumbled in.”
“I see. And Dr. Millingen?”
“It was his carriage. He brought me back here.”
Yashim pursed his lips gently, sunk in thought.
“You came straight on here, from Aya Sofia?”
“Yes. He was perfectly gentlemanly, very stiff and English. He was in a hurry. I thought you would be angry- and then you weren’t here. And when you did come back, you were half dead, and, well, you know the rest. I forgot the whole thing until now.”
Yashim picked up the board and swept the slices of artichoke into the pan with his fingers. He had a prickling sensation in the back of his head.
He stirred the rice slowly.
Something here, he knew, was wrong-and it wasn’t his pilaf. There was something about Amelie that was odd as well, beyond her hesitation or her blushes.
She was wearing a pair of little pointed slippers.
98
Palewski reached out from under the bedclothes to take the tea. “Thank you, Marta.”
“Wrong,” Yashim said, settling himself at the foot of the bed. Palewski opened his eyes.
“Good God, it’s you! Really, Yashim, you may as well have a bed here until the wretched Lefevre woman’s gone.”
“Too late.” Yashim pulled a folded paper from his cloak. “I found this note under my door this morning.”
Palewski opened it. Mon cher Monsieur Yashim. Few words can express my gratitude to you. To lose a beloved husband, to find oneself cast adrift in a foreign land, to realize that all one’s highest hopes and fondest dreams are gone irretrievably: these are blows that strike to the depths of a woman’s soul. Without you, cher monsieur, I should have sunk beneath them before now. Your kindness and hospitality gave me the energy to meet such adversity-perhaps, even a sense of hope. But now, I feel, that energy is spent; I feel weary and, but for you, alone. I intend to present myself without further delay to the French ambassador-who will, if he is kind as I believe him to be, ensure my safe return to France. I shall remember you with affection, and wish that you will sometimes think of me, your very humble and obedient friend, Amelie Lefevre.
“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
