Sofia (18 page)

Tülbend, those flowers must have been
, I thought. That is a Turkish word for “turban,” which Europeans mispronounce as “tulip.” Mispronunciation does not keep occidentals from coveting these wonders for their own gardens. And, though the Turks guarded the secret of the flowers’ cultivation care-f v, I had heard a rumor that some Dutchman had recently contrived to smuggle the mysterious means of their propagation to his homeland.

Still, I did not hope to see them soon in Venice, never in such profusion as Sofia now described. Indeed, I did not know any place in all the parks of Constantinople where they were so abundant nor so well-tended. Surely she was exaggerating, for only the Sultan could afford such luxury.

The Sultan...,
I repeated to myself. Was it possible that Madonna Baffo had actually been taken within the Grand Serai? God forbid! I listened on.

“Presently we came to a great gate at which point the bearers of my sedan were obliged to halt. Even my master was allowed no further and, wrapping me closely in veils as I descended, he entrusted me to the care of a large white man who had come with us from the shop. This man wore a heavy green robe trimmed with rabbit fur and on his head was a tall white hat shaped like a cone of sugar.”

I recognized this description as that of the eunuch Husayn had called my attention to earlier that day. “From the palace,” my friend had said. So it was true. And it was more than just the palace, the Sublime Porte where any beggar might go to seek justice. It was into the harem itself that she had gone, the very heart of the heart, where no man had ever set foot save only the Sultan himself. I listened on.

“This man led me through the door. Then—oh! how can I explain to you how I felt? I felt as if I’d been swallowed by a great, ravenous beast, a beast whose insides were cool marble. I grew afraid. Yet, do not look like that, Veniero. It was a fear that sent a shivering thrill down my spine.
What a wondrous beast!
I thought.
What a great, powerful, wondrous beast that turns and the earth shakes, who winks an eye and the world is in darkness or in light. Oh, that I could become part of this beast, I thought, even if it meant being swallowed whole and never seeing the light of day again.

“We walked down the long, marble corridors of the beast’s insides. They were deserted, save for several black men in turbans and fur-trimmed robes something like my guide’s. They stood guard at the various portals we passed through as we were swallowed deeper and deeper inside. Then, just when I thought we must have reached a dead end, a door opened and I found myself dazzled by light and sound.

“The light was reflected innumerable times by an absolute riot of mirrors, giltwork, jewels, satin, and polished faience tile painted and carved in all the colors and detail of a garden in bloom. These surfaces had the same effect on sound. There were caged birds in the room and a company of female musicians, but mostly it was the chatter and laughter of a crowd of women—oh, twenty at least—the most beautiful women I have ever seen.

“All different kinds of women: black and white and brown and yellow, some with blue eyes, some with eyes like pitch. Red hair, brown hair, black hair like ravens. They were all dressed in unspeakable elegance, so weighted with jewels and silks and cloth-of-gold and velvet that I can’t imagine how they managed to walk about. And yet their discourse was animated and happy as they sat on soft cushions and rugs and partook of pastries, sweets, and rose water.

“My guide directed me to bow and I did as he told me, falling to the ground as low as any tortoise. I tell you, it was no small feat, all swathed in veils as I was. But I might have bowed anyway, without being told, solely at the opulence I saw, pulsating there at the Beast’s heart. It quite overwhelmed me.

“Well, soon enough I saw a little yellow calfskin slipper there before my nose and one of the women was helping me to my feet. Then she reached for my veils and, with a grand flourish, removed them. The room full of women, which had fallen silent on my entrance, gasped. Then they began to chatter all the more excitedly. Some of them, I could tell by the sudden pallor of their faces, were quite jealous. I can tell you, it was very gratifying, especially in such company.

“One woman in particular seemed pleased with me. I, at least, was impressed by her. It was not that her clothes and ornaments outshone all the rest—they did, indeed, but to describe her dress would not tell you what impressed me most. Neither was she the most beautiful woman there, being past her prime. She must once have had remarkable features but she is now nearly forty—at least old enough to be my mother. Still, her skin was flawless, as cool and white as ivory and, if she dyed her hair to cover gray, she used some magical formula I know not of that lets a natural sheen come through. She wore it swept up and back to display her high forehead and fine cheekbones to the best effect.

