Mary Dixon also has begun to shadow his life. At his last audience with the minister of justice, Nizam Pasha asked him pointedly what progress had been made in discovering her murderer. It has been almost a month since her body washed up behind Middle Village mosque. His impatient gestures implied that Kamil had failed not just the ministry, but the empire. And perhaps it is so. If he did not know the English amba.s.sador, he might a.s.sume pressure was being placed on the minister from that direction. But Kamil thinks Sybil's father too distracted to muster a sustained attack. Did the British government take such an interest in a mere governess that it would pressure the sultan's closest aides or even the sultan himself? He wonders, could there be another reason for Nizam Pasha's intense interest? He remembers the old police superintendent's intimation of palace involvement in the murder of Hannah Simmons. Were they watching to make sure he found the killer this time, or that he didn't find him?

And now Elias Usta's untimely death. Kamil is worried about Sybil. Two Englishwomen were already dead.

Sybil opens the door herself almost as soon as he raises the knocker.

"h.e.l.lo." She smiles a brilliant welcome.

"Good morning, Sybil Hanoum. I hope I haven't come too early." He finds it momentarily awkward to account for his presence. The reasons he gave himself for stopping by seem fanciful now. "I hope you forgive my intrusion. I know I wasn't expected until tomorrow evening."

"I received your message, Kamil Bey. It's always a pleasure to see you." She is blushing.

"I hope I find you well."

"Oh, very well. Very well, indeed. Isn't it a glorious day?" Sybil steps onto the path and looks about her with the serene enjoyment of a child. She is wearing a dress of pale lilac, trimmed in maroon. The colors reflect in her eyes and give them the same depth as the sky. She walks to the edge of the patio and gazes down at the red-tiled rooftops of houses clinging to the lower hillside, suspended above a sea of fog.

Kamil stands beside her. "Thick as lentil soup, I believe you say."

Sybil laughs. "That's your national dish, not ours. It's pea soup. Thick as pea soup." She turns to him and touches his arm. "Won't you come in? Have you breakfasted?"

"Yes, thank you. I have. But I wouldn't mind some of your delicious tea." For the British, drinking tea seems an end in itself, he thinks with relief, a ritual to which he can moor his visit.

She leads the way inside to the room off the garden and opens the French doors wide to let in the scented sunlight.

"How is your father?" he asks.

"He's well, thank you. Busy as always. He's been inquiring about some of the journalists we know. Apparently there's been a crack-down and many were sent into exile."

"These are dangerous days, Sybil Hanoum. Your father is a powerful man and protected by his office, but still he should be careful." What he means is that Sybil should be careful.

Sybil stares at him for a moment. "Do you really think Father is in danger? I can't imagine that anyone would harm the British amba.s.sador. Think of the consequences for your regime. It would be an international incident. It could even lead to military intervention by Britain. Surely no one in their right mind would risk that."

"Unfortunately, these days one can't count on rational thinking. There are other forces too, not under our control. Even in the palace. This is strictly between us," he adds quickly.

"Of course. I wouldn't breathe a word."

Her pleasure at this confidence inspires him to continue. "The palace has destroyed other powerful people who became, shall we say, difficult. Besides, these things can be made to appear an accident. As you know, relations are strained between our governments. Some might wish them to deteriorate further. But I don't mean to worry you, Sybil Hanoum. It was, perhaps, impolitic of me to speak of this to you. But I know how much you care for your father. Perhaps a word or two from you about being careful and always taking a retinue with him, his clerks, a dragoman, a few extra guards. There are other means of protecting oneself that are less obtrusive. I'd be happy to speak with him about it, if he's so inclined."

Distressed, Sybil shakes her head. "Father has never been careful. I'm sure his safety doesn't concern him a bit. He has always lived just for his work," she says sadly. "It's as if he has put to bed all other parts of his mind, so that he has no distractions from his duties. But if you think it necessary, I'll try to get him to take some precautions."

Kamil understands from the flatness of her voice that her father, like his father, inhabits a land inaccessible to his family. He remembers a conversation he had with Bernie about Western and Eastern civilizations. Bernie argued that people in the West saw themselves as individuals, each with his own rights and responsibilities, in charge of a destiny of his own making. This could lead to sharing, if one had the same interests, or selfishness, if one did not. In the East, on the other hand, people were first and foremost members of their family, their tribe, their community. Their own desires were irrelevant; the solidarity and survival of the group paramount. Selfishness couldn't occur, because there were no selves, only fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives. Bernie's comparison seemed to make sense, at least in a general way, although Kamil could think of numerous exceptions, including himself. Yet he couldn't deny that there was in Ottoman society a widespread belief in kismet and in the evil eye that brought misfortune. And family feeling was very strong.

Still, he remembered thinking that his fellow cla.s.smates at Cambridge, young Englishmen away from home for the first time, were not so dissimilar from the young men he knew at school at Galata Saray. One loved one's parents, certainly. But once out from under their supervision, there was plenty of personal ambition and mischief. If, as the English say, 'Boys will be boys,' then why couldn't 'fathers be fathers,' regardless of which society they belonged to? And here is Sybil, a representative of the individualistic West, tending to her father like any good Ottoman daughter.

