The soothsayer drew a sharp breath. “I see… blood.”
“Your eggs are not fresh enough,” the valide sniffed.
“But it is not your blood, valide efendi,” the soothsayer replied, comfortably; then, in a rapid singsong voice, she began to recite:
“This is mine eye, the eye of fate, the eye of seeing.
See all, break our bread, show all, and the first shall be last.
Three of three is ninety-nine
And these are the names by which we ask our way.”
She passed a hand across the plate and settled back on her heels.
“Well?”
“I cannot see until it is over.” As if to prove her point, the egg yolk slipped to the edge of the plate. “Ah.” She studied the plate for a few moments. “There is change, but nothing for you to fear. Someone else arranges it. Not a woman. Nor a man?”
“A eunuch, evidemment. Everything around me is in the hands of such people.”
“You have not traveled recently, hanum?”
“ Tiens! Your question is absurd.”
“What is done and what is to come can be very close-especially when I make a reading of a long life, like yours.”
“Tchah! So I am to start traveling, am I? At my age?”
“Perhaps traveling is the wrong word. A journey, yes.”
“I think I can believe that,” the valide replied, drily. “I am very old. You shake your head?”
“I do not see death, hanum efendi. But it is not clear. I see someone close to you, who needs you.”
The valide arched her eyebrows slightly. “My grandson?”
“Perhaps. That is all I can see.”
“Pouf! It is not much. I had expected- eh bien. Nothing more.” She plucked the shawl that lay around her shoulders. “Now I am a little tired.”
She closed her eyes. A greenish vein throbbed in one of her fingers.
An hour passed. When the valide awoke, she found Tulin sitting on a cushion at the foot of the divan.
“Have I slept long?”
Tulin smiled, and put aside her embroidery. “No, valide. But perhaps you are hungry?”
The valide shook her head, and mouthed a silent “No, no.” She took a deep breath. “Tulin, get rid of that disgusting plate of egg.”
“I have already done so, hanum.”
“Ridiculous, all that prognostication. What would a chicken know about the future of a queen? If it were the other way around, I could understand.”
Tulin laughed. “Nobody ventures to tell a chicken’s fortune.”
The valide champed her teeth. “Of course not. All chickens go the same way, into the pot. Who put such a silly idea into your head?”
67
Ibou hoped that she, of all people, would have an answer.
He did not expect the answer she gave. He expected sympathy and advice, not fear.
She shrank back: “Did you touch it?”
“I rolled it into a handkerchief,” he said.
“I meant, did it touch your skin?”
He tried to think. He had not wanted to touch it; instinctively he had taken it up in his handkerchief, wadding the fine lawn cotton around the object so that he would not feel its ridges and bumps.
“I d-don’t think so. No, I am sure.”
She had been holding her breath; now she exhaled slowly. “And words? Did you use words?”
He shook his head. “I did not know what to say.”
She frowned. “Let me look at your eyes.”
She stared into them for a time, then slowly she raised her hands and outlined the form of his head and shoulders in the air.
“It is as I thought. You are cut off from God, Ibou.”
“I pray to God!”
She cupped her chin in her hand, and said musingly, “Yes, you pray. But can he hear you, as you are? Do you have problems, Ibou? Pains, worries, that keep you awake at night?”
He stared at her, frightened a little. “Yes.”
“I guessed it.”
She turned and began to rummage in a little silk bag.
“What are you doing?”
“What I can.” She took something from the bag and laid it beside her on the divan. Then she took his hands in hers. “Someone has put a spell on you, Ibou. That is why when you pray, he cannot hear you.”
The aga’s nostrils flared. “What can you do?”
“We must find you a guide, to take you back.”
“You? C–Can you guide me back?”
She looked at the frightened man levelly. “The choice does not lie with me. I cannot choose to be your guide to the light, Ibou. It is you who must choose.”
“Then-I choose you.”
She shook her head. “How do we know that this is the choice of your heart? You have to draw your guide to you, Ibou. Listen. This is what you must do.”
68
The girl had shadows beneath her eyes, no doubt about it. Her face was drawn; at the rehearsal she had played so timidly that Donizetti had almost lost his patience.
“Violins! Violins!” He had tapped the lectern with his baton. “No, no. This is not what I want.” He mimed a violinist crouched over her instrument, hands feebly shaking. “No. Andante! Forza! Take the lead!” He swiped down with his invisible bow and glared at the violins.
The violins had looked nervously at Elif. Her eyes were downcast: she had no intention of meeting Donizetti’s.
“Elif,” Tulin whispered. “Are you all right? You look-” She had been about to say the girl looked ill, but it was unmannerly to be too direct. Unwise, perhaps: people said it brought the eye. She bit her lip: the word hung in the air, unspoken.
Elif looked at her nervously. “What is it, Tulin? What can you see?”
“Are you eating well?”
“Eating?” Elif hesitated, as if she were thinking about this for the first time. “Yes-no. I’m frightened, Tulin.”
Tulin smiled and patted the girl on her knee. “What of? Some girl, is it? I can speak to her.” She said it with emphasis: she was older, the orchestra girls respected her.
Elif laced and unlaced her fingers on her lap. “It’s not what you think. Oh!” She put a hand to her lips, where it fluttered against her mouth. “Something bad,” she breathed at last.
Tulin glanced around. Donizetti, the Italian, had gone with a little bow and a wave, and now the girls of the orchestra were packing up their instruments. Bright-eyed, a little flushed, they chattered together in low voices.