“And yet, for all of that, it was her eyes that were most remarkable. She plucked her brows into narrow crescents. And under them, wore copious amounts of black kohl around the lashes, as is popular among these Turks—my master made me put on all too much before we left. But those black eyes cut through any amount of antimony and pierced the heart. The kohl is, perhaps, a sheath, for otherwise those eyes would be like a dagger pushed up against the ribs, demanding obedience or instant death.

“And they did obey her—instantly—all of them. The girl who had uncovered me was now instructed to make me turn, walk, and then move toward the mistress, which she did immediately. The girl did not play tired or coy for her mistress, as Maria might have done to vex me. I might have had to ask again, raise my voice, or even stamp my foot to get such a response from some of our Venetian domestics. But the woman did it all with a glance, or at most, a word in undertone.

“Even the huge man in the white hat. He could have snapped that woman’s neck with his two hands, but he scraped the floor with his hand when he bowed to her and, had he had a tail, it would have wagged with delight when she complimented him on his taste. If she can rule such a mountain of a man, I would not be surprised to learn that she is mistress of the world.”

I did not venture to explain to Baffo’s daughter that eunuchs could be white as well as black and that her admiration of the man was again misplaced. She was enjoying her recitation far too much to be served such disappointment.

“With a flick of the bangles on her wrist, this incredible woman at last bade me approach her cushions. She felt my limbs, examined my teeth, my ears, my neck. Finally, she had me remove my jacket and shirt so she could satisfy herself concerning my... Well, Signor Veniero. I felt no shame in front of her, even with that big man present, but in front of you—you must just imagine how I was examined further. Rest assured that no horseflesh ever received closer scrutiny before a purchase. One would think she was buying me for her own pleasure.”

I did not tell Madonna Baffo the tales I had heard of the Sultan’s harem, which would not put that purpose beyond possibility. I sat in glum silence which Sofia remarked and scolded.

“No, Signor Veniero. I must tell you I was flattered. To be considered by such a woman! That she did not ignore me altogether or dismiss me to the gutter with just a flick of her wrist...!”

And now her voice swelled to ecstasy as she swore, “By Saint Mark and by the Blood of God as well, I tell you I have no greater ambition in this life than to belong to that woman! Such discrimination! Such power I have never seen in any woman! No, not in any man, either. I would be content to mend her clothes and wash her linen just to be near her, just to stand an outside chance that some of that power might filter down to me.

“I pray I do not scare away good fortune by speaking it aloud, but I think she may take me. She took my hand in hers before I was led away. She took my hand, patted it and smiled, saying something as she did which, had it been in Venetian, might well have been, ‘We shall be great friends, my dear, you and I.’”

Some sound other than Madonna Baffo’s voice had made its way inside my head halfway through her last burst of eloquence, but I had pushed it impatiently aside. It came again now, louder and much clearer, and could not be ignored. Someone was coming down the hall toward the room where we sat and now they were at the door.

“By God!” Baffo’s daughter exclaimed. “If they find you here...”

In her confusion, she did not stop to think that even a whisper would confirm their suspicions. And in my confusion, I did not think to try to save her. But it was no use trying to save even myself. I caught the window ledge in a bound, but one leg still dangled into the room. It was grasped about the ankle and wrestled to the floor.

My fall knocked all the wind from me. I cannot have been senseless for more than two beats of the heart, but the next thing I knew, I was lying flat on my back. On top of me sat the weight of the young slave merchant and in his hands was a heavy blade, aimed straight for my heart.

“Isa! Isa! Wait!” I heard the older man shout. “It is the young Christian who visited us today.”

“I shall cut his heart out first and circumcise him later.” Somehow I was getting the gist of this conversation. Profanity, as I have already noted, comes easiest.

