“Who has been teaching my son such things? To what pagan of a tutor should we quickly give the choice: ‘Islam or the sword, by Allah!’?
“At first, Gul Ruh,” Safiye continued, “when you told me about a woman in black, I thought Nur Banu. I thought...well, I didn’t believe you. Now? Now I’m not so sure. Something...something dark has come over him. Something I am not sure we can control.”
I remembered the black scar on his cheek.
“He has grown up, Safiye,” Esmikhan suggested quietly. “All you put in him from the beginning—of good and evil—has now come to manhood.”
“But he is my son. There must be a way I can control my own son.”
Esmikhan said nothing.
Safiye paused, then: “All I can say is it will take some hard work and maybe even a little shove through Murad—which I’m not at all sure I can manage right now, since Nur Banu’s got that new dancing girl in favor—to bring Muhammed around to this marriage we all want so much. By Allah, control! I need more control...”
Her voice unraveled out into a deep musing which maybe never reached but certainly pushed towards the realization: “I need control like my son, Allah spare us, needs meaning. And perhaps, for people like us, neither ever truly exists.”
LX
The morning after the final boat race and the final fireworks display, when word came to us that the Prince was recovering well and beginning to walk around a little, Gul Ruh sighed and declared to no one in particular that she longed to become a Christian.
“Allah forbid!” her mother cried, making signs against evil as it she had just wished for her own death. “Whatever makes you say such a thing?”
Gul Ruh’s reply showed that she was really too naive of other religions to be taken seriously. The gist of her longing was only that, nun-like, she wished never to marry anyone at all.
As fate would have it, not two hours later we, all three, were commanded to appear before the Sultan himself. Esmikhan had not seen her brother except on formal occasions since his ascension, and for Gul Ruh, the memories of childhood meetings had faded altogether. It was an honor not to be refused and yet one so great as hardly to be borne. Gul Ruh, who thought she could guess its purpose (her aunt Safiye had been busy all morning), clung to me all the way down, as it she were as crippled as her mother.
“Oh, Allah,” she kept praying over and over, “I wish I could be a nun.”
Murad sat on cushions in the cool of the garden, his legs coiled under him and under a sheet of paper on which he was practicing the art of illumination. The recent festivities, he declared had given him great inspiration.
Esmikhan replied politely that, yes, the festivities had been worthy of his majesty.
“Tell me. Sister,” Murad asked, applying color with a brush no more than three hairs wide, “which do you think was the greatest festivity? Your wedding to Sokolli Pasha, may Allah favor him, in that tumbledown town of Inönü, or these most recent events?”
Esmikhan smiled, remembering a similar test question placed before his vizier by her legendary grandfather, Suleiman the Magnificent. “My wedding, of course,” she replied, “because you favored it with your presence. And even this most recent circumcision, magnificent as it was, could not boast such an illustrious guest for you were busy being host.”
Murad smiled and applied gold leaf with a liberal hand. “And you, my young niece?” he asked. “Did the festivities please you?”
“Indeed, Uncle, majesty, very much,” Gul Ruh replied. When pressed to tell her favorite event, she confessed that her mind was a blur but that perhaps the confections made of spun sugar in the shapes of animals and plants suited her fancy most.
“What about the religious debates?” the Sultan asked, looking sidelong up at her from his paper. “Did you enjoy them?”
“The religious debates?” Gul Ruh asked, confused and half fearing she was being led into a trap. Quick calculation told her that while the debates were going on, her mind had been full of her cousin’s death. She had been seeing black witches in the circumcision pavilion. Did her uncle wish her to confess something? Something that would make life in Safiye’s harem even shorter and more intolerable? Deciding with a deep breath that martyrdom was perhaps the best alternative to the Christian convent Islam had to offer, she concluded the truth would be best to tell in any case.
“I’m sorry, most illustrious uncle. I’m afraid I did not watch any of the debates at all. There were other entertainments, you see...”
“No, I don’t suppose silly girls’ minds find much of interest in the intricacies of Holy Law.”
“Actually, I usually find it quite interesting, but I...”
“Well, I am glad you found entertainment elsewhere more suited to your sex and nature.”
Gul Ruh wanted to say that the events that had interrupted her at that time had not been at all to her liking, but she remained silent. Her uncle continued without noticing her hesitation.
“Nevertheless, I am sorry you missed this particular round. I’m convinced you would have found much of interest in it.”
“I will try and pay more attention next time,” Gul Ruh promised.
“Good,” Murad said. “I suspect you will find great opportunity to watch the religious banter back and forth to your heart’s content in the very near future.”
The Sultan blew gently on his miniature to let it dry, then held it up for his audience to admire.
