Irregular or not, Husayn had now found something he could bargain on. I balked at spending a quarter of our money that must somehow grow to four hundred ghrush in the next few days on nothing but an interview. But I underestimated the power of my friend’s golden smile. He persisted and, finally, with a double lie that first, we had no real interest in her purchase, and second, that I was the young lady’s brother and it would be an act of charity sure to bring heaven’s blessings, he got us in for nothing.
“Very well. For you. Because you are my friends,” the merchant concluded the deal.
The merchant led us back through a small shop room which seemed to be used for nothing besides the mixing of sherbet and the storage of a pair of narghiles. On the back wall of this room was a bell which the merchant rang loudly and then waited for a few minutes to give any woman in the rooms beyond time to disappear before we entered. When at last he threw back a curtain, we found ourselves in a long, deserted passageway lined with heavy doors, many of which were bolted. Those that were ajar led into small but, I had to admit, not uncomfortable cells. Those that were closed but not locked hid, I supposed, the man’s womenfolk and their work and sitting rooms.
A door at the very end of the passage was still locked. This the merchant opened with a key worn round his neck and then he stepped aside to allow us to enter first.
We found ourselves in a large room, wanting in neither air nor light, for it enjoyed a row of windows near the ceiling. The windows, I noticed, were large enough for a man to crawl through, and the gentle sounds of women about their daily tasks came in through them. The room was appointed as pleasantly as any Turkish sitting room I had ever seen. The rugs and cushions on the divan were of bright, tasteful design and perhaps more luxurious than those in Husayn’s house.
It was upon these cushions that I saw her. Baffo’s daughter had thrown herself across the divan in an attitude—belly down, legs swung up in the air behind her—one often associates with sobbing fits. But she was not crying. She had before her a silver tray of dainties and was enjoying the luxury of a late breakfast.
She did not start and cower at the sound of the opening door as one would who was used to the visits of a cruel master. She continued with the business of breakfast and only stirred when she saw for certain that it was Husayn and I. Then she made the effort to roll on one side the better to regard us. She propped her head on one arm and let the other rest upon her hip, from which that hand dangled idly. The straight line of that arm accented the curves of a small waist and firm, round hips. I felt that I should be reduced to tears if she continued to show no overwhelming relief to see me. And she did not—anything but.
“Why, Veniero!” she said—not “Giorgio”, not “my love”—and her tone was light and easy as if I were a casual, everyday visitor. “How nice of you to come today.”
My earnest questions, “How are you? How are you treated?” fell somehow short of the long distance that had to be maintained between us with the merchant on guard.
“Just fine,” she answered easily. “Just couldn’t be better.”
The awkward void that followed left me speechless, but Baffo’s daughter was induced to fill it with anything that came to hand. “Look!” she exclaimed. “Just look at what they have given me to wear!” And she jumped to her feet to give us a better view.
The major portion of her costume consisted of a jacket made of red and orange patterned velvet with trapunto work in gold thread. Its sleeves were wrist-length and ended in stylish points. The waist cinched in skintight, closing with a row of tiny pearls before it flared out to the ground. Above the waist fastening, the jacket was cut away, allowing for the natural swelling of the breasts which were covered by only an underbodice of the lightest gauze.
Conscious of this detail, Sofia shifted the bodice and giggled. “I used to be grateful I was not so big so I wouldn’t have to suffer the agonies other women went through to appear chestless as Venetian fashion prescribes. Now I have to pray I may yet grow a little.”
A shift in light allowed us to see that the gauze was translucent and I blushed with heartache as her nipples appeared through it like a pair of round, sugared comfits.
“And look!” she cried with sheer delight, the bodice and its lack of modesty quite forgotten now. “Just look! Pants! Pants like a man’s!”
The over-jacket split at the center to reveal a pair of red silk trousers. For all that they were luxuriously full, caught tightly at her small ankles and with a crotch no higher than her knees, when she kicked her legs up in them they seemed very immodest to me.
“Shalvar, they call them,” she explained and looked to the merchant for a confirmation of her pronunciation.
The old man nodded and smiled with pure pleasure at his merchandise’s performance. He couldn’t have whipped better from her. A pair of crimson slippers and a jaunty little round cap fitted with a veil completed the costume.
“And just look what I am given to eat!” Sofia said next, returning to the tray on the divan. “Such dainties! Here’s a sort of compote made with quince and honey and yogurt. Here are dates stuffed with almonds, this sort of cheese with a strong, salty flavor. And such curious flat pancakes for bread, sprinkled with fennel and caraway seeds! But these here are my favorites—these little pastries. What are they called?” she looked