"Perhaps you could simply be a fly in his ear. The important thing is to be aware of the risk."

Sybil giggles. "A flea in his ear."

"Ah, of course. Although I find that image, well, rather unappetizing. I think I'd prefer a fly in my ear." Kamil laughs. "English expressions. I've never gotten used to them. I think you have to be born English."

"It's the same with Turkish sayings. You have sayings for everything. But even when someone explains them to me, I don't understand them."

"Oriental inscrutability. It's what has kept us independent for so long. No one understands what we're saying, so they can't conquer us!"

The sun falling through the French doors has become hot and Sybil stands to draw the lace curtains. She sits again on the couch and, eyes lowered, adjusts and readjusts the folds of her dress. The room falls into a hush.

After a few moments, fl.u.s.tered, she raises her chin and says, "Oh, I promised you tea."

"That would be lovely. Thank you."

Sybil jumps up and runs to the velvet bellpull by the door. Her skirt catches Kamil's leg as she pa.s.ses. They wait in companionable silence for the tea to be brought. Each spark of conversation is m.u.f.fled by the still, amber air, then extinguished, as if the air in the room is too thin to support speech. The click of fine china, the sough of tea poured, and the thin rap of spoons against the porcelain cups embracing their warm liquid take the place of conversation.

Sybil slides her cup and saucer onto the side table. They seem too fragile suddenly in her hand. She is excited about what she thinks of as her investigation, but also nervous about Kamil's reaction.

"I saw Shukriye Hanoum, the woman who was engaged to Prince Ziya. She remembered Hannah."

"I see." He looks surprised. "Where did you find her?"

"She's here in Istanbul. Her father is dying. She came to pay her last respects."

She tells him about the death of Shukriye's children, her accusations against her mother-in-law, and the young k.u.ma.

"That's barbaric. Did she tell you all this in front of the others? You said there were many visitors."

"No. I joined her and her sister in a private room afterwards."

"How did you manage that?" he asks, smiling and shaking his head at her audacity. "I thought you didn't know them."

"Asma Sultan and her daughter were there and, when they moved to another room, they took me along."

"What did you learn about Hannah?"

"Shukriye and her sister Leyla remembered Hannah from their visits to Asma Sultan's household where she was employed. I presume they were visiting Perihan, who seems to be a close friend. That surprised me, since Shukriye was engaged to the man Perihan loved. Perhaps Perihan is a more generous soul than she appears."

Kamil smiles at the innocence of Sybil's a.s.sessment. He knows better the unforgiving nature of royal intrigues that rage among the women as much as the men.

Sybil relates the conversation as she remembers it: Shukriye's belief that the secret police were responsible for Prince Ziya's death; Arif Agha's discovery that Hannah was meeting someone every week.

Interrupting the easy lope of her story, Sybil pauses and reaches for her tea.

"A carriage?" he prompts her impatiently.

She sets the tea down, clattering the cup. "Yes. The eunuch told Asma Sultan that the driver had light-colored hair like a European, but tightly curled like an Arab's. She thinks he might be a Kurd."

At this, Kamil is speechless. Ferhat Bey had claimed to know nothing of the driver. Perhaps the eunuch had told the superintendent a different story. Too many links in this chain, Kamil thinks irritably, and he doesn't know if one is connected to the next.

Sybil looks at him with a worried frown.

"Did they know where the carriage was going?" he asks brusquely.

"No." Puzzled, she adds, "Asma Sultan said her eunuch told all this to the police."

"The superintendent wasn't as forthcoming as I would have liked," he admits. "What else did you learn?"

"The women remembered Hannah wearing the silver pendant. They don't remember Mary wearing it. I told them the pendant was made in the palace, with the sultan's seal inside. They thought Hannah's pendant must have been a gift, maybe from the person she visited every week, perhaps a lover. Or from someone in the harem."

"You told them all this?" Kamil's back is suddenly tense.

"It just came up in conversation," Sybil equivocates uncomfortably. "Are you angry?"

"I'm not angry, Sybil Hanoum. I'm just very concerned." To calm himself, he reaches for his cup. The tea has developed oily streaks on the surface but he draws it down his throat. The room is stifling hot.

"You are not to repeat these things to anyone, do you understand? Shukriye accusing the palace, the necklace, or what is in it." He thinks of Elias Usta, dead among his birds. He had questioned the apprentice and learned that the usta died of a weak heart, but that none of his family had known the usta was ill. Kamil is certain Elias Usta's death was meant as a warning not to seek the door to which the pendant is the key.

Sybil is taken aback and a little offended by his stern tone.

"Why not? After all, that's how I got the information about the carriage. I tell the women something to get the conversation started in the right direction. It's like putting a grain of sand into a clam. It irritates the clam so it coats it a bit at a time and eventually you have a perfectly lovely, usable pearl." Sybil is proud of her skill in obtaining information and of her metaphor. She doesn't understand why, instead of thanking her, he has become so angry.

Kamil's face has drained of color. He rises to his feet. "You have no idea what you've just said, have you?"

