If questioned, you would hear her be as dependent on Allah’s will as her husband’s study had taught him to be. But for her, pious phrases were born not of having stared the wonderful power of the Divine in the face and understood the utter vanity of all human endeavor. In her mind first you met all the forms, then it was Allah’s will, with the sneaking suspicion that if you’d done everything just right. His will could not help but conform to your own.
And so the professional mourners, already called in, were allowed to pass a mirror from one face to the other. They chattered among themselves as they applied heavy coats of kohl to their eyes that would run most impressively when the time came to practice their trade. Trays of preserves and fruit in just such somber proportions as tradition called for appeared from time to time. A Koran reciter read, although no word was understood. Then, to give the professional woman a rest, Gul Ruh was coaxed into showing her skill, for my little charge had major portions of the holy book down as well.
“A remarkable child.” Umm Kulthum smiled, and then kept up her duty as hostess by real entertainment—gossip. In her mind at least, it was gossip geared to the somber situation at hand, but it was gossip nonetheless.
“When it comes your turn to become a widow, Esmikhan Sultan—Allah will that the day is years away—how I shall envy you.”
Everyone carefully avoided laughing at this absurdity and my lady asked politely, “What do you mean, lady?”
“I mean, of course, that your man is being prudent. He is putting away money now to take care of you when you are alone.”
“But my husband is a slave of the Sultan,” Esmikhan said. “When he dies, all his wealth returns to the treasury. He cannot bequeath any of it. My daughter and I—Allah have mercy on us—shall be left with only our allowance from the palace. It is the great fear of my life.”
“Ah, yes.” Umm Kulthum winked slyly. “But everyone knows Sokolli Pasha is keeping some by, off the Sultan’s records. Under your bed, isn’t it? That’s what somebody told me. Well, I’m sure you’ll know well enough when the time comes. Allah will it may be a hundred years from now, of course.”
Esmikhan said nothing, but I could see the thought pinch in her plump face: Everyone knows? Then how is it that I do not know?
A little while later I was called upon to help move a screen into the sick room, for the Mufti had sent word that he felt the Angel near and would speak somewhat to his harem before he answered the call. I took this opportunity, while my mistress was out of earshot, to ask the almost-widow, “Lady, forgive my asking, but where did you hear about my master’s hoarding of loot?”
“Hhm? Well, oh dear me. Simply everywhere. It’s common knowledge.”
If it’s common knowledge then does even the Sultan know—or think, rather—that he is being cheated? I thought this, but did not speak it aloud. Instead, I asked, “Well, tell me where you heard it most recently, then.”
“Let me think. Yes, of course. At the palace. I was calling on the Valide Sultan. She was the one who mentioned it.”
“Nur Banu. I see.”
“She said it was common knowledge. It must be common knowledge, else I wouldn’t have brought it up, now, would I?”
“I suppose not, lady.” Unless someone had only wished you to think it was common knowledge.
I heard the dying man say to my master, “You’ll excuse me. Pasha, my friend,” as we approached.
“Of course,” Sokolli replied, bowing out of the way to let the curtain encircle the bed.
But the Mufti held on to my master’s hand for a moment longer as he said in a hoarse whisper, “Look to your harem, my friend. That is my one regret in this life, that I did not spend more time with those behind me. Don’t you answer the Angel making the same mistake I have.”
My master nodded. These were the words of an almost-saint, after all. I thought. How pleasant that the Mufti did spend so little time with them, that he is still able to say that. If he’d spent any more, his regrets might have been as great, but they would have been for another, more bitter reason.
When at length she returned to her own domain, the Mufti’s wife looked the farthest thing from a woman who had just said her final good-bye to the man she’d been married to for forty years. She was aglow with news and excitement and could not even be induced to take a seat before beginning.
“I suppose they want me to keep quiet about it for a while. You know men. No feelings at all. But I cannot keep still. Listen. Such news! Esmikhan Sultan, you and I are to be relatives! My husband has suggested and yours has agreed that your daughter should marry my youngest son.”
Esmikhan gave a gasp of disbelief which Umm Kulthum was quick to reassure.
“Of course, my son’s father didn’t know anything about Gul Ruh until I dropped a word or two-—how she recited today and all, and what a good, pious child she is. It is his death wish. Sokolli Pasha dare not grow perverse later and change his mind. Oh, my husband spoke on and on about the unifying force of the harem and all sorts of other things too deep for the likes of me. But my Abd ar-Rahman, he did blush so nicely all the while. He always was my favorite—well, the youngest always is. I’d say the wedding sheets are all but spread. And it does make
