He goes over the ground carefully, sweeping aside the leaves, but too much time has pa.s.sed for there to be any sign of a struggle. Beneath a top layer of crisp brown leaves is a slick wet mulch of debris from previous years. He kneels beside the boulders and peers into the crevice. Deep inside the rock there is something light. He reaches in gingerly, but emerges only with sc.r.a.ped, muddy fingers. He takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeve. This time, he forces his entire arm into the cleft. His fingers touch cloth. He snags it with the tips of his fingers and carefully pulls it out. It is a woman's blouse. He scours the area systematically and discovers inside a hole, at shoulder height in the trunk of a tree, a pair of women's lace-up shoes. Put there by someone who knows this forest well, he thinks. If the clothing is Mary Dixon's, it would be a concrete link between her death and Chamyeri. Another link is Mary's pendant. It fits into Hannah's box, and Hannah was killed here. Mary and Hannah, linked by the sultan's seal and a sc.r.a.p of verse.

The sh.o.r.es of the pond are preternaturally still, except for a clearly etched ripple at the far end of the metallic water where it is fed by a spring. Kamil imagines Hannah Simmons floating in the black water, her clothes billowing about her. He looks at the slippery moss and layers of dank leaves with distaste.

His arms and face sc.r.a.ped and his trousers covered in mud, he returns to the city with the blouse and shoes wrapped in an oilcloth.

MICHEL CAREFULLY CLEANS the mud from the shoes and places them on the shelf in Kamil's office next to the folded blouse and the items found in the sea hamam. Kamil stands for a few moments before the neatly displayed items as before a shrine. He is reminded that most things we choose to care about are fleeting. To dispel the melancholy that had begun to settle on him, he turns to Michel and suggests, "Shall we go to the coffeehouse? I think we've earned a rest."

"I have a better idea," Michel counters. "Let me take you to a very special eating house I know. Their Albanian liver is delicious. And the owner's daughter is too," he adds, laughing.

23.

The Modernists Some days after Papa and I fought over Amin Efendi's marriage proposal, he invited his political friends to a soiree at our house. Aunt Hsn and I were to appear in Western dress and greet the guests, entertain them at dinner, and then withdraw, leaving them to discuss politics. I had listened to them before. On the evenings when Papa had guests, I moved quietly through the dark corridors and took up a position in a chair in the next room where I could hear their discussions. Servants are invisible even in the light, so Violet found reason to hover in the halls and warned me if anyone approached my hiding place. This rarely happened, though, since the men did not feel free to move through my father's house, lest they trespa.s.s into the private realm in which women dwelled. We were only appropriate when on display. Otherwise, we were dangerous and forbidden fruit.

The men arrived, along with their wives. The women, stiff and uncomfortable in their unaccustomed corsets, adjusted the pearlseeded and embroidered veils that framed their open faces. They were dressed in the latest Paris fashion. The women's eyes were lowered, whether from modesty or embarra.s.sment was hard to gauge. They flocked toward Aunt Hsn and me, away from the men, and greeted us effusively, as if we had rescued them from a shipwreck.

Amin Efendi politely greeted all the women together, but his eyes locked onto mine. I was embarra.s.sed and looked away, hoping no one had noticed. I could not imagine him as my husband. I could not imagine a husband in any case. I thought of my cousin Hamza. I thought of Papa's exasperated voice behind closed doors. That was all I knew of men and husbands.

We walked in two flocks, men and women, to the parlor. The women cl.u.s.tered together on one side of the room. The men broke into twos and threes and thus took up more s.p.a.ce, but did not move beyond the sofas, an unacknowledged boundary.

I heard the doors to the room creak on their hinges, and I heard the men's voices in the room falter, then increase in volume. I turned to see Hamza standing inside the door. At first I didn't recognize him. It had been seven years since the day he gave me the sea gla.s.s and went away, leaving me alone at Chamyeri. I had heard he was in Europe. His features were sharper, as if drawn by a knife. The thick curls I remembered were slicked back against the sides of his head. Permanent lines creased the s.p.a.ce between his eyebrows, giving him a seriousness that I found intimidating. He looked leaner and more vital, like a spirited horse whose every small movement is a barely contained shorthand of great power.