Sybil stands also. They are face to face, only a few feet apart.

"What's the matter? I try to help you and now you're angry with me."

Sybil has backed against the door. She begins to cry.

"What have I done? What's wrong? What harm can any of this do?"

"What harm?" echoes Kamil hoa.r.s.ely. "You have no idea, no idea. What else did you say to these women? Allah protect you, Sybil Hanoum. Did you think there were no spies in that room? Every word has been reported to the secret police, I can a.s.sure you of that."

He wipes the palms of his hands over his face.

"Don't you know that you've put yourself in great danger-and perhaps other parties to that conversation?"

"I didn't know." The pearl at the base of Sybil's neck rises and falls rapidly. Her cheeks are flushed and wet with tears.

"I'm sorry. My tone was unforgivable," he says in a low voice. "But, please, Sybil Hanoum, promise me you won't go to see these women again, at least not without my approval."

She nods, wiping at her eyes.

"And that you won't go anywhere without an escort."

"I won't be a prisoner in my own house." She stares at him, her hands in tight fists at her side. "I couldn't stand that."

"Of course not," he adds soothingly. "You are free to go out, Sybil Hanoum, but I beg you not to go alone, for your own safety."

She nods, but turns her face away.

Kamil stands by the door, his hand slick on the bra.s.s door handle, and watches her carefully for a moment.

"I'm only concerned for you. I'm not angry. You've given me some important information and I thank you for it."

He walks swiftly through the garden. The fog has burned away, replaced by a veil of dust thrown up by animals and carts. At the gate, he spits out the grit that has already acc.u.mulated between his teeth.

35.

The Dust of Your Street In the days that followed, the old woman no longer spoke with me except to announce that a meal was ready. I understood her completely and didn't blame her. She had thought she was harboring a decent young woman in danger of her life, but found that her home had become a place of fornication. I smiled at her, but brought the food into my room to eat alone. I knew she was more comfortable that way. Because of her son, she could not object to our presence.

Except for a narrow slot of light where the shutters met, the room was always dark, making it difficult to read the books and journals Hamza brought me. But I didn't feel imprisoned by the dark. On the contrary, it was there that I became free. I swam in it as I swam in the pond at Chamyeri, when I discovered my body for the first time. My only regret was that Mama, Papa, and Ismail Dayi were worried about me. But Hamza had promised to tell Ismail Dayi I was safe.

Was I safe? I wasn't sure what that meant anymore. At what point has one sacrificed enough to be safe? Lines by Fuzuli came to me unbidden in the dark: I have no home, lost In the pleasure of wondering When at last I shall dwell Forever in the dust Of your street.

THE OLD WOMAN knew something was wrong. Her face was tense and the tendons in her neck protruded. She did not answer when I asked her what was happening, but projected a silent fury. In response she shoved a bowl of rice-stuffed peppers in my direction. The languorous disconnection that had m.u.f.fled my thoughts for the previous week was dissolved. I left the food on the plate and withdrew to my room, closing the door. I sat on the chair by the bed. It was completely dark. Without even a shadow, what was I, other than a vessel forged in Hamza's hands? I couldn't weep. There was too much danger.

FINALLY, HAMZA'S VOICE at the door, the woman in her hurry fumbling the lock. Hamza came into the room, disheveled, his turban rimed with dirt. The woman spoke four words, hurling them at Hamza.

"My son is missing." She stood with her back against the door, red hands twisted into her ap.r.o.n. "He has stopped going to his place of work." Her voice was reedy, wondering, already disbelieving. She was shaping her memories to hold the future. "He never missed a day in fifteen years. He has always been completely reliable, my son." The room vibrated with her fear.

Hamza sat heavily on the divan. "Shimshek is dead, teyze," he said finally.

She didn't react at first.

"What happened?" I asked him. He shrugged wearily.

The old woman began to shake. No sound came from her mouth and no tears from her eyes. Instead, I wept for her. I went to embrace her, but at my touch, she began to struggle and a hoa.r.s.e scream rose from her fragile, sagging throat.

Hamza rose and grasped her thin shoulders. "Madame Devora, you must be quiet. Please. Please."

Madame Devora. It was the first time I had heard her name. Over his shoulder, her red-rimmed eyes sought me out by the window. "d.a.m.n you."

My eyes slid away from hers. I was distressed to have caused her this much grief. I too was sick with feeling. I was sick with a surfeit of memories that deprived me of clarity. Should I act or wait? What could I do? What could I ever do now? It slowly dawned on me that not only was I living outside society and outside of time, but there was no way back. My shadow in the world was the effect my actions had on my family. That was all that could still be observed.

The old woman took Hamza's arm and spat, "Take her out of here," indicating me with her chin.

"I'll do what I need to do," he snapped. "Let go of me."

I went into my room and brought out my feradje and veil and laid them in readiness on the divan. I had nothing else. Hamza stood beside the open window, peering through the curtains.

"I spoke with your dayi," he told me, never taking his eyes from the street. "He said you should go back to Chamyeri."

He turned and looked at me directly for the first time. Dark shadows chased across his face. His sleeves were torn.