“May He will you a hundred years, Father,” the girl prayed formulaically.
Sokolli Pasha nodded his thanks at the wish but continued, “Still, I feel I must no longer put off arrangements for your future care. You may not have heard, but on his deathbed, the Mufti Hamid, Allah favor him, spoke of marrying you to his youngest son. It was his dying wish. I should try to fulfill it. They came to me today, the Mufti’s older sons, and said they craved the pleasure of calling on me tomorrow night. I know they mean to set the bride-price and once it is set, we cannot in honor back out. You understand?”
She gave a quick nod.
“I only wanted to make certain the match was agreeable to you. I do want you to be happy. I can, you know, drive the price up so high they will be insulted and turn their backs on us forever. But they are a good family, a strong family, and unless the Sultan is a fool, many more Muftis may come from them. Even young Abd ar-Rahman I understand is already famous for his learning. Allah may will that he become the Sheikh al-Islam. But remember, I want you to be happy. You may speak your mind to me. Daughter, now.”
I could not believe my ears. She spoke lowly but no less plainly. “I will marry Abd ar-Rahman, Father, if that is your will.”
The child is intimidated, I thought angrily. I must speak for her. But it was neither the time nor the place. I had only one day before the brothers came. I must think of a plan quickly.
XLV
Sokolli Pasha gave me no time to think just then. He finished the interview with signs of pleasure but signs of relief as well, and dismissed Gul Ruh quickly. She ran off, no less relieved. But when I tried to follow, to reassure her of my support and that this marriage still might not be, the master held me back.
Perhaps now is my chance, I thought hopefully, but he did not ask my opinion. That much, he assumed, was settled. I had heard her agree to the match with my own ears, had I not?
Instead, Sokolli Pasha told me, “The Mufti said on his deathbed that I should spend more time with my harem. It would give me peace, he said. I see now it is true. You must help me in this, Abdullah. Tomorrow, there is the Divan and in the evening, the visit from the boy’s brothers. But then...”
He did not finish the sentence, yet it seemed to finish our conversation. So I said I would certainly help him in every way I could.
It occurred to me that simply coming to know his daughter better would put an end to the marriage plans.
But though Sokolli had turned away, I could tell I was not yet dismissed. When he turned again, I was startled beyond words to see tears in his eyes. The Grand Vizier? Whoever would have imagined him capable of tears?
“I know...”he said, struggling to swallow the grief. “I have known from the first she was not mine.”
My heart seemed to die. Did he also know my part in the matter? Was I now, after all these years, to finally be brought to justice?
“By Allah, there were times when I wished the inspiration of the Prophet had not spoken out against the disposal of unwanted girls. How easy, like the ancient Greeks, simply to take one’s shame, the proof of how little a man one is, out onto the hillside and expose it there.
“But I said then and I say it now, from the Sura of the Bee: ‘His judgments are faulty who allows dark shadows to settle on his face when a girl child is born.’ Even a girl child that is not one’s own. I have seen that it is so. For your part in her creation, Abdullah, I not only forgive but thank you.”
His generosity shamed, confused and made me grateful all at once.
“There is an old peasant song,” he continued without a pause for me to express my emotions in, which I don’t think I could have done anyway. “Sometimes the wisdom of the peasants comes close to competing with that of the Koran. The song says:
My own daughter
My face was shadowed when you were born.
I did not want your shame.
But years and Allah have taught me
The error and pride of my ways.
O daughter
Pretty, joyous child in the light of our family hearth.
Now I would rather die myself than ever lose you.
The bridegroom is my foe.
He cannot pay me enough.”
Again Sokolli Pasha fell silent, but again I understood we were not finished. This time the silence seemed endless. It was possible for me to take in the full import of what he had just confessed. I let the confession produce tears in my eyes as well. I let it bring to my mind all of the scenes I’d witnessed and abetted between Ferhad and my mistress.
Then there was still time, after those emotions, to go on to consider other related topics. I was in the midst of wondering just how, after such a confession, I could possibly break the man’s heart with news that his daughter—and she was his daughter, after all—could not really ever be happy obeying his plans for her. In the midst of this wondering, Sokolli Pasha, whose mind must also have wandered far and wide in that time, got up from his seat and began to pace. His steps soon brought him to my side, and then he laid a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“Do you remember, Abdullah,” he asked, “the day you first came here and stood in the courtyard for my approval?”
“Yes, master.” It was curious,
