Sybil waits for Asma Sultan to continue the story of her mother, but she turns and walks on without another word. Still curious, Sybil follows her.
After a few moments, Asma Sultan turns to Sybil and says, “There is no loyalty except blood, Sybil Hanoum. One’s duty to one’s parents is paramount. You have done the right thing by staying at home with your father. The world is in your hands. When one marries, the flame extinguishes.”
Sybil is taken aback by this admonition. “But Your Highness, a woman’s duty to her parents doesn’t have to take the place of having a family and a home of her own.”
Asma Sultan turns her sharp eyes on Sybil.
“How is your father, Sybil Hanoum? Is he well?”
Sybil is startled by the sudden change in her tone. She is briefly tempted to say the truth, but instead responds diplomatically, “He is well, thanks be to Allah.”
“You use the name of Allah, yet you are Christian.”
Sybil has not expected a theological argument. “It is the same God, Your Highness.”
Asma Sultan sighs as if vexed with herself. “Don’t mind me. I’m only concerned for your health and that of your family.”
She leans toward Sybil, her veil falling across her mouth, and lowers her voice. “Perhaps you could deliver this message to your father.”
“A message?”
“Yes, that we are concerned for his health, which is so vital to the health of our empire. It’s hard for us to know what is happening outside these walls, and it is really not the concern of women. But I would like your father to know that I rely on him, as the representative of your mighty empire. You have helped us in the past, and you will help us again. Our road is hard, but we endure. Will you tell him this, in these words?”
Puzzled, Sybil responds, “Of course, Your Highness. I will tell him. And we thank you for your trust. We do what we can for freedom in the world.” Sybil winces at her own grandiose statements, but reminds herself that this is the way diplomats speak.
“There is no freedom, Sybil Hanoum,” Asma Sultan responds dryly, “only duty. We go where our betters command. Equally we do not go where they forbid us. Please deliver the message just as I have spoken it.”
Some of the other women are looking at them.
“May Allah protect you.” Asma Sultan turns and walks down the path.
Asma Sultan’s daughter, Perihan, appears beside Sybil and, giving her a long look, compliments her on her Turkish.
15
Dearest Maitlin,
My life has taken quite an exciting turn. Please do not scold me for taking this initiative, dear sister, you who have always known your own mind. I know that you would disapprove of my interest in these murders for fear that I might stir up a hornet’s nest and be myself stung. But, dear sister, those fears, while demonstrating sisterly love, are misplaced. After all, I am not a governess and I have a protector, which Hannah and Mary did not. And it is to help Kamil in his inquiries that I am pursuing this matter. I can’t imagine that you would behave any differently, given the opportunity to help solve not one murder, but perhaps two. Your life has been filled with such excitement. Do not begrudge me my own small portion. But, as you know, I am nothing if not careful and deliberate in my actions, so there is no need for you to fret.
I have made some interesting discoveries. I hasten to assure you that I was not pushing myself forward, but that the information fell into my hands much like a ripe apple falls from the tree into the apron of someone standing, quite by chance, beneath it.
Yesterday I visited the grand vizier’s wife, Asma Sultan. Her father was Sultan Abdulaziz, who was deposed in 1876 and then committed suicide. The sultan’s ministers forced him to abdicate because they wanted a constitution and because he was bankrupting the empire with his extravagances. Mother told me he kept a thousand women in his harems and had over five thousand courtiers and servants. He built two new palaces just to house them. Asma Sultan’s mother was one of his concubines. Mother met her once, before the coup. She said she was tiny, with a pale cameo of a face. She thought her beautiful and romantic.
At that time, Asma Sultan was already married, so she escaped the fate of her mother and the other women in the sultan’s harem after he killed himself-banishment to the old, crumbling Topkapi Palace. Asma Sultan’s husband was made grand vizier in the new sultan’s government, so she is now very powerful. I don’t know what became of her mother. I hesitated to ask in case the answer was unwelcome. Understandably, she is quite bitter about the coup against her father. Apparently, her husband was involved, and she witnessed her father’s suicide. Isn’t that dreadful? I feel very sorry for her. Despite all her wealth and power, she is a sad woman.
She seemed quite concerned to wish Father well, as if she knew about his condition. For obvious reasons, we’ve tried hard to keep it from becoming public knowledge. Still, she did ask me to tell him that she-I think she meant the empire-continues to rely on him, so perhaps I misinterpreted her words and she was not referring to Father’s illness at all. I didn’t tell Father. If he thinks word has gotten about, it would just make him more anxious.
I did learn something that might be of interest to Kamil. Asma Sultan implied that her nephew, Ziya, was killed on a trip to Paris by someone from the palace. This happened right around the time that Hannah also was killed. I’ve since learned that Ziya’s fiancée, Shukriye, was in and out of the harem where Hannah worked, and that Shukriye too disappeared from the city soon after. She was married to someone in Erzurum, on the other side of the country. So many simultaneous disappearances and deaths of people who knew one another surely can’t be coincidence? In any case, Shukriye is returning soon to visit her ill father. Being a man, Kamil won’t be able to approach her, so I’ll pay her a visit and see what I can learn about Hannah.
Bernie sends his best. He requested that I add a note to Richard. Bernie wants to know whether he remembers the Chinese poem about a brush and a bowstring (I hope I’ve remembered that correctly), and to tell Richard that he has recently come across the poem again in a surprising place.
Well, with that mysterious flourish, I will end this missive. As always, I send my love to Richard and the boys. Don’t let them forget me.
Your loving sister,
Sybil
16
On a September day in the Rumi year 1294, or 1878 by your reckoning, I accompanied Hamza as he led his horse toward the main road. Slick yellow leaves plastered the ground. The forest exhaled a dusty, pungent odor of rain. It was one month since I had found the woman in the pond. Madam Élise was gone and Ismail Dayi was away, so Hamza had come to visit openly. He wanted to see Mama. She served us tea in the reception room, pleased at seeing him after all this time.
“Mama so enjoyed your visit, Hamza. I haven’t seen her this lively in a long time. It makes me happy to see her smile; she doesn’t very often. I wish you would come more often.”
“Your mother has always been very good to me.”
We reached the gate.
“It has always surprised me that your father took a kuma,” he said without looking at me, “given his views.”
“His views?”
“He’s a modernist, Jaanan. A man who believes, as many of us do, that the empire will survive only if we learn the secrets of Europe’s strength. Some think it’s enough to copy their technology. But there’s more to it than that. If we are ever to be respected as a great power again, we have to join the civilized world. That means we must change the way we think and live.”