Even in the presence of his mother and his sisters, the young man sprawled across the cushions and the divan, one hand making the effort to hold the mouthpiece to his lips but the other lifeless at his side, as if he hoped at any moment to escape the scene into sleep. One thing only—the eyes—continued to disturb the somnolence of his person.
If one must be more precise, it was upon her hair that he trained his eyes, her hair that spilled in golden vapor from her braids. Safiye fancied that he was undertaking experiments upon that hair as an alchemist may do to test the veracity of his metal. Both eyes would close, then first one would peek and then the other in turns, squint, stare, roll around, open wide, then close again. If Nur Banu noticed this peculiar behavior (and they were her eyes the young man had inherited), she despaired of it as just one more sign that her son was hopelessly lost to a world of visions and dreams.
I wish Nur Banu Kadin had given me a little part in this farce not connected with the water pipe, Safiye thought. Something unpredictable and lively to show this young man the difference between waking and sleeping. Well, if she is too much mother to wish cold water thrown on her son, then I must do it on my own. Something — but what? I cannot very well interrupt their talk with singing and dancing.
Shortly Safiye had devised her plot. Never moving her hands from their positions on her shoulders, she slowly, slowly worked the ring off one of her fingers. Then with a twist of the wrist more subtle than was needed to manipulate a narghile’s mouthpiece into position, she let the jewel drop to the floor. Its landing on the carpets at her feet was silent and unnoticed by either Nur Banu or the princesses, who were too busy wondering what they could possibly say or giggle next.
But Murad saw. She knew he saw, for both eyes opened at once and forgot their flirtation with sleep. Still, he said nothing, not even, “Mother, why do you waste money on slave girls who are so careless with their jewelry?” which would have been all the question needed.
It was not long after this that Nur Banu admitted defeat. She did not say so aloud, nor did she lose the tone of graciousness in her voice. But she began to make her farewells, and that was exactly the same thing. With a sinking heart, Safiye picked up the brazier, carried it out, and returned for the jade-mouthpieced pipe for which her mistress had long ago lost the taste. An impatient wave of dismissal from the bangled hand told her that the young man was to be left with his smoke, mock though it was—to choke on it, if Allah were so merciful. Safiye held the door open for mother and sisters, followed them into the harem, then closed the door behind her.
XXXV
The stony silence with which Nur Banu greeted the anxious subjects of her domain told them immediately to stifle their questions. They did not want to share the fair Venetian girl’s awful punishment—two weeks, maybe three, of being ignored, talked of only in the most defaming of terms behind her back. In the closed world of the harem, death was preferable.
Nur Banu swept to the retreat of her own room and every other woman was dragged along by her draft. Every other woman except Safiye, who remained at the mabein door, the site of her defeat.
“At least he has not touched me,” Safiye tried to combat her misery even when it had hardly had time to begin. “He is not Sultan—yet—so I may still be given to another man when—if—I win Nur Banu’s favor again and she has in some way forgiven what truly wasn’t my fault at all.”
Yet, as she stood deserted there by the door, Safiye clung to one last hope: the ring still lay where she had dropped it on the rug in the mabein. Surely none could blame her if she returned to get it.
“Now, what do you expect to gain by this?” Safiye scolded herself even as she did it. “Do you expect Murad to be on his feet, hunting for the ring himself, and to be obliged at least to say, ‘I found it!’?”
No, of course not. She entered the room, made the deep bow she had been taught to do, retrieved the ring, and returned to the door again without reaction. Indeed, it occurred to her that the room might well be deserted. Just to make sure she had not bowed to empty space, she ventured one last look up to the spot where the young man lav. He hadn’t so much as changed the hand holding his mouthpiece and his eyes were now half-shut in a sort of self-satisfied drowse.
The indolence! she almost cried aloud. Who would want you anyway, you lethargic, useless bag of bones? I shall become great without you, just you wait and see! And she did not hesitate to give the young man a glare that would relay this message to him, even if it were not in words.
Halfway into her good, vindictive glare, Safiye stopped quite short. Something about the young man was moving. Ever so slightly, but it was. Had it been his chest, she would have credited him with breathe which at the moment was otherwise doubtful. Had it been his knee, she would have passed it off as a nervous twitch such as happens when one settles into sleep. But it was a finger. The forefinger of the long, pale hand at his side, it was crooking ever so slowly but definitely. Definitely, yes, it was beckoning her
