The boy ignored this round of teasing and turned to me with a tone that said, “We men have no time for the silliness of women, have we?”
I did not disillusion him by suggesting that a woman’s ability to call state affairs silly was one of her most valuable assets.
“Ustadh,” the boy said, “My father bids you come and enjoy the feast with him.”
“Oh, my little uncle,” I replied. “Your father is most gracious. But I have already told him I would have to ignore his invitation to spend the evening with my lady.”
“But he insists,” the little boy said. “There is a new arrival among our guests. You’ll never guess who, so I’ll tell you. It’s Ferhad Bey come back to us.”
My lady’s great eyes caught me as I rose to leave, and filled mine with wonder. I carried it with me as a token from the harem as I entered the world of men. The selamlik was still in an uproar when I arrived; a storm whirling around the center calm of the harem, it took longer to settle down here.
In the seat of honor at the governor’s right sat the man who relieved me of the wonder my lady’s eyes had given me. I have no doubt he read some cryptic message from the harem in me, for his getting to his feet, and his deep bow of greeting were full of tenderness, respect, and ardor. His eyes continued to prod mine for news of his love, but I avoided them by demanding of him in something close to a panic, how it was that he had come to disturb the peace of our retreat.
“I am in the service of my lord and master, the Sultan of all the Faithful,” was all the reply modesty would allow him.
Our host had to supply the details. “For acts of great courage fighting against the Persians, our friend, Ferhad Bey, has been elevated to the post of Master of the Imperial Horse. Thanks be to Allah, he is to be quartered with us.”
“Here in Konya?” I asked stupidly.
“Of course here in Konya,” the governor replied, then continued to exalt. “All doors are suddenly opened to you, my friend.”
Harem doors? I shot a glance towards my host, but his mood was too jovial to be dampened. My panic growing, I asked, “How long will you stay?”
“That depends upon the will of my lord the Sultan, and upon the beneficence of Allah,” Ferhad replied.
“Allah willing,” the host prayed, “it will be many joyful years.”
Ferhad did not add “Allah willing” to this statement, but only smiled and nodded politely.
“Was my master, the Grand Vizier, responsible for this advancement?” I tempted.
I could not believe even Sokolli Pasha could be so careless of his harem. Fortunately, if the true reason for my question were detected by Ferhad, he politely overlooked it as he had overlooked our host’s enthusiastic tactlessness in the previous question. He assumed that I wanted news of my master, and began to give it in great detail, describing all the foreign embassies he had received, and with what glory.
“The name ‘Sokolli’ is becoming a word of fear among the unruly elements of the country,” Ferhad said.
“Do you fear it, too?” I warned him with my eyes, but I did not interrupt his speech.
What luxurious peace we had known in Konya! Ferhad told of things with a fierce immediacy which, had we heard of them before, had come as idle rumors which one could easily forget. The rebellion in Yemen with all Turkish garrisons driven out, the sea exploits of Piali Pasha for which he had been elevated to the station of Second Vizier, Sokolli’s attempts to control all of this in the absence of any direction from the Sultan Selim...
I did not interrupt this recitation, but our host did, perhaps because he was tired of having Ferhad turn to him for opinions which served only to show how ignorant he was of the Empire’s affairs compared with his new subordinate.
“Such a mind he has!” was our host’s diversion.
“Where will you stay?” I asked then, prodding the final avenue of hope left for me.
Our host closed that avenue quickly. “He will stay here with us, of course. There’s no comfort in barracks, Allah knows, but to rent a place would leave our friend all alone, which is even more discomfort.
“Not that I haven’t suggested to Ferhad that he marry,” the governor continued, laughing. “He should not leave the harems altogether deprived of his fine figure. I have even suggested a match with my eldest daughter, but he declines. Another man would be offended, but I—I am not offended. I have not got- ten to my age and my position without some understanding of the politics of marriage. He’s holding out. Aren’t you, Ferhad? Holding out for some better match the Sultan might someday offer him. A slave girl of his own house, perhaps, or even a princess of the Blood. Our Grand Vizier, Sokolli Pasha, held out, and well he was paid for his continence. Ah, restraint! That is a sure sign of one born to rule among the Ottomans, Allah willing.
“Yes, I have often wondered where I myself might be today if a lust for sons had not made me fall short of a princess of the Blood. That is something, to marry a princess of the Blood...”
Our host could have had no idea how uncomfortable his speech made both Ferhad and me. Fortunately for all of us, the governor’s small son, perhaps missing the harem in truth now, had come and climbed into his father’s lap, and the governor forgot all about the disadvantages of having children. He settled back comfortably to enjoy the festival.
I’m afraid I can’t say whether the dervish gave a good performance any more than I can say whether the women enjoyed one. I was too nervous to listen to poetry that evening. And the coming of daylight did not improve
