Years of heavy disappointment weighed on him: Few who saw his protest did not consider it at least halfway mad. But the intelligence I received from the palace led me to believe Nassey would, indeed, have earned his Cyprus by this ploy if for no other reason than that it would give a slap to Sokolli and to his favorite Arab Pasha.
Fortunately, the hand of God moved in. Whether it was a damp, cold night in the street he couldn’t stand at his age, whether his madness, or whether foul play was involved (there were no sure signs of it, so my master escaped suspicion), the man was found dead in the gutter in the morning. His coat of arms hung rudely away about his iron-cold neck, as if it had choked him.
It fell my master’s lot to see that the deceased’s property returned to the royal coffers. The house and furniture were sold, the gold, silver, jewels, and slaves were confiscated and brought in bulk to the rooms beyond the sacred protection of the Prophet’s Cloak in the palace. This was the usual practice when a Jew or a Christian whose wealth was so largely due to the favors of the Sultan died; they cannot secure their goods’ separate perpetuation by the founding of charities attached to the mosques.
* * *
One week after Joseph Nassey’s death, my master had me collect some women’s clothes “of substantial size,” and a full apricot-colored veil. He instructed me to bring them to a house near the Small Khan, then pick them up again—on the person of the new addition to our harem.
“Bring her to me!” Esmikhan cried when she heard. “I will scratch her eyes out!”
The thought of such a confrontation I did not relish. Although I had only seen the new girl in her veils, even then I could tell she was no mean figure. At least one advantage she had over my lady: She was mobile on her feet, if somewhat heavy. And that heaviness might be due to her awkwardness with a veil if she were new to the land of the Faithful.
Still, somehow I doubted her novitiate. Though I’d been unable to provoke a word from her, not even the statement of her name, she seemed to understand quickly enough when directions were given. She climbed into the sedan chair and turned right or left down the hallway with none of the usual hand signals and gentle shoves a eunuch had to use with new slaves.
Irrational as it was, one could hardly blame my lady’s reaction. Never had she had cause to be jealous before, never had the master given her one. She was one Sultan’s daughter and the sister of another. No woman bought on the block could ever supplant her in that harem, should she bear a thousand sons. And it was perfectly legitimate that Sokolli Pasha should find someone younger, stronger, more beautiful to be his companion in idle hours. Indeed, gossips only wondered why he had not done so years ago. Still, it was not a comfortable position for my mistress to find herself in so suddenly and so without precedent.
Her discomfort tended to out-and-out panic, mostly because the new addition remained a complete unknown. There was no chance to observe her strengths, plot to combat them, or to wheedle out weaknesses and find them great enough for eternal damnation. The new slave remained in the mabein—that room of connubial bliss which had been unused for years—and was allowed no visitor but the master and myself. This was not Sokolli’s mere suggestion; it was a holy commandment to which he made me swear my life.
Normally, Sokolli Pasha made few requests concerning the harem. Like weather and seasons, we came and went and carried out our business as if by the will of Allah alone. He gave little thought to the processes which were my whole occupation. Therefore, when he did choose to take a stand against the elements, I would certainly do my best to see that he was obeyed, almost as if he were a wonder-working saint.
And so my lady alternately tried on new jewels and gowns to improve her attractions, swore violence, and conferred with a whole string of midwives and holy women about spells, amulets, and potions. The house reeked of wild rue and Job’s tears, the prime ingredients of such concoctions. I nearly lost my heart out of my throat one time when I came upon the dried skin of a snake and viper’s fangs set carefully in a niche—witchcraft. But desperate measures were called for, anything that might serve to improve Esmikhan’s position, with the help of Allah. Her own powers, it was clear, must fail miserably.
I alone visited the mabein twice a day with food on a tray. From curiosity as much as politeness I would offer the newcomer a bath or try to draw her into conversation, or even only try to get her to take off her veil so she might have more air. Although every scrap of any quantity of food had vanished when I returned, I always locked the door to the mabein behind me unsatisfied.
“I do not know,” I had to reply to my lady’s distraught enquiries after anything and everything.
“But my husband,” she said, biting her lip, “still spends time with her?”
“Several hours at least every night.”
“Night only?”
“As far as I know.”
“Oh, Allah, night is night! What do they do?”
“That, my lady, is their business and Allah’s alone. But I have heard talking. Low talk at least. That’s more than she’s ever given me.”
Here my lady would burst into tears and exclaim wildly, “She must bathe soon or the neighbors will complain of the smell. She must
