says, ‘cry for your father. We are all alone in the world.’
But her own eyes are dry.
In the Istanbul port, where the straits merge with the sea, opaque patterns glide over the water and flocks of shearwaters skim low over the surface, never to rest. The Turks say they are the souls of the damned.
Mana says these tiny birds are the souls of the odalisques the Sultan sent to their deaths. Drowned in the Bosphorus, in brown burlap sacks, their hands tied, their mouths gagged. In this world it is better to be a dog than a woman, Mana says, for she has seen carriages stop for a dog lying in the sun. She has seen servants get out, lift the dog up, and carry it out of the way.
The fishermen come back from the sea with swordfish, red and grey mullet, sea bass, lobsters and mussels. Sprats are caught with a lantern. The light reflected in the water makes the fish blind, she has heard, and they do not see the net.
‘Sing for us, gorgeous,’ the sailors ask.
In the market her mother has shown her how to watch out for bad fish. The stink of decay can be rubbed away with pine tar; dull skin buffed with a piece of rag until it shines. Air can be blown inside the belly to make a catch look bigger and more succulent.
Watch out, Mana says. You have already bled like a woman. Men can pick that scent. Men can tell.
She likes the sight of them. The young men with olive skin, shirts stained with grease, open at the chest. Their muscles tense as they pull on the ropes.
‘I won’t,’ she laughs and hurries away.
For a Christian woman the streets of Istanbul are fraught with danger. Even if she casts her eyes down and follows her mother, quickly, without looking. Even if she promises herself not to stare at the rich, handsome cavaliers who come to the district of Phanar where the Greek merchants’ wives lounge on their verandas, attended by servant girls. Men whose steps are light and sprightly. Whose embroidered belts are fastened with broad golden clasps. Whose horses prance and neigh, impatient with restraint imposed on them by their riders’ hands. Men whose eyes are on the prowl.
She has seen the Janissaries with white feathers on their heads, and the royal gardeners dressed in their habits of different colours so that from afar they looked like flowers themselves. She has seen the Aga of the Janissaries in a robe of purple velvet lined with silver tissue. His horse was led by two slaves. Next to him was the Kilar Aga, the chief eunuch of the Seraglio in a deep yellow cloth lined with sable. The Sultan was mounted on a horse whose saddle was studded with jewels.
She often thinks of fate. Fate that can push her any which way, make her a slave or a queen, a lady or a whore. Lady Fate whose breath she feels right behind her, tickling the skin on her neck. Lady Fate, blind, fickle and full of spite.
Or is it benevolence.
Help yourself so God can help you, Mana says.
‘Look at yourself, Dou-Dou.’
This is her aunt who says she could be her sister. Whose dresses are made of Genoan damask and silk. Whose rings catch the rays of the sun and reflect them back with a rainbow of colours. ‘These, my little Dou-Dou, are real diamonds.’
Aunt Helena, Mana’s younger sister, hardly hides her annoyance at their hungry eyes trailing after her clothes, after the food on the table, after the trinkets with which she adorns herself. Aunt Helena with her sweet voice and the scent of roses around her, with hands soft and white.
‘Look at yourself,’ Sophie hears and watches how her cheap, coarse dress drops down, how her aunt’s fingers gently release the hooks of her petticoats, the folds of her chemise. How nothing obstructs the sight of her body. The shapely breasts, the belly button, the mound of black curls below. ‘Move your hips, Dou-Dou,’ Aunt Helena whispers into her ear, the hot air of her breath tickling. ‘Slowly, slowly. Don’t shake too much.’
She sways her hips, shy at first, cautious. But she likes what she sees, she likes this nymph, this slender, beautiful girl framed by the gilded mirror. Standing beside this aunt of hers, her mother’s sister who now braids a string of pearls into her long hair. Is this the way Eve felt in the Garden of Eden when she saw her own reflection in the mirror of still water?
‘You are so beautiful, Dou-Dou. You can have everything you want. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, girl.’
She turns her back to the mirror and looks over her shoulder. Her back is smooth and flexible. She can bend as easily as she climbed the branches of the oak tree in Bursa. She can kneel on the floor and let her body fall backwards, into a graceful curve, and then come back, slowly, her eyes locked on her own image.
‘You are worthy of a king’s bed.’
The longing in her is like an ill wind that makes the air clammy with heat, filled with dust, unbearable. There has to be a release to all this want that has gathered in her. In the mirror her own eyes stare back at her. Two black coals of desire.
She lowers her eyes, as if she were ashamed of her own beauty, and her aunt claps her hands and laughs. ‘Perhaps, I don’t need to teach you that much after all,’ she says.
From the big mahogany chest of drawers, Aunt Helena takes out her best cashmere shawl, the one on which there is a flower on a stem, its roots dangling in the air. Long tendrils, clean of soil, no longer hidden in the earth. Such is the taste of the true ladies, her aunt says. They like botanicals. Botanicals, the word itself sounds different, more worldly than mere plants or flowers.
Soft and silky to the touch, the shawl envelops her with misty warmth, a promise of a caress.
‘For a woman, nothing, my little Dou-Dou, works better than a bit of mystery.’
A length of gauze replaces the cashmere shawl. Her aunt drapes it over her hair, around her waist. There is something flowery about the girl in the mirror now. A promise of lightness and fragrance of petals.
Sophie laughs. She preens and coos, and kneels in front of the mirror. She bows her head in a sweet gesture of submission her eyes deny. For the girl in the mirror is no longer a girl; she is a young, beautiful woman. A woman who likes her own boldness. A woman who likes the brightness of her own eyes; the flash of her beautiful white teeth; the dimple in her cheeks, and the pink nipple peeking from underneath the white gauze.
‘I’ll teach you to dance,’ her aunt whispers into her ear. ‘The Oriental dance.’
Thomas
Right after his arrival in Berlin, Thomas took a brisk walk, past an old church with twin spires and a red roof. Rosenstrasse was a narrow street, lit only by the light coming through the windows. A night watchman with a horn under his belt gave him a quick, cautious look, his sabre catching the reflection of the light. The insides of the houses were hidden behind curtains, lace, muslin, silk screens that kept secrets well. Sometimes Thomas could get a glimpse of someone moving inside, like a figure in a shadow play or magic lantern.
In his letter Ignacy had mentioned the patient was a rich Polish countess who had just arrived from St Petersburg. Countess Potocka, once the most beautiful belle of Europe, in search of a healer. She is unable to travel to Paris, so Paris will have to come to her. After all, my friend, you too will profit from a change of place and a good dose of forgetting.
‘Please, the best of friends,’ Thomas muttered in response. ‘Don’t.’
In spite of his fur-lined cape and high boots, the leather soles squeaking as he walked, he could not warm up. The air was clammy. The whiff of the sewers made him cringe. As he almost stepped onto gobbets of horses’ dung, he heard a woman and a man quarrelling behind one of the impenetrable windows. The woman’s voice was whiny, drowning the man’s complaints in a barrage of reproaches. Then the doors of the house opened and the man stepped out. Tall, lanky, tattered