“Ferhad,” he said his name was, but he was very tight-lipped about it, as if he wished it were one syllable instead of two.
Ali brought warm tea, and then food, and the guest ate heartily—one might almost say ravenously, but he was too polite for that. On first impression he was careful not to let his exhaustion show lest it cause too great an imposition. I realized more and more clearly however that he had ridden long and hard before coming to rest in this place. I struck upon this detail and tried to use it to pry into conversation once his hunger was abated. He was washing his fingers in rosewater to finish, an act which did not seem at all incongruous to this soldier.
“Where did you come from today?” I asked. “Çorlu?”
“My horse came from there.” He smiled. “I myself left Sofija four days ago.”
“Sofija?” I said. “But that’s impossible. That’s more than three hundred old Roman miles as the crow flies.”
The spahi smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t bragging, only stating a fact, and I knew better than to doubt him further.
“You must be on extremely urgent business,” I commented.
The spahi smiled and shrugged again, but I got no more from him that night, for even as I sat there, he lay down on the divan and slept like a dead man.
When he woke the next evening, and had eaten quantities more, Esmikhan, who had refused to see any of her gossiping maids all the while he slept, sent me down to entertain him once again. I found him more relaxed and, if possible, more amiable. But he was not more communicative.
“You are, of course, welcome as our guest to stay as long as you wish,” I coaxed him. “But we are only a house full of old slaves and women. Surely the quarters of the spahis in the Grand Serai would be more entertaining for a young man such as yourself.”
Our guest smiled to show he forgave me my rudeness, but he said no more than, “Tell your women not to fear, my friend. Show them this ring if they are in doubt. They must recognize it.”
I nodded at the plain, large agate he showed me. Yes, we knew it.
“I can only say I come from their master and mine, and that the Grand Vizier and I are bearers of a heavy burden.”
Had I been listening closely, I might have guessed what his cryptic words meant, but we had to live together thus, dissatisfied, for nearly a month, before the truth was known.
XXIX
The weather turned fair again, but not too hot to enjoy sitting in the garden in the afternoon. The roses, refreshed by the rain, bloomed their second bloom with a vigor I could not remember having seen in them before. Especially around my lady’s pavilion were they profuse, as if they grew without leaves at all, only buds and flowers, and they filled the air with their scent.
Ferhad passed much time in the gardens, strolling with an ease and a delight that hid whatever anxieties might be weighing on his mind. My lady, too, took pleasure in the open air and often at corresponding times, though of course there was a high wall between the gardens of the selamlik and those of the harem.
One particular afternoon when our guest had been with us over two weeks, I left my mistress alone in her pavilion playing her oud and singing a repertoire of rather melancholic songs while I had to see about some purchases Ali had made for the kitchen. I offered to send her a maid to keep her company, but she declined, saying I needn’t waken anyone from her afternoon nap on such an account; she was quite content to be alone. There are those who will say I was careless. Well, maybe so, but I certainly thought no harm.
Besides, who can struggle against the will of God?
When I reentered the garden, I remarked at once how beautiful my mistress’ song had become. I had not heard her sing so beautifully, nor yet so cheerfully, in a very long time. Like a lark ascending over the garden, I thought, and other birds would surely rise in answer.
I approached the pavilion silently so as not to disturb the song. It was I who was disturbed by the scene instead.
Esmikhan sat on her pillows in the pavilion. Dressed in pink and cloth-of-gold, so becoming with her dark hair and eyes, she looked like one prize rose among all the others. Her beauty did take me aback—a long acquaintance had made me forget that she could be striking when she chose—but there was something even more disturbing about the scene. There, standing among the roses, just behind and to the left of my mistress, stood the young Ferhad.
She knew he was there. She must have known he was there—why else the change in the spirit of her song, and the high color in her cheeks? And yet she pretended she did not know. Why? Because if she gave but the slightest indication of knowing, he would have to beg pardon and flee for his life, and she would have to throw a veil over her face, and flee in the opposite direction.
So the scene stood there, poised like a butterfly on the very point of a leaf that the slightest breeze would send fluttering away. So all stood breathless in that moment (and for how many endless moments before I came?), attempting to hold it suspended there forever.
But this cannot be, my conscience soon caught up to my heart and said. This is