“But wait. He may have important friends. We do not know. It may go ill for us to have his blood upon our hands. The girl is unharmed, and that is most important. If we spill blood or demand vengeance according to the law, the affair may come to the notice of the Sublime Porte. Fearing their merchandise damaged, they may refuse to go through with the deal.”

The young man submitted to his father with an angry grunt. The tension in his arms had to thrust the sword somewhere, so he threw it with violence against the wall.

Without ceremony I was immediately dragged from the room. The last thing I saw of Baffo’s daughter, she was sitting calmly on her divan, straightening her bodice as if nothing had happened at all. I spent the rest of that night locked up in one of the merchant’s spare cells, fearing the worst.

In the morning, however, I got the impression that my captors’ lust for personal vengeance had faded somewhat. They turned me over to the custody of a man who owned one of the other shops in the colonnade.

Salah ad-Din, in spite of his heavy flowing robes, was one of the thinnest men I had ever seen. At the same time he was quite tall, and the combined effect was bizarre. It seemed clear that poverty was not the cause of his want of weight and still I could not credit nature to condone such freakishness.

This man held his hands constantly before himself, studying the long, bony fingers with the same narcissistic delight as he also constantly fondled his heavy growth of black moustache. It seemed that both were attributes which he cultivated and which gave his great pride. Perhaps a streak of miserliness made him feel that money spent on food was money wasted when it could be better invested in merchandise. I had the strange feeling, however, that he cultivated these things—thinness and a moustache—because persons of his acquaintance, for some defect in their persons, could not do so. I knew of no slave trader, however, who could not grow as heavy a beard as he wished, and there was more glory in flaunting the rich foods one could afford than in keeping trim.

“Call me Francesco,” Salah ad-Din said in Italian as he extended his hand.

I learned, then, to my surprise, that this man was a native-born Genoese. Giving up his Christianity had allowed him to start a very lucrative business here in Constantinople as a slave trader. I wondered not so much at this as at the fact that he should choose for his Muslim name that of the great defeater of Christians and the scourge of the Crusade.

“Ah, I still miss Italy,” Salah ad-Din divulged to me. “And I always enjoy talking to a fellow countryman.”

I returned this compliment by confessing something of my own origins, too—that I was orphaned and how my guardian uncle had died at sea.

“By the roasting flesh of San Lorenzo, that is a pity,” he said with a piety both rough and, at the same time, a little studied.

“A great pity,” he repeated. “You must allow me to offer you breakfast.”

A silent slave brought breakfast—yogurt, olives, dried prunes, and flat bread—to the back room of Salah ad-Din’s shop. In spite of all I had been through—or perhaps because of it—I ate with good appetite. Salah ad-Din did not join me but watched as a customer may watch with fascination the jeweler at his work. I got the impression that he restrained himself because he felt himself above the animal lusts to which I was a slave.

In the middle of my meal, a colleague of Salah ad-Din called him to the door for consultation and, though they spoke in Turkish and though I missed most of what they said, I got the impression it was some piece of slave flesh they were considering.

“He is too old,” the colleague said.

“There is no beard.”

“After twelve or thirteen success is but limited. Death is more than likely.”

“Yet such skin, such a figure, and that hair,” Salah ad-Din argued. “How dare we pass it by?”

My breakfast finished, I now rose to take my leave. “I think I must return to my friend Husayn,” I told the Genoese. “He has betrayed me and Venice—and you may gloat at that as much as I mourn. But I have no other friend in this town. And I know he must be very anxious for my well-being.”

To my surprise I was detained.

They had not known I could understand a little Turkish, else they would have left the room.

I
was the piece of slave’s flesh they were discussing.

My struggles and protests availed nothing. If anything, they made Salah ad-Din determined to hasten the process.

Before noon, I was ferried across the Golden Horn and beyond the walls of Pera to a small house in the countryside.

What was done there is against Islamic law. It had to be done beyond city limits and by those whose Islam was a will-o’-the-wisp thing.

***

The very same day that I went beyond Pera, Abu Isa got four hundred ghrush —more than his wildest dreams—for the blond-haired slave girl from the corsair’s ship. Toward evening, the closed sedan chair again made its way from the shop to the palace.