He was looking at me, then turned his face to greet my father, who had walked up to him. Hamza leaned down to kiss Papa's hand in the traditional manner of honoring one's elders, but Papa pulled his hand away and reached it out to be shaken. I a.s.sumed Papa did not allow Hamza to kiss his hand because he had accepted him as an equal. But I caught sight of Papa's face as he s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away, and afterward I was not so sure. There are many reasons not to allow someone to honor you.

Papa pulled him briskly to the men's side of the room. Hamza shook hands all around, although I noticed a distinct lack of enthusiasm in the men's brief nods of acknowledgment. Then Hamza turned and strode behind the couches and extended his arms to me. We leaned toward one another and kissed on both cheeks. We were, after all, cousins and childhood friends. His touch sent my pulse racing. The room was entirely still.

"How are you, Jaanan Hanoum?"

I was fl.u.s.tered by all the attention and curtsied as I had been taught. Aunt Hsn moved between us and directed Hamza toward the men waiting on the other side of the room. Heads began to move toward one another, a flutter of sound like birds taking wing. Defeating my effort to focus elsewhere, my eyes fled again and again to his face across the room.

PAPA WAS A modernist, but he was also a loyalist and the men expended great heat excoriating the Young Ottomans that they believed were undermining the empire with their talk of a parliament.

"The empire is being threatened and all men should speak with one voice. Otherwise our enemies will perceive our division as weakness and take advantage of it."

The men cl.u.s.tered near the French doors open to the twilight garden. I could hear their conversation clearly through the chime and tinkle of women's voices around me. Hamza sat nearest the garden, his face in darkness.

"It's one thing to be modern," my father expounded, "but it's quite another to be a traitor to your sultan." Several men cast pointed looks at Hamza.

"These journals spread vicious propaganda. All this talk of liberty and democracy promotes the separatist movements in the provinces and plays into the hands of the Europeans. The journals must be closed down and the radicals arrested."

There was a general mutter of a.s.sent. Several men shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.

A distinguished, gray-bearded man turned toward my father. His broad chest was spanned by loops of gold braid and a sash gleaming with medals. Although he spoke slowly, weighting each phrase with the gravity of silence, no one interrupted.

"I agree. It's quite possible to be civilized without aping the Europeans in everything they do. We don't need a parliament. We have mechanisms that have worked perfectly well for five hundred years. Our experienced officials can do a much better job of running the government than a group of hotheaded young men uneducated in the principles of just rule. Who is to ensure that they promote the interests of the government and don't misuse their power to support this group or that, undermining the unity of our glorious empire? Do we not already have an enlightened system that allows everyone in the empire, whether Muslim or minority, to thrive?" He extended his hand expansively. "Look around you. The sultan's banker is an Armenian and his advisor on foreign affairs is a Greek. His physician is a Jew. Indeed, there is almost no work for us poor Muslims except in the army and behind a desk!"

This occasioned laughter among the men and even some t.i.tters from the women.

"Anyway, there is no such thing as a European civilization." My father picked up the thread. "Europe is nothing more than a region, home to a lot of squabbling nations that can't even agree among themselves. European civilization is a myth foisted upon us by those seeking to destroy our way of life and undermine our government. These radicals are working at the behest of the European powers, who would like nothing more than to divide us among ourselves and see the empire carved up into pieces that they can easily swallow."

Hamza spoke up. "The empire is weak because we've allowed the Europeans to buy us. We're in debt and whatever taxes we can flay from the backs of our poor peasants goes only to pay the interest. It's not ideas that threaten the empire. Only ideas can save it."

"There's nothing civilized about your ideas," a man countered heatedly. "They're a threat to public morality."

"Yes, that is so." A murmur of approval rose from the company.

"You are absolutely correct."

Amin Efendi added, with a sly glance at Hamza, "The other day, a woman of my extended family attended, if you can believe it, a political lecture."

There was a ripple of laughter.

"A lecture by a man," he added.

The men turned to each other in consternation. Several women stopped speaking. Without turning their heads, they continued to smile politely at their neighbors, but their ears clearly were on the debate across the room.

"I put a stop to that, of course." A few of the men nodded appreciatively. "It is unbecoming for a man to lecture before women. It doesn't matter what the subject is, or even whether it's a lecture for women only. It's immoral."

