I realize now that Hamza’s visits to Chamyeri were possible only because of my mother’s and Ismail Dayi’s loose supervision. We would meet in the pavilion in the darkening afternoon. Sitting cross-legged on the divan, we discussed books and poetry. Hamza described Europe, the boulevards and cafés of Paris. If, on occasion, he seemed distracted, I attributed it to the insignificance of my experiences. After the cook left the kitchen at night, I stole lemons and brought them with me to bed, inhaling their scent under the quilt, imagining it to be Hamza’s citrusy cologne, the roughness of the peel against my nose the sting of stubble on his cheek.
Not long after our boat trip to Prinkipo Island, Madam Élise came to live at Chamyeri. Before long, Ismail Dayi forbade Hamza to visit. I heard him tell mother that it was improper for a young man in the crazy blood of youth to spend the night in a house with unmarried women. Mama protested, but Ismail Dayi would not relent. He even forbade visits during the day. Hamza disobeyed him, arriving after Ismail Dayi’s carriage had disappeared down the road. But he came less often and never stayed very long. He told me not to let Mama know he was there. I was sad for Mama because I knew how much she enjoyed his company, but flattered that he had braved the danger of my dayi’s wrath to see me. Still, I missed our ritual and, for a long time, was unable to sleep until the early hours of the morning. I wandered through the dark rooms, listening for the clear chime of his voice, and huddled on the divan in the room where he had slept, the mattresses and quilts now stored away in a cabinet. Though Madam Élise’s French was more fluent than Hamza’s, in her mouth the language was a pale, sticky gum of sounds. Sometimes, sitting in the fragrant garden watching the night fishermen, I imagined I heard his voice.
11
Niko’s smile wavers only a moment as he opens the heavy, brass-studded door to find Kamil Pasha next to a skinny man with a face the color of yoghurt and hair like the setting sun.
“Your arrival pleases me,” Niko booms, a gap-toothed grin beneath his luxuriant black mustache. At first glance, the hamambashou appears fat, but his chest is deep and well muscled from kneading the bodies of his charges. It is thatched with wet black hair. A red-checked peshtemal towel covers him from waist to knees.
“I am pleased to see you.” Kamil turns to Bernie and is disconcerted to see his teeth in a wide grin. “Decorum,” he can’t help himself from saying. “Decorum is important.”
“Yeah, right. Sorry, buddy.” Bernie composes his face into a caricature of seriousness.
Kamil is apprehensive. It is the first time he has allowed anyone to accompany him to the hamam. He is no longer sure how it came about that Bernie is standing here now. Had he suggested it yesterday evening, or had Bernie? Either way, a bottle of potent raki had played a part. He has undertaken to bring Bernie to the baths, and he must make sure the experiment does not go awry. He follows Niko into the cooling-off room, trailed by Bernie, whose eyes are everywhere at once. The other men in the room look shocked, then quickly hide their expressions.
There are whispers. “A giavour, a heathen.”
Kamil sees Fat Orhan propped on his side on a divan, a sheet wrapped about his middle. His red face is immobile, but his eyes follow their progress across the room.
Niko gives Bernie the cubicle next to Kamil’s.
“Hang your clothing in there.” Kamil indicates the wardrobe with the palm of his hand. “Then wrap yourself in this towel.”
“What towel? Oh, you mean this cloth.” Bernie picks up the peshtemal. “You could make a suit out of this amount of material. Or maybe a kilt.” He whinnies a laugh, then catches himself.
“Sorry, sorry. Decorum. I know.” He pats Kamil on the back. “Don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you.”
Kamil cringes at the unaccustomed intimacy. He forces a smile. “I’m not in the least worried.” He goes to his own cubicle and, with relief, closes the door. He hears knocking and rustling sounds from next door, as if Bernie is examining everything. Which he probably is, decides Kamil. Perhaps I would do the same. The thought cheers him, with its intimation of scientific inquiry and exploration of new things. But with decorum, he decides. Truth and decorum. The stamen and pistil of civilization, by which it reproduces itself. Either alone is sterile.
He removes his clothing and opens the armoire. Suddenly he hears the door behind him open. He swings around and grabs the peshtemal to cover himself. Bernie is standing in the doorway, the thatch of hair around his organ glowing brilliant red against his lean white thighs. Kamil grabs him and pulls him into the cubicle, his face pulsing with shame at what the men outside must be thinking. He snatches the peshtemal from Bernie’s hands and orders him roughly, “Put this on.” In that first moment of looking against his will, Kamil has seen something even worse-Bernie is uncircumcised.
Bernie wraps the peshtemal awkwardly around his waist so that it trails on the floor.
“Like this.” Kamil indicates his own neatly tucked towel.
“Right.” Bernie reties his. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost when I walked in.” He flushes slightly. “You know, I’ve never been to one of these shindigs before. It’s a bath, right? So, people do take their clothes off.”
“It isn’t proper to show oneself between the waist and knees.”
“Oh.” Bernie looks puzzled. “You know, there are all these engravings and paintings of the Turkish bath that show women in their birthday suits lounging around.”
“Birthday suits?”
“Naked as the day is long.”
“Men have different responsibilities.” Kamil is displeased with his answer. He really doesn’t know why the rules differ for men. He finds the usual answers unscientific: that it’s traditional; that women are like children, irresponsible. He decides for honesty. “I simply don’t know, Bernie. That’s the way it is in the men’s baths. Keep your towel on at all times.”
“Will do, partner.”
Kamil braces himself to leave the cubicle. He imagines what the audience in the cooling-off room will think when two men emerge from the same cubicle. Such a thing isn’t uncommon, nor is it frowned upon, but Kamil doesn’t want it associated with him. Not because of any principle against male intimacy, but because it rends Kamil’s precious privacy. He prefers to be the watcher, not the watched.
Sitting in the bar of the Hotel Luxembourg, Kamil wonders at the rapidity with which one’s attitude toward life can alter. Instead of poring over his books and orchids, here he is meeting a friend. After their inauspicious beginning in the hamam, Bernie had followed Kamil’s lead assiduously. The giavour’s red hair occasioned curious, if veiled looks, but nothing else had gone awry. Bernie quailed under the forceful blows of Niko’s massive palms and bone-cracking massage. After only an hour in the steam-filled inner room, ladling hot water over his head with his hamam bowl, Bernie complained of shortness of breath and they retired, each to his own cubicle, in the cooling-off room. Refreshed by cool sherbet and a nap, they parted amicably at the door and summoned separate carriages to take them home. A few days later, Bernie sent a message challenging Kamil to a game of billiards.
Bernie is lifting his raki glass to him.
“Lousy game, friend. To your health, though.”
Kamil lowers the lip of his glass so that it meets Bernie’s below the rim. Bernie counters by lowering his. Laughing, they finally clink their glasses near the carpet, with Bernie winning the contest of showing respect.
“I should never teach you our customs. You then use your knowledge to shame me. You are the guest here and should be honored more.”