The instant they were gone, her grief exploded. “He is dead!”
“He? Who is he?” The Sultan, it occurred to me, but I banished the thought from my mind with an “Allah forbid.” Fratricide on ascension made for a rule free from pretenders, but it did nothing to protect the Empire from the upheavals the minority of a three-year-old boy would cause.
“He,” she said, her voice quavering on the syllable like that of a dervish on the Name of his Goal. But she mixed it with such anguish, I knew she could only mean Ferhad Pasha.
“It is just a dream the quake caused,” I said. “Ferhad Pasha is far from here. Perhaps where he is they didn’t even feel the shocks.” I comforted her with such things. “It is Allah’s will. You do not know but what this is only an evil spirit come to haunt you this dark night.”
But I could convince myself no more than I could convince her. The reverberations of that “He” had sent chills down my spine. By the eerie lamp light I saw my lady as if she were a corpse. I also saw the vein of a new crack in the plaster of the ceiling over the bed’s head that had not been there when I finally closed the book I was reading and blew out the flame that night. Allah only knew how close any of us was to death at any time. Perhaps one more shake would have sent the two upper stories down on me, on Esmikhan...
I shivered again, held her and prayed until she slept. Not long after that the muezzin called the dawn prayer with renewed vitality and meaning. He called people from the rubble of their houses in the poorer sections, called to people who had not ceased to pray since the earth had shaken them to their knees several hours earlier.
And word came in hushed, fatidic tones later that afternoon, ridden hard and fast from the troops on the border. Ferhad Pasha was dead. Some persons unknown had crept into his manor by night and murdered him. His head was cut off. Some said, afraid that the very words might set the earth shaking again, that men close to Ibrahim had tossed and kicked that head like a ball around their campfires.
I don’t think anyone ever gave my lady those details. She was feverish enough without when she woke from her sleep. Because she was spared such details, I hoped she might recover in a week or two.
But she never did again rise from her bed. The earthquake, some said. Running around that night and catching cold. They were people who had not heard her say that “He,” like a dervish calling on his God. “He,” It, which is neither a young man in spahis garb, nor a grand vizier, but something which encompasses all the earth and yet dwells in so little space as the heart of a gnat.
That same strength with which she brought forth her daughter against all odds of physical endurance stood with her again throughout that winter, but in the spring, when the army was making ready to march once more, I knew her time could be numbered in hours. Her daughter and grandchildren and those of us who loved her were already there, sleeping and taking our meals in the presence of Death to ease the way into Paradise and remind ourselves that our times too, would come. But when she began to fade back into a time when they were carefree girls together and called on the name of Safiye, I thought I should go and see if the daughter of Baffo would not come now. Surely, for this old, dear friend, she could not refuse.
I was told the Queen Mother had retired for the night. Because even sleep cannot forestall death, I pursued her further. I was surprised to find the doors to the Queen Mother’s apartment’s unguarded past the first courtyard. The door to her main chamber was even ajar. I took courage and let myself inside. The room was deserted. Lamps had never been lit there that evening, nor had the bolsters and cushions been unfolded.
So in this final wish I disappointed my lady: I returned to her side and held her hand until she died, peacefully in her sleep. Perhaps she was convinced her friend was with her all the time. But in my heart I hoped I was sufficient. I had had to be, time and time again in life.
I, at least, was not disappointed. There was no blessing of life my lady had not given me. And now she gave me the sorrow, the gift of her death.
LXVIII
After her mother’s death, Gul Ruh insisted that I come and live with her. It seemed the best plan, although she already had a full hierarchy of eunuchs and I would be living in the honor, yet the inactivity of semiretirement. I agreed to that, nonetheless—for what should I do in the palace?—and prepared to relinquish my cubicle to one of the black khuddam who now, except for Ghazanfer, were all the staff.
Ghazanfer came to say good-bye and, though I had vague recollections that he had taken time during our bereavement to offer comfort, my grief had been too deep to recall any but this interview in detail. For some reason I mentioned my nighttime search for his mistress and how distressed I was that I hadn’t been able to find her in time for her to sit at Esmikhan’s side.
“Safiye avoids deathbeds,” Ghazanfer said.
“Yes, I know. But you’d think for such a good old friend...”
“Friend? Does my mistress have friends, I wonder? Who do you suppose will be at her deathbed, eh?”
“Allah postpone the day.”
Ghazanfer did not amen me, but went on. “Your mistress was one of the sweetest and gentlest of Allah’s creatures, and yet Safiye saw that sweetness and gentleness as shortcomings, things to be exploited for her own use. That is
