Ferhad spoke in detail of the duty that brought him to Konya: “...Disturbances on the Persian border since the Shah has learned of the death of Suleiman—Allah give his mighty soul rest. Troops are being mobilized to answer them. We have a long trek ahead over the sterile, mountainous regions of Upper Armenia and Azerbijian. We will be leaving to face this fate in another week, inshallah.”
Some might have thought him a fool. Others would have found him indiscreet, treacherous, even, and worthy of court-martial for these confidences. But from events at the death of the great Sultan, I knew full well how Ferhad could hold his tongue when it was required of him.
No, I recognized the symptoms. He was drawn to what stood behind my curtain as a man is drawn to answer the call of the Angel of Death. He would have been content to stand there silent and to bask in what he could feel and the rest of the world was sadly numb to. But as that was impossible, guilt pricked his tongue on to such animated talk that he was hardly recognizable or sensible.
Esmikhan, however, had no difficulty recognizing him, nor of sensing the swift current that carried the flotsam-jetsam of his language on at such a rate. She stood where she was on the other side of the screen, transfixed by the vision of perfectly chiseled features. Plush, lusciously curled moustache and dark, gentle eyes so handsomely set off the brilliant purple and gold tassels of his uniform.
Esmikhan would not climb into the sedan. She stood there until my seconds shifted and coughed nervously, and my arms ached from holding the curtain. But I did not resent that physical ache. It was, I realized, as close as I would ever come to the exquisite ache of mind that knotted these two hearts I stood between.
Ferhad did not take his leave of me until the emotion had worn him out, and he was a man trained for superhuman endurance. I was exhausted and my lady’s small frame sank into the sedan at last as if she would never rise again. But there was strength enough in her to convey to me the glimmer of a thought. That tall, handsome vision of a man had been the first thing to greet her eyes when they had come, blinking, into the sunlight after the soft darkness of the mosque, and fresh from the intensity of her prayer upon the holy Stone of Rumi.
XXXVI
Tuesday there was relief: my lady stayed indoors. But I was all tension and vigilance when we repeated our Monday devotions on Wednesday.
Esmikhan had no desire to sit upon the Stone again. “These things take time,” she explained. “One must be patient for the fulfillment. And to throw oneself too often and too violently at the saint’s door is to make yourself a pest rather than a welcome guest.”
Although several times I caught her eyes wandering expectantly towards the public thoroughfare where Ferhad had appeared to her, the stone and glass of the mosque her father was building remained between them.
Still, the vision enslaved her mind. Imagination, I know, can have ten times the effect on the individual as reality. But the world doesn’t feel the convulsions then, when they throb in the individual’s imagination. At the moment, it was the world’s face I had to keep unblushing.
In spite of her imagination’s abandon, Esmikhan joined me in a sigh of relief when we reached the safety of the governor’s haremlik. She found her helplessness a discharge of burdens; she was glad she was not given the chance to make a decision she could not have made rationally. The pressure on me increased, however, and increased tenfold when my host divulged some news after dinner.
“I held Divan today. What else have the men to do when the holy places are closed to them?” He said this with a chuckle and then continued, “Besides the usual peasants with their tiresome quibbles, I found it attended by the most decorous and charming young spahi, head of a division just lately come to town. In our conversation—which, I might add, I found most enjoyable—I discovered that he knows you. His name is Ferhad Bey.”
“Yes, I know him,” I admitted.
“By Allah! What a happy chance!” my host exclaimed.
“He has rendered my master very useful service in the past,” I said, hoping not to make too much of it.
“Ah, I knew he was a man of diligence and promise. He sat in on my judgments and made such astute observations that I would not be surprised if that young man finds himself with his own sandjak to rule in a very few years.”
“Pray Allah he does not take yours,” I said with what can only be called bitterness.
My host was startled. “Oh, I’m sure that was the farthest thing from his mind. In spite of his many qualities, he is altogether unassuming and without guile.”
“Yes, I know he is,” I said at once, fearing I might have spoken too bitterly. “A day at the mosque has made a philosopher of me, I suppose. I only meant to suggest that sandjaks, like virtue, come in limited supply. One man’s gain must needs be another’s loss.”
“I have taken the liberty of inviting him to sup with us tomorrow night. I hope you will have no objection.”
What could I say? I was only a guest and a eunuch, after all. But for the next full week there was no rest from the tension for me, either with my lady out of doors nor inside the palace. It was the first and only thing I have