Another man chimed in from an armchair across the room. His voice seemed too loud and more women stopped to listen.

"A woman's calling in life is to marry and be a mother, to be a support to her husband, and to run the household. She doesn't need to learn about science or politics. We don't need women technicians or, Allah forbid, women politicians. A woman should learn the things she needs to know to run her home and be satisfied with that."

The man with medals across his chest disagreed. "But you must admit, Fehmi Bey, that an educated woman makes a better mother."

"No doubt, but after she marries and becomes a mother, all her energies should be focused on her duty, guarding the well-being of her family. These modern women are selfish and egotistical. They think only about themselves. If we all thought like that, it would lead to the destruction of our society. We need mothers and wives, women who can train the next generation."

My voice, once launched, carried across the room like a bell chiming in an empty chamber. "The rights a modern society gives women are no different from the rights women enjoyed in the earliest periods of Islam. The rules laid down by the Prophet, peace be upon him, protect the rights of women. But over time, these rules have been diverted from their true purpose. By giving women rights and freedoms, we're not aping Europe. We're reaffirming our own tradition of respecting women. After all, Europe is far from being such an enviable paragon. It has long restricted the rights of its own women. Women have an important place in a modern, civilized Muslim society. They have a duty to society, as well as a duty to their families."

I found I had risen from my chair. There was a hush, a heartbeat of silence, before Papa coughed and turned to speak to the man at his side.

"Proper women have always fulfilled their duty to society by being good mothers and wives," he said. "There's no need to change the family just to be modern. The traditional family is wide open to modern ideals, whether that family is in Europe or here. There's no difference. What some consider Eastern manners are nothing more than the manners of the civilized world everywhere-solidarity, attachment to family, respect for elders, and concern for those who are weaker and dependent on you. The modern European family doesn't reject these traditional values; there's no contradiction there at all. Modern etiquette is an indicator of civilization everywhere. We must be open to this. I see no reason to fear the disintegration of society. Our family system is resilient, like a tree."

Taking Papa's cue, the men continued to converse, although the rumble of their voices had risen in intensity, as though their words had been driven to greater speed by embarra.s.sment.

The women had begun whispering, the direction of their eyes indicating the destination of their tongues. I sat heavily, my entire body throbbing in time to my heart.

I could not see Hamza's face, once I dared turn my eyes to him. His posture was guarded. I simply a.s.sumed he agreed and approved. I could think no other way. When I looked next, he was gone.

24.

The Kangal Dog They turn into a narrow alley, Kamil leading the way. It is dark, but a faded moon sheds some light. The day has been rainy and unseasonably cold. Yellow mud has congealed into viscous waves and troughs. Bernie slips and Kamil catches his arm. A faint tendril of music snakes through the alleys. They follow it like the lost children in one of Karanfil's tales. Kamil ducks through a low doorway into a smoky room lit by oil lamps. The proprietor hurries over and welcomes him effusively. He motions a young man to take their coats, then leads them to a table at the front of the room. Kamil whispers in his ear and the man bows his head and leads them instead to a small alcove at the back where they can converse undisturbed, but which still affords a view of the performance. A young male soprano is singing an Italian canto, accompanied by a mixture of European and Oriental instruments that add an air of lamentation to the song.

Two gla.s.ses of raki and small dishes of hummus, stuffed vegetables, yoghurt sauces, spiced fried liver, and bread appear magically on the table before them. As the evening wears on, empty dishes disappear, to be replaced by new and different delicacies. Empty gla.s.ses are refilled. Kamil and Bernie engage in spirited discussions on Italian opera and the role of folk songs in cla.s.sical music.

"I must say," Bernie comments, stretching his legs contentedly, "people here certainly know how to have a good time." He nods at the plates spread across the table before them.

"We call it keyif. A feeling of well-being." Kamil tilts his chin toward the sweating musicians and the tables buzzing with conversation and laughter. "In the presence of friends, fine food, and a pleasant setting."

