The Aviary Gate (32 page)

‘I think she thought she would be …
de trop
,' he said. And then, watching Rashid serve her the coffee, ‘I think this boy's in love with you.'

‘Ah … no,' Elizabeth said. He started to say something teasing to the boy in Turkish, but she put her hand out to stop him. ‘No, you mustn't, please don't embarrass him.' And then, ‘He's a sweet boy, and he works hard. I bring him things sometimes, that's all.'

‘You are fond of children?'

From anyone else the question would have sounded patronising; but from him somehow it did not.

‘Yes,' Elizabeth considered the question seriously. ‘I suppose I always have been.'

‘Well then, that's why they like you.'

Silence fell again between them. Elizabeth looked around again, but there was still no sign of anyone in the hallway. Where was Haddba when you wanted her? She saw him looking at her and quickly dropped her gaze, but not before he had intercepted her look.

‘Haddba is a very remarkable woman.'

‘She is certainly that.' And more bordello mistress than nun today, Elizabeth thought drily to herself. What's she playing at?

Now that she had recovered something of her composure she saw that Mehmet was a man somewhat older than herself, in his forties she guessed, well fleshed, without being heavy. The pure profile of a figure in a Persian miniature. Not good-looking exactly, but … she searched for the word …
soigné
. And rather charming, actually.

‘You know her well, then?'

‘No!' he laughed. ‘I don't think anyone knows Haddba
well
…' He leant forwards, suddenly complicit. ‘Did no one tell you? Haddba is one of the great mysteries of Istanbul.'

‘What a shame, and there was I thinking that I would be able to ask you all sorts of things about her.'

‘Ah, but you still can. Ask me, for example, if she is Turkish.'

‘All right then.' Elizabeth looked directly at him. ‘Is she Turkish?'

‘No, although she speaks the language better than I do; not what you might call demotic Turkish, but the old Ottoman of the imperial court, very elaborate, very courteous.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, really.' He held her gaze. His eyes, when he smiled, crinkled at the corners. ‘The only person I ever heard speak like that, years ago now, was a friend of my grandmother's who as a young girl had been in the Sultan's harem.'

‘But Haddba is not that old, surely?'

‘Isn't she?' He gave her a quizzical look. ‘But no, you're right. She's probably not. All the same, someone must have taught her.'

‘So if she's not Turkish?'

‘My uncle's theory was she is an Armenian Jew, but she denies it. Others claim that she is Persian, or even Greek.'

‘And you, what do you think?'

‘My favourite theory is that she is the daughter of a Russian dancer, one of three famously exotic sisters who came to Istanbul in the thirties,' smiling, he gave a small shrug, ‘but who knows?'

‘Hasn't anyone just come out with it and asked her?'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Would you?'

A look of understanding passed between them. He's absolutely right, Elizabeth thought. She would think it an impertinence. How interesting that he sees that …

‘Well, aren't you going to ask me something else?'

Something about his manner made Elizabeth relax.

‘No, actually,' she sat back, resting her head against the hard chair, and smiled at him, ‘but I have a feeling you are going to tell me anyway.'

‘Ask me about her jewels.'

‘Her jewels?'

‘Ah, you see! I had a feeling that might interest you.'

‘All right,' despite herself, she was enjoying their conversation very much, ‘tell me about her jewels.'

‘But surely you have noticed them?'

‘I've seen that she has some amazing earrings.'

‘Museum pieces.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, really.' He was completely serious now. ‘All of them. A priceless collection – necklaces, bracelets, rings – exquisite things. She keeps them in an old tin box beneath her bed.'

‘Under her bed? Isn't she afraid that someone will steal them?'

‘Steal from Haddba? No one would dare.'

‘And where did they all come from?'

‘Ah well, that's another question. Some say old King Farouk of Egypt …' He spread his fingers. ‘But again, no one really knows. In any case, I like mysteries,' he said, standing up. ‘Don't you?'

Elizabeth watched him pick up his things.

‘Are you going?' she asked, then realised, too late, that there was disappointment in her voice.

‘Forgive me, I have taken up too much of your time already.'

‘Oh no, not at all.'

‘You see, Haddba told me that I must take you for a trip up the Bosphorous, you know how she gets these enthusiasms,' he pointed to Elizabeth's laptop and briefcase, ‘but I can see that this isn't a good day for you.'

‘Oh no, really.'

‘But you were hoping to go to the university today, weren't you?'

‘I was, yes.' She was at a loss to know what else to say.

‘Ah, well, in that case it would most definitely be an intrusion. Another time perhaps?'

‘Yes, another time.'

There was a silence between them, and to stop it she put her hand out quickly to shake his, but instead he took it and raised it swiftly to his lips.

‘Goodbye, Elizabeth.'

‘Goodbye.'

From the window Elizabeth watched as Mehmet's upright figure receded down the street. She heard the bleep of a car unlocking automatically, and on the street corner saw him get into a white Mercedes. He had not turned round, but she had the odd feeling that he knew she was watching him; was perhaps even half expecting her to go after him. And why didn't she? What, after all, was to stop her?

The day, all of a sudden, seemed to lack savour.

‘So, Elizabeth.' It was Haddba beside her. She had entered silently, and was now looking over Elizabeth's shoulder to where Mehmet's car was just pulling out. ‘I see you decided to keep him waiting.'

‘I'm sorry, Haddba.' Elizabeth turned round, but to her surprise Haddba had a look of deep satisfaction on her face. Her Mother Superior eyes glittered.

