The Aviary Gate (29 page)

‘In here?' Elizabeth looked dubious.

‘
Evet
… yes,' the boy nodded, ‘hammam.' He gave her one of his luminous smiles.

There were two sides to the hammam, the men's on the left-hand side of the building, a smaller women's side on the right. Elizabeth was taken into a narrow changing room and given a locker containing two threadbare blue towels and a pair of stained plastic slippers. It did not look promising. Several women in long skirts, their hair tied up on their heads with coloured scarves, were in charge of the proceedings. They paid no attention whatever to the handful of tourists who had come in behind Elizabeth – a group of lumpen European students, wrapped up against the cold in jeans and ugly grey cagoules – but sat around chattering volubly. There was an air of cheerful slovenliness about the place; a faint smell of mould.

After the unpromising locker room Elizabeth was completely unprepared for the beauty of the room she now stepped into. A single dome soared above her, supported by four smaller domes; beneath them, on twelve sides, were a series of marble niches, each one containing a small fountain in the shape of a scallop shell. Not so much a room as an architecture of pure space, perfect in its simplicity.

Holding the tiny towel awkwardly at her waist, Elizabeth stepped into the room. In the centre was a slab of white marble on which four women were already lying face down. The light was diffuse, pearly with steam. Elizabeth could not see their faces, only their bodies. One still wore a towel around her hips, but the other three had discarded theirs. They lay very still; some spoke together quietly.
Elizabeth sat down on the edge of the slab, and almost jumped off again; the marble was hot to the touch, almost scalding. She took off her towel and, arranging it under her, lay down quickly.

After the noise of the city, it was very peaceful inside. Others entered: the girls – German or Dutch – who had been undressing at the same time as Elizabeth in the locker room. They giggled as they came in, trying to cover themselves with their too-small towels, but soon a kind of languor overtook them, too.

How beautiful they are. Elizabeth was absolutely struck by the thought. These women are absolutely beautiful. In the locker room they had seemed so plain and pasty-faced, their bodies ungainly in their ugly jeans and ill-fitting jumpers. In the street no one would look at these girls twice, but their nakedness, she thought, has transformed them.

A dark-haired girl whom Elizabeth had noticed standing directly behind her in the queue came and took up a place on the marble slab next to her. In the locker room she had appeared short and dumpy, with her hair dragged into a greasy ponytail on the nape of her neck. Now, lying naked in the misty warmth, her hair around her shoulders, she looked quite different. Elizabeth saw how perfect and unblemished her skin was, the pleasingly erotic plumpness of her uncovered buttocks. Not wanting to embarrass her, Elizabeth turned her head away.

There were about twenty women in the hammam now. As she lay there Elizabeth became aware of other details, too. The symmetry of a shoulder blade; a pair of upturned breasts; the sculptured bones of the neck and upper back. A pair of perfect narrow feet.

God, look at you – stop it at once! Laughing at herself, Elizabeth turned on to her back and gazed up at the domed ceiling. It was pierced with small slits in the shape of suns and moons through which the daylight – even the dull grey daylight of that early winter's day – shone. A feeling of intense pleasure came over her. Sinan, hadn't Haddba said?

She closed her eyes, trying to remember the dates, but instead the memory of the stranger she had seen at the Malta Kiosk came to her again. Almost irritably she opened her eyes, as if to push the thought away. Don't be ridiculous, he's not at all your type. She remembered him: a big man; not fat, but well fleshed. A man with presence. And at
the thought of him another altogether more powerful thought inserted itself in her mind – what if he could see me now? – closely followed by an erotic charge so powerful it made her catch her breath.

One of the gypsy women now came up. She shook Elizabeth by the shoulder, and without speaking took her hand and led her over to one of the scallop-shaped basins. Elizabeth, her cheeks burning, followed her meekly. The woman made a signal for her to sit down on the step next to the basin. First she scooped ladlefuls of water all over her, then began to scrub her rapidly all over with a thick hessian glove.