Very late, they stumble out of the low doorway, this time Bernie supporting Kamil. They head toward the Grande Rue de Pera, where carriages await customers until late into the night. Behind them, the compact shape of a man glides through the darkness, moving from one doorway to another. Suddenly an enormous black object hurtles forward and jumps on Bernie's chest, its weight throwing him backward. Kamil reaches for his dagger. The kangal dog's ma.s.sive jaws struggle toward Bernie's throat, kept only centimeters away by Kamil's grip on the dog's neck. A sharp blast, then a high-pitched scream, and the kangal falls heavily to the ground.

Kamil shields Bernie, who is doubled over and gasping for breath, a small silver pistol dangling from his left hand. A tavern door opens for a moment as a patron peers curiously into the street. The light spilling from inside illuminates the face of a man pressed against the wall, watching intently. His eyes meet Bernie's before he slips around the corner into the alley.

"What in d.a.m.nation was that?" Bernie coughs out.

"A kangal dog. They're bred to guard villages. One rarely sees them in the city."

Kamil puts his arm around Bernie, feels a sticky wetness on his shirt.

"Where are you hurt?" he asks anxiously.

Bernie stands up straight and pats himself, then brings his hands closer to his face.

"I think that's from the dog, but my hands are pretty darned banged up. Jesus," he whistles. "That was a close call." He looks down at the dog and nudges it with his foot. "It's good and dead."

"Come on." Kamil puts his arm around his friend, completely sober now. "Let's get you cleaned up. Do all Americans carry a firearm?"

Bernie attempts a weak grin. "Even in the bath, buddy. Even in the bath."

25.

Deep Sea In April, the slick currents teemed with fish struggling north to sp.a.w.n in the Black Sea. Lufer, palamut, istavrit, kolyos, kefal, tekir. Large, heavy-bodied fish moved more slowly with the bottom currents, long-lived fish with histories and personalities, unlike the extroverted, superficial crowd above, dripping silver as they leapt and foolishly displayed themselves to the larger creatures haunting the sh.o.r.e. Kalkan, iskorpit, trakonya, kaya. Fishermen called these "deep fish." Their bodies had the meat and heft of an animal. They were hoisted by the tail to hang in the poisonous air. Their wounds bled where the rope cut their flesh. People wandered over and marveled at the animals that lived in the deep. Each was as big as a child.

Violet never minded these fish, hung from a wooden beam in the thatched cafe where the fishermen and other men gathered, but I felt wounded by their deaths. I laid my hand once against the belly of such a fish, almost as tall as me. Although the fish was dead, its brown eye fixed on a single, last point, its flesh felt muscular and vibrant, and I almost expected it to breathe. This was more startling to me than if the fish had been slippery cold and slack, as my inexperienced hand had expected, and I was torn between recoiling and continuing to stroke the dead body.

Despite my refusal, the date of the engagement ceremony had been set for two months hence, the next step after Papa's acceptance of Amin Efendi's suit. I waited for Hamza to call on me, but he sent no word. I felt if only I could speak with him, the path before me would become clear. Papa said he didn't know where Hamza was, but I didn't believe him. I thought of confiding in Mary Dixon, but when we met for our weekly lunch at the Palais des Fleurs and she made me laugh with her stories of the palace women, I realized I simply wanted to enjoy the bright company of my new friend without burdening it with earnestness.

Amin Efendi brought me a gold watch to seal the pledge, but I refused to open the box. Papa may have promised me, but I had promised nothing. Nevertheless, Aunt Hsn had allowed Amin Efendi to sit with me in our parlor attended only by the ever-present servants, while she disappeared.

I tried to make the best of things, but found little in common with him. He was a man whose eyes looked to himself and who saw the world only peripherally. Perhaps it was simply shyness. Violet did not like him.

As for me, I could not imagine spending all the evenings of my life sitting with such a man. I tried to engage him in political discussions, but he was a loyalist and understood as treachery all criticism of the sultan or talk on the merits and demerits of political alternatives. I knew that such things were discussed openly in my father's house and that Amin Efendi was present at these conversations, but I suspected he was concerned that as his future wife my ideas flew too wide. Perhaps Papa was right. Perhaps I had been raised by wolves and it was their spoor that set Amin Efendi's nostrils alert above the sharp line of his mustache. I sometimes thought that he did not see me, but sensed a disturbing presence that both attracted and repelled him.

