48
Yashim took a step back and looked up. He saw the silhouette of the tree stark against the stars, and with it an impression of something moving along the branch above. He stepped back on his heels for a clearer view, and then darted under the tree. The lower branches were too high to reach, but they swooped out to almost touch the roof of a single-story godown.
He heard a twig snap. Yashim ran toward the godown, put one foot on the sill of its great barred window, and grabbed at the lowest branch.
Aware that his retreat was in danger of being blocked off, Kadri began to run along the branch, balancing with open arms and still holding the stolen sandwich. As he reached the end his body sank; he bunched his muscles and prepared to jump.
Under Yashim’s weight the branch dipped and swayed.
Kadri sprang. The angle was steeper than he had expected: the ground had moved beneath his toes.
He hit the parapet with his belly, and gasped as the wind was knocked out of him. A sharp pain shot up his knee.
Yashim sprang to the sill. The boy thrashed his legs; Yashim reached up with both hands, took hold of an ankle, and leaped back.
He landed hard on the ground. The boy was beside him on his hands and knees, head hanging, still gasping for breath.
Kadri turned to the stranger who had brought him down.
To his bewilderment, the stranger began to laugh.
“You’re Kadri,” he said, nudging something with his foot. “And that, I’m afraid, was my mackerel sandwich.”
49
Compston turned from the landing stage, casting about for the girl.
Unable to see her beneath the trees, he retraced his steps along the path, stooping to pick something off the ground. Such was popular reverence for the Koran that it was unusual to find scrap paper in the street-people tended to rescue it, in case it contained the Holy Word.
But here was a bundle of papers, riffling in the evening breeze. Compston grunted in surprise. It was too dark to see what was written on the paper, so he thrust the packet under his waistcoat and went on, thinking about the fair Armenian and wondering where the deuce she had got to.
50
High above the Golden Horn, on the first hill of the city of seven hills, small lights burned in the near-deserted harem of the Topkapi Palace.
The visit to Besiktas for the unfruitful Ceremony of the Birth had left the valide feeling fretful and tired. Returning to the Topkapi Palace, she had heard her own shuffling footsteps echoing on the cobbled passageway.
Now she lay on her divan, and sank her cheek onto her hand.
“I am bored, Tulin. For the first time in my life I am bored, and quite alone. I used to enjoy teasing my son, but now he is gone, and Abdulmecid is not the same. I think it is your fault.”
“My fault, hanum?” Tulin’s eyes filled with tears.
“Your fault. I’m sure of it.” The valide gave a nod. “Yes, before you came I was more content. I used to read my books. I even liked to watch the birds. And now? Now I feel I have been a widow for a long, long time.”
“If I make you feel like this, then you must send me away, valide.” Tulin’s lower lip trembled.
“And where would you go, ma cherie? What would become of you? Answer me that.”
Tulin could not find an answer. She touched her forehead to her mistress’s slippered foot. “I am your slave, valide hanum.”
“Hmmph. Don’t worry, little one, I will not let you down. You have been good to me, and you are patient.”
“But I make you unhappy? Oh, please say it isn’t true!”
“ Tiens, you are a lively girl, and you make me feel that I have wasted my life.”
A look of horror passed across the girl’s face. “You are the principal valide. You have brought a son and a grandson to the imperial throne. Is that not enough?”
The valide’s face lit up with a mischievous smile. “Little Rose should have wished for so much.”
“Rose?” Tulin echoed.
“Rose Tascher de La Pagerie.” The valide lifted her chin.
“A ferenghi? Like you, valide?”
“Like me? Not at all. She was always dreadfully unlucky.” She pursed her lips, and added: “Bismallah.”
“Will you tell me about Rose?”
“I am sure I have told you all this before, but why not?” And so the valide sultan, mother and grandmother of sultans, began to explain how two French girls, born and raised on the same remote Caribbean island, each became consort to two great emperors.
Aimee, the daughter of Monsieur Dubucq de Rivery, planter of Martinique, was sent first across the Atlantic, to complete her education in Paris-and find a husband. But when her ship was taken by pirates off the coast of Spain, Aimee found herself not in Paris, but in Algiers.
From where the dey, admiring her white skin, had her sent to his overlord, the sultan, in Istanbul.
“The rest you know-or may imagine,” the valide concluded.
“But I know-it was you!” Tulin’s eyes were shining. “You were under the protection of God, hanum efendi.”
“Hmmph.” The valide sounded unconvinced. “It felt somewhat different, at the time.”
“And Rose? You were going to tell me about her, too.”
The valide gave a little shrug. “Rose? She crossed to France the following year, but not-it would seem-under the protection of God. She reached Paris. Some time later, she married a Beauharnais. Rather minor nobility, Tulin, but I have no doubt her father was delighted. He was a great drunkard, and practically a bankrupt.”
“I understand.”
The valide went on to sketch the principal events in Rose’s life, including her meeting with Napoleon. The great French commander renamed her Josephine, and had her crowned as empress in Notre Dame.
“Eventually, my dear, he cast her off in favor of a stout Austrian princess. Quite a humiliation. Which goes to show, I believe, that we Ottomans manage these affairs with greater tact. More discreetly, at least, within the harem. Poor Rose.”
“Did she never see the emperor again?”
“Never, I believe. She was pretty, in a rather common way. But she lacked something, I suppose.”
“What did she lack?”
“Rose lacked-address.” The valide took Tulin’s chin in her hand, and smiled. “You are very sweet, Tulin. You listen very well, and it’s not everyone who knows how to listen. But sometimes, do you know? I think there’s more going on in that head of yours than meets the eye. I don’t think you entirely lack address yourself.”
Tulin dimpled, and bowed her head. “The valide thinks too much of my modest abilities. I wish only to amuse you, and keep you from feeling… bored.”
“Well, Tulin, that is an excellent ambition.” The valide’s eyes narrowed. “And what, my dear, do you propose?”