The woman worked quickly, her movements brusque to the point of roughness. She picked up Elizabeth's arms and held them over her head, one by one, washing her armpits, her sides, her breasts and belly. When Elizabeth tried to help her, she slapped her hands down by her sides and shook her head as if annoyed, until Elizabeth satisfied her by obeying her unspoken commands, sitting quite still, submissively accepting her ministrations.

What if he could see me now? This time Elizabeth allowed herself a little longer to linger on this pleasing thought. She imagined his eyes on her, that extraordinary, erotic gaze … And once again, to her confusion, that intense
frisson
of desire. My God, what's got into you? She nearly laughed out loud at the sheer absurdity of it, at this other, wanton self.

The woman had now begun to wash Elizabeth's hair. Water sluiced over her in shining arcs. It ran over her eyes and in her ears, sticking her hair to her back in long streaming black tendrils. She felt the woman's fingers at her scalp, and then her head being pulled back so sharply she winced. Sharp nails were scraping her head, scratching into her scalp so hard it was almost painful. And then, after a few more shining arcs of water, she was done.

Trembling, Elizabeth stepped back into the room.

Hassan Aga, the Chief Black Eunuch, would live. The news was all around the House of Felicity. The palace physicians – not only the white eunuch from the palace school, but the Sultan's personal physician, Moses Hamon, had pronounced him out of danger at last. Some talked of a miracle, others of the dreams the Valide Sultan was said to have had presaging his recovery, and of the talismanic shirt she had caused to be made for him: a great wonder, everyone was agreed, covered not only with holy verses from the Qu'ran, but with strange numerals and symbols, close-written in pure gold leaf.

Celia's servants brought word to her that there was to be a celebration in the Great Chamber. An all-women troupe of acrobats and tumblers – gypsy women from Salonica, the eunuchs said – had recently arrived in the city, and had rapidly become the latest fashion amongst the harems, big and small, along the Bosphorous and the Golden Horn. The Valide Sultan herself had sent for them.

That evening as Celia made her way with the other women into the hall which divided the women's quarters from the Sultan's bedchamber, she sensed the atmosphere immediately. Something was different, something had changed. The sense of foreboding that had permeated every courtyard and corridor over the last few days had lifted; in its place was a feeling of energy, of lightness almost. If only I could feel it too, Celia thought. Looking neither left nor right, she walked along the corridors, followed by her attendants. But although
her eyes were fixed demurely on the ground, inside her heart and mind were ablaze.

Paul
was
here in Constantinople, she was certain of that now. Who else, other than Carew, could possibly have made a sugar subtlety of the
Celia
? And wherever Carew was, she knew, Paul would not be far behind. But why? The thought tormented her. What could it possibly mean? Was it a sign? Was it conceivable that they knew she was here? She dismissed the thought instantly. They couldn't possibly know, not possibly. Paul thought she was dead. Shipwrecked, drowned.

But now she knew she had no choice: whatever Annetta said, she must
make
them know. Round her neck, hidden beneath her clothes, Celia could feel the key to the Aviary Gate hanging safely on its chain. At the thought of it – the thought of what she must do – she felt a stab in her side so sharp she gasped, almost stumbled against the wall.

‘Careful, Kaya Kadin.' One of the women put out her hand to steady her.

‘It's nothing; my slipper, that's all.'

Celia composed herself quickly. She mustn't let them see, mustn't let them guess what she was feeling, what she knew. An unguarded word, or even a look, might give her away. They were watching you – always. She knew that now.

They arrived at the Great Chamber.

Since she had received no formal announcement of any change in her circumstances, Celia took up a position on the long cushioned dais close to the Valide's divan on the left-hand side of the room: the place of honour reserved for the highest-ranking women in the harem. Next to her were the Valide Sultan's four handmaids, Gulbahar, Turhan, Fatma, and another girl whose name she did not know, who was standing in until Annetta was well again. Next to them there were spaces for the older officials, in strict order of precedence. After the Valide herself came the Harem Stewardess, followed by the Mistresses of the Girls and of the Bathhouse, the Coffee Mistress and the Coiffeur Mistress. Some of the Sultan's children, the princesses and even some of the little princes who were still young enough to live in the women's quarters, were guided by their attendants to places on the other side of the Safiye Sultan's
divan. One of the Valide's own daughters, the princess Fatma, had arrived earlier that day for the occasion, with her children and her own retinue of slaves.

