Safiye was not alone in her attraction to the site. A stream of local women as thin but as steady as the fountain on the stone female’s face found its way to the primitive shrine.
“Greeks?” was the first thing she asked.
Ghazanfer’s sugar-cone turban nodded.
The twinge of regret she felt at this reply surprised her. She had suspected this would be the answer: most peasants in the neighborhood kept their ancient faith. But now she knew for a fact that she would not be able to speak to her associates at this revered spot. Whereas Greek men might learn enough Turkish to make their way in a man’s world, their women steadfastly spoke nothing but their ancient mother tongue. She’d never regretted her inability to speak to Greek women before. And she had seen them, standing on their balconies or low tile roofs, placidly dropping their spinning whorls into the courtyards below to get the right tension in their wool. Or—particularly the old ones—sitting on their doorsteps, knitting their weatherproof stockings, the traditional patterns inside out on five hooked needles, and crooning to the small children about their feet.
Greek women were not as secluded as Muslim women, but she didn’t envy them. This was doubtless because they were poorer, not from any lack of desire for the status of seclusion. And there was nothing like a sedan chair accompanied by janissaries—the conquerors’ army—to send them scurrying.
But suddenly, here in the grotto’s shade, Safiye wished for communication.
Although some of the visiting women wore the striped skirts, white with deep blue or red, traditional to the race, most were widows. Like crows they flocked, every garment down to underlinen and pocket handkerchiefs having been sent to the dyer’s on that fateful day and returned a unanimous black.
What have I to do with those on whom heaven has thus turned its back? is what her usual reaction to widows might have been. Whose lives are, for all intents and purposes, over?
But for the first time she saw them as individuals and saw that not every petitioner was irredeemably old. A woman could be hardly more than a girl, and pretty, too, when an awe-full heaven—St. Agnes preserve us!—might plunge her into black and send her praying to springs and rocks for her solace.
Many of the petitioners brought offerings. Some brought only flowers—asters like hers—and left them in little lavender clouds at the impassive stone’s feet. Copper trays of boiled wheat were more popular. Even cold from a long hike on some black-swathed head, the dish exuded an earthy fragrance. And when the covering kerchiefs were removed, Safiye could see that designs of leaves, flowers, and inscriptions in colored sugar, almonds, basil, cinnamon, sesame seed, raisins, and dried figs ornamented the tops of these vulgar heaps.
“A dish for the dead,” Ghazanfer said. “It harks back to Mother Ceres and Persephone, her child.”
Mostly the petitioners ate the grain themselves with one or two friends and a skin of wine, quite joyfully al fresco, then returned with the copper tray, empty, balanced on their heads as they had come.
But an ancient woman begging among them saw to it that there were no leftovers. She is much like the rock itself, Safiye thought, though her clothes, in rags, did not have the luxury of a single color. Inevitably, this mendicant shuffled her way with an incomprehensible, singsong whine and a head sunken into her shoulders in a caricature of humility to the edge of the royal rugs. Then Safiye surprised herself by handing those wizened hands all the dolmas and gesturing that the old woman should keep the platter, too. Giving away a large part of her meal was the only way Safiye could think of to achieve the communication she craved.
The woman pulled the gift to her, bowed once, getting her clown-colored bodice in the dish’s oil, muttered blessings as in- comprehensible and fretful as the begging, then scurried off like a mouse to her den with a prize.
“Lady—”
Safiye started from the abnormal glow charity gave her, something like eating too much spicy food. The usually silent giant beside her had sucked in his breath with unmistakable horror.
“Ghazanfer, my lion? What is it? You feel there is something wrong with my largess?”
“Not at all, lady.” The khadim was tight-lipped.
“Well? What is it?”
“Only this charity.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Don’t you believe, lady, that ill fortune will follow a gift that goes directly from your table to the beggar’s hands? Didn’t you see how careful the other donors were to set the old woman’s portion in a neutral place for her first?” Such a long speech spoke to the earnestness of the eunuch’s words. “You don’t believe—or fear—you may become as destitute as she?”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing. No, I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. And I order you not to believe it as well.”
“Mashallah.” Ghazanfer bowed in compliance.
But Safiye didn’t like the panic which stung her own eyes as she watched, helpless, her disappearing tray.
She breathed once or twice, deeply, until she convinced herself that this was only a foolish superstition of her eunuch. He was so solicitous of her that he sometimes went too far; she would have to keep the head of reason between them. When they cut a lad, they often left him a child in more ways than one.
But in spite of such wisdom, she couldn’t shake herself free of the spell of the place, a spell of which she was quite certain Ghazanfer wasn’t totally innocent. She had to ask: “Ghazanfer?”
“Lady?”
“Who is she?”
“An old woman Allah has blessed with poverty. I know not, lady.”
“Not the beggar. I mean the stone.”
“Ah. Niobe.”
“Niobe.” Yes, he’d said so earlier. Safiye felt she should know the name without