I had given him no reason to think I was in agreement with plans for our engagement and, indeed, had tried to hint that I did not wish it. I considered the possible effect of stating this to him outright-perhaps he would agree to drop his suit. I would happily return the watch. But I feared not. He had the tenacity of a hungry street dog. I was uncomfortable when he looked at me. His eyes owned me. I consistently refused to meet with him, but Aunt Hsn ambushed me with his presence. I was too polite to walk away, as I wished to do. A guest is sacred, and I dared not breach the custom of welcoming one, even one that is unwelcome.

One day, Aunt Hsn announced that Amin Efendi and I would make our first public excursion, walking together in the pleasure garden of his patron, Tevfik Pasha. The pasha had agreed, all the preparations had been made, and the guests invited, she told me. Not to go would shame my father in the high circles to which he owed his position. I decided to go, but planned to use the occasion of a stroll, away from the ears of the household and Aunt Hsn, to tell Amin Efendi that I did not wish to marry him. I would give him the chance to save face by being the one to break it off.

I arrived in a closed carriage. He was waiting at a marble archway at the entrance to the park. I saw no servants to help me climb down from the carriage and, after a moment's hesitation, accepted his hand. His long fingers curved around mine. They were cool and dry as parchment. In deference to the unseasonably hot weather, I wore a white silk feradje. A yashmak of delicate silk gauze covered my head and lower face. As I descended from the carriage, the heel of my shoe caught on the step. I stumbled slightly and his hands flew up to hold me. The palms of his hands pressed against my feradje and seared my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I was fl.u.s.tered and confused. Should I have expressed grat.i.tude for his a.s.sistance or outrage? I looked at Amin Efendi closely but saw only solicitous politeness. Where were the pasha's servants?

Amin Efendi told the carriage driver to leave. He then led me through the gate into the park, where I expected at last to see our company and the other carriages. But we were alone. It was utterly quiet; even the birds were waiting.

"Where are the servants and the guests?" I asked, willing away the quaver in my voice.

Amin Efendi smiled. I saw his teeth under his mustache, stained brown with tobacco. "They're waiting for us at the lake with the refreshments. I thought it would be good for us to have some time together away from the others."

"I am not comfortable with this arrangement," I stated, trying on the haughty voice Aunt Hsn used to put errant servants and tradesmen in their place.

"Well"-Amin Efendi smiled tightly, pointing to the empty road behind and the red path ahead-"there's nothing to be done now."

He held out his arm. "Surely you can put up with your fiance for a short walk along the sea."

"You are not yet my fiance." I ignored his arm and strode ahead.

His steps were longer, and he easily kept pace with me. I opened my parasol and kept it between us. I knew we should not be alone before we were married, or at least formally engaged. It was very hot and my linen dress had many layers. The veil clung to my sweating face, making it hard to breathe. I slowed my pace. The hem of my feradje turned red from the dust of the path.

"Papa will not be pleased that we are unchaperoned. What is it you wish to speak with me about that requires such a breach of honor?"

He did not look startled by my words. Instead, his smile widened.

"Your father doesn't mind."

I turned to look at him. "He agreed to this?" I asked incredulously.

"Your father will do what is in his best interest."

"His best interest," I repeated blankly. "What do you mean?"

"I've watched you since you came back to live at your father's house and I've decided that you are exactly what I want, beautiful, smart, but with spirit. You don't want me. That much is clear. But that will keep things interesting. I'll make you into the perfect wife. It will be my great pleasure to instruct and form you, and you will eventually be grateful that I did so."

I backed up until stopped by the trunk of a pine tree. I was so angry, I could only repeat his words. "Instruct me? Form me?" He made it easy to speak my intentions. "I will not marry you."

One step brought him in front of me. "Yes, you will." He gripped my wrists and pushed me against the tree. The scent of roses was overpowering.

"You're hurting me. Stop it! Now!"

I could feel the entire length of his body pushing against me through the layers of my skirts. He placed a thick, hard object into my hand, like an eel, but warmly alive and with the silkiness of skin. I recoiled and tried to throw the object from my hand. Amin Efendi uttered an epithet that was as shocking to me as if he had slapped me. Using my wrists, he pushed me down onto the red earth. I struggled against his grip but my wrists were as delicate in his grasp as the pine needles on the ground around my head.