At each end of the chamber silver censers had been lit, and the room was filled with perfume. Fresh flowers – roses, tulips and sprays of orange blossom and jasmine – had been arranged in blue and white vases in each of the room's four corners. Fountains bubbled from marble niches in the wall. Beside the Valide's divan was a small pool on the surface of which the petals of musk roses had been scattered, mingling with candles that had been made to float in tiny boats, their flames reflecting in the pale green water.

The younger girls, the novices and the rank and file
kislar
, were allowed in now, directed in well-ordered rows by the Mistress of the Girls and her deputies to take up their positions opposite the Valide's divan, on the far side of the room.

On holidays like today, the strict rules that governed every aspect of harem life were relaxed, even the rule of silence. The unaccustomed sound of their own voices (rarer in the harem, Annetta was fond of saying, than a man still in possession of his own
cogliones
) acted on the roomful of women like a drug. A flush of excitement was spread across every cheek. Everyone was talking to her neighbour. And everyone, even the youngest, some no more than eight or nine years old, was dressed in gala. Silks, picked out in circles, stripes and crescent moons, brocades embroidered with gold and silver threads, cut velvets patterned with tulips and cascades of fluttering leaves glistened in the candlelight. Sashes and caps and veils of golden gauze were pinned with aigrettes of precious stones, blue and yellow topazes, the reds of garnets and carnelian, the greens of malachite and jade and emerald; opals and moonstones and strings of pearls, softened and warmed by the skin. Everyone, it seemed to Celia – even Cariye Lala, the humblest and oldest under-mistress who came to take up her place just in front of her on one of the bottom steps of the Valide's dais – had some precious gem to wear.

The first few times that Celia had seen all the women together like this she had been so dazzled by the spectacle that it had been enough just to sit and gaze. Now she was almost indifferent to the display. Was anyone watching her, anyone unusual? She scanned the crowd. The Macedonian from the Bathhouse; her assistant, the Georgian.
The great mute Coiffeur Mistress, her face as broad as it was long, with her enormous teeth that shone as white as tombstones. There was a little stir in the room as the eunuchs brought in Hassan Aga on his litter. At the sight of him, his great mound of black flesh apparently undiminished by his ordeal, her heart gave a lurch. How had Hanza acquired the key that now hung secretly around her neck? She had been too afraid to ask … Celia felt it, like a red-hot coal, burning into her flesh.

When Gulbahar put a hand on her shoulder she jumped as if she had been struck.

‘Do you think she'll come?' she was whispering into her ear.

‘Who?' Celia asked.

‘Gulay, of course.'

Gulbahar pointed to the gilded canopy at the far end of the chamber. Beneath it stood the throne on which the Sultan would sit; at its foot a small cushion had been placed: the Haseki's seat of honour.

‘Why shouldn't she?' Celia replied.

‘They're saying Hanza has replaced her.' Gulbahar gave Celia an enquiring look.

‘What?' Celia said, dismayed. ‘So soon?'

‘He called for her again, you know – this afternoon.'

‘I see.' Celia looked round, but could see no sign of Hanza. ‘Where is she anyway?'

But before they could say any more the great doors on the Sultan's side of the hall were opened and a hush descended on the chamber. Escorted by Suleiman Aga and three other eunuchs, Gulay Haseki entered the room. She wore a dress of cut blue velvet figured with silver circles, beneath which was a bodice and trousers made of gold tissue. And fastened to her cap, to her bodice, and even pinned to her sash, were more brilliants than Celia had ever seen in her life. In silence the Haseki walked very slowly through the doorway, crossing the Great Chamber to take up her position beneath the golden canopy. She turned to face the room full of women, and then carefully took her place on the cushion at the foot of the Sultan's throne.

As if breathing a collective sigh of relief the women erupted into chatter again. Celia looked round at the crowd of excited faces, and
then back at Gulay again. But if the Haseki had seen Celia in the crowd, she gave no sign.