The scented breeze brings news to the narcissus
That the rose has come out of seclusion.
‘She promises a rendezvous with you in the garden,’ it says,
And the narcissus bows down in happiness at this promise.
How plainly, how perfectly the poem captured the situation, as if the poet had written with no other lovers in mind! And yet—how impossible! How eternally impossible!
“Lady,” I said, turning to face the grille where I knew she was watching. (And I noticed how perfectly placed the vase was before that grille so she could not miss the message.) “Lady, I cannot do this.”
There was only silence from the grille in reply. She knew I had guessed and she also knew that I could not go against what was my very reason for being—to stand as a guardian to her virtue. Yet the silence continued, and in it I read an awful thing: If I should betray her now, I might never have her confidence again as long as I lived, and that was a thought worse than death.
Please, please put them in the vase. Just this once, her silence seemed to ring out through the selamlik. Don’t you think I know our love is impossible? It is just the passing infatuation of a brokenhearted princess for a lonely, bored spahi. I expect nothing more. But just this one, brief exchange. Don’t you know how Manuchihri’s poem continues? It is not a happy ending, I know. But I still love it for its beauty. The lover is described as a cloud, the lady as a garden:
He returned from abroad,
His eyes brimming with tears,
And he awakened his mistress with those tears.
She reached out and tore her veil.
And emerged from hiding with her face like the full moon.
The lover gazed on his beloved from afar,
And shouted a shout heard by all ears.
With fire in his breast he tore his heart open
So that his mistress could see his hidden fire.
The water of life flowed from his eyes
To bring forth plants from his beloved,
But...her body was ruined by the heat...
His mistress would not bloom...
For all our tears, I know our love is as impossible as the love of a cloud for an enclosed garden: we can never embrace. Still, just this once, Abdullah—or I shall die...
I succumbed to the silence. I placed the two flowers in the vase, and even brought the leaves and the ox-eye up to my mistress so she could keep them always with her in the harem. But I determined most firmly that at this first serious trial of my duty since Chios, perhaps even since the brigands, I would not fail. I would confront our guest that very night, allowing him no more evasion, and find out just what he meant by disrupting the peace and honor of our home.
He was standing, strong and vibrant, in meditation before the vase, one finger gently circling the petals of the rose. A sudden panic filled my heart at how overwhelming the task of a eunuch was—to somehow be stronger than men who are real men—and I decided to ask Sokolli Pasha as soon as he got back if I couldn’t have two or three aides.
I’ll admit now that what I felt was more than the threat to my station. Jealousy. I begrudged the man every angle of his body, every battle-earned muscle. I begrudged him the way he made water. The jaundice of a Barbary pigeon crept up my back and neck and prickled under my turban like heat rash, like an infestation of lice.
Young Ferhad turned to me with a smile totally unguarded and without malice. Did he expect me to be carrying another very welcome message? I wouldn’t have given him anything at that moment. Apparently he expected nothing, for he was the one who spoke first, bursting with news of his own.
“Sultan Suleiman is dead,” he announced. “May Allah have mercy on his great soul.”
I repeated the blessing in a murmur. “When did this dread event happen?” I asked when my thoughts came clearly again.
“A week before I arrived here to take your hospitality.”
The metal of nerves that could keep such news a secret for so long shocked me more than the news itself.
“I feel I can tell you now,” Ferhad continued, “for Sultan Selim, who arrived from Kutahiya three nights ago, has successfully consolidated his power in the Serai.”
“Prince—I mean Sultan Selim—has arrived in Constantinople? That is curious. You may know the lady I serve is his daughter, yet she received no word from him.”
“This is not the time to be placing the womenfolk in jeopardy by giving them too much knowledge. But I feel it is safe for you to know now, because Selim left early yesterday morning with a small, fast-riding guard.”
“Selim come and gone and we knew nothing of it?”
“I knew your mistress is one of the Blood whom this must touch deeply, so I did feel obliged to say something as soon as possible. Still, it was best to wait ‘til the new Sultan had outdistanced any enemy who might want to send word to the army before he gets there. Even so, it must not become general knowledge yet. Keep it from the gossips among your staff if possible.”
I nodded.
“I hope you will convey to your mistress my profound sympathy upon the death of her grandfather, and my sincere wishes and prayers for the blessings of Allah to be on her illustrious family, now as her father rises to the throne.” His tone was stilted and formulaic as if there were much he would have said, but dared not.
I nodded again to assure him I would pass on the message, even though I was certain every word had already been heard through the lattice.
“But the Sultan, may Allah have mercy on him, is—was—in Hungary leading the armies of the Faith,” I protested. “Surely those men must know by now that their commander is dead. The secret cannot be kept from them.”
“Our master, Sokolli Pasha, is a very
