That four or five others present were also originally drafted from the subject peoples and the quotation of the old proverb, “There is no faith like new faith,” left him still unsubdued.
Coincidentally, it was that same day my mistress mentioned she had been visited by Nur Banu while I was out.
“What did the Valide Sultan want?”
“The same old pleasantries. No new gossip. She did seem disappointed that Sokolli Pasha had not yet returned from the Divan.” Esmikhan took a stab or two at her needlework and then said, almost to herself, “Strange.”
“What is strange, my lady?”
“Do you remember that wonderfully heavy golden girdle the Queen Mother used to have?”
I didn’t, but I pretended to because Esmikhan grew impatient with me whenever I indicated that fashion was not among my major interests.
“She didn’t wear it today?”
“Oh, she did,” Esmikhan replied, “But it used to have such a wonderful pearl on the end of it. As big as a bantam’s “
“And?”
“And it didn’t today. You can’t imagine that she could have lost something like that, can you? The whole palace would have been turned inside out until it was found. And if it were stolen, surely we would have heard about it.”
“Yes. Well, she must have given it away.”
“Yes. But to whom? Whom does Nur Banu favor so?”
I had no answer.
My master did curious things under stress. That Sunday—for some reason the Divan did not sit that day, though its pressures pursued him—Sokolli Pasha insisted that the entire household join him for a sail on the Bosphorus.
Most of the girls, of course, were ecstatic with the prospect of such diversion. My job keeping them from becoming too diverted and my hope of pleasure practically canceled each other out. My lady had to be bodily carried onto the boat, but once made comfortable with cushions and sherbets I think even she enjoyed herself.
On the strait, in the sunlight, a stiff breeze sent wavelets flying like a swirl of so many autumn leaves. The air was good and strong and the heave of the rowers and the smell of fish and salt and tar brought days of my youth to mind. Gul Ruh and a few of the other girls pressed me and so I regaled them with memories. Sometimes in the midst of a recollection, I would catch Esmikhan’s eyes and we would smile at one another, remembering. It was a healthy day, indeed, for I managed to tell my tales without expressing or even feeling bitterness.
Any man passed thirty-five has learned that his life will not be all they promised when he was a boy. Perhaps my youth as I told it was a little more lively than the reality, but I could leave it behind now with less regret.
Gul Ruh grew bright-cheeked and laughed, and she and the girls went to the side of the boat and pretended to catch fishes like we sailors used to do. I scolded and told my seconds to keep an eye on them. The girls pretended to repent, but when I went out on the prow to enjoy the hill, fresh spray on my face, I continued to see a flash of white arm creep out between the red and gold curtains from time to time. They pretended to repent and I pretended not to see their later transgressions. Those flashes of white, I thought, could not be seen by any but the closest passing ship. And even to them, those arms must remain anonymous.
I looked back at my master’s boat. Yes, he had come with his family, but in a separate, smaller boat and never so close as to make it appear to any that there was any relationship. The Grand Vizier sat cross-legged under a fringed awning, yet without the close curtains a harem bark was obliged to carry. The only companions he had brought along were not for pleasure, but for work: A pair of secretaries and a pasha visiting from an eastern sandjak kept him thoroughly occupied. Did Sokolli Pasha realize we were on the water at all?
We had crossed the strait now and were halfway through the excursion. The far shore of the Golden Horn, beyond the enclosure of Galatea, spilled unrestrained by walls or fortifications down to the very water—unpainted wooden houses with rickety balconies on stilts dipped in like hasty bathers. This was Pera, the main colony of Venetians and other Christian foreigners.
“Careful some housewife doesn’t come out and throw her slops down on us,” I cautioned the captain as we sailed very close under the railings.
He saluted and we laughed together. He would try. Although that was a distinct possibility—as the rubbish we floated through testified—it was much more likely that we would be spied on by some foreign diplomat. These houses on the shore, though old and shabby, were great favorites for such men because they could sit on the balcony, gaze over the water at the domes of the Serai and imagine for their reports home all sorts of things one could never actually see.
So let them look! I said to myself.
I gave one brief thought to Andrea Barbarigo, now Muslim, the navy’s dragoman, to wonder if he missed that diplomatic life. One good whiff of sea air assured me he didn’t. I sat back to enjoy the journey.
XXXIII
Presently I heard sounds that reminded me of another thing for which these seaside houses were popular. Christians, to whom wine is allowed, keep public houses there to attract sailors—and anyone else desirous of a quaff. In the realm of Islam, Sunday had ceased to be the very different color from any other day of the week a pious nurse had given it in my childhood. But had I stopped to think