‘It's quite all right, my dear.' She patted Elizabeth's cheek approvingly. ‘You are a clever girl after all.' She gave a low laugh. ‘Now don't tell me they teach you
that
at your university.'

Celia woke with a cry. At first she did not know what it was that startled her out of sleep. The realisation – that it was the guns sounding over the Bosphorous to signal the demise of Gulay Haseki – brought with it a terror that Celia could only remember feeling once before. In that split second between sleep and wakefulness she had experienced again the roar and smash of the waves against rock and wooden deck; the sickening crack of the mast; the leaden weight of her sodden skirts; eyes blinded by wind and salt; the flash of a blade as it came down; her father left bleeding on the deck of the sinking ship.

Gasping for breath, she sat up. Even amongst the coverlets, her skin felt cold and clammy. It was so dark in her room – like all the rooms allocated to the
kislar
, it had no external windows – that she could not even see her own hands when she held them up to her face. Was this what it would be like to be blind? For a moment Celia thought she could hear footsteps – the sound of an unknown intruder padding softly round her room? – and it was only after some moments that she realised it was the sound of her own heart beating.

Gradually, as her eyes adjusted, shapes and forms began to come into focus. Against the far wall were the still-sleeping figures of her two servant women, curled up beneath their quilts on the floor. In a niche in the wall behind her a single candle was guttering, its flame like a small blue firefly. Celia put her hand into the niche and pulled out the Haseki's bracelet. Then she lay back against the cushions again to think. Who was it, she wondered, who had really been
behind the Haseki's betrayal? Hanza was ambitious, but, Celia was convinced now more than ever, there was something about her that was simply too green for her to have been working entirely on her own. Gulay Haseki had been about to tell her who the third Nightingale was – could it be something to do with that? Too late for her to tell me now, she thought sadly.

After the eunuchs had taken Hanza and Gulay away, the Valide and the senior harem mistresses had lost no time in restoring order again. As a means of keeping the
kislar
calm the rule of silence had been imposed for the rest of the evening. No one knew for sure what had happened to Hanza; but – if the shocked and pale faces that Celia saw everywhere around her were anything to go by – in their hearts everybody knew the fate of Gulay Haseki.

They say that there are some fates worse than death. Although she tried not to, Celia imagined what it would be like to be sewn up into a sack; she imagined rough hands lifting her up; the sound of a voice begging, screaming –
no, no, kill me first, anything, anything but this
– a frenzy of tearing, biting – then the terror of water penetrating the sack, water roaring into her ears and eyes, exploding in her throat and into her nose.

And then cold, cold, cold.

A feeling of panic, thicker than bile, rose in Celia's throat. Fighting for breath, she sprang up from her bed and ran to the door, shivering and breathing in great lungfuls of air. After a few minutes the sweet night air, the solid ground beneath her feet, soothed her. She put her hand to her throat – willing her breathing to return to normal – and felt the solid shape of the key to the Aviary Gate still hanging on its chain around her neck.

It would be madness, wouldn't it …? Celia took a few exploratory steps across the courtyard. How quiet the courtyard was. There was not a sound. Moonlight poured down, so bright she could see the red of her dress. There was no one to see her, no one to hear. The key was already in her hand …

But no, she couldn't.
They watch. They watch and they wait
. Annetta's words came back to her. And it was true – whoever ‘they' were. The Nightingales? She hardly knew any more. Annetta's fear, and the Haseki's, had infected her. She could feel spying eyes on her whatever she did, wherever she went, perhaps even now. To attempt
to open the Aviary Gate – and for what? – would be worse than madness, it would be death.

At the thought of it, the feeling of breathlessness started to come over her again, only this time she realised that it was not the fear of the sack. Celia put her hand to her throat.
It's this place, this life, this is worse than drowning
. A feeling of desperation, almost of madness, rose in her.

Before she could change her mind, Celia started to run.

Afterwards she had no memory of how she got to the Aviary Gate. Without looking once behind her, Celia ran fast and silently, along corridors and passageways, down steps and across paths, towards that part of the harem gardens where, after she was declared
gözde
, and when the rest of the harem had been at the Valide's summer palace, she had once been permitted to come and watch the novice
cariyes
play their ball games. She did not stop running until she came to the furthest wall of the garden, and there, sure enough, just as Hanza said there would be, in between two myrtle bushes in ornamental pots, she could just make out the outline of a metal grille, part of an old gateway in the wall that was now completely concealed by ivy. The grille was so small, and so hidden by vegetation, that unless she had known exactly where to look for it, she would never have been able to find it. Celia put the key in the lock and the door opened smoothly towards her.

At first, like a caged bird that has forgotten it knows how to fly, Celia stood on the threshold, uncertain how to proceed. She turned, listening carefully, but behind her the harem gardens, silvered by the moon, were absolutely silent. There was not so much as a breath of wind. Then, on the other side of the gateway, she saw it: the English gift. It was far bigger than she had imagined: a huge box-like object, three times her height, standing on its own about thirty yards away. As though in a dream, she watched her own moonlit form flit silently towards it.

Celia examined the strange object carefully. The lower part consisted of a keyboard with ivory and ebony keys like a spinet. Here and there small scraps of paper had been pushed between them, as if the keys had been only recently glued in place. Above them, set into a headboard, were the organ's pipes, in ascending order of size. Set into
the middle of this strange contraption was a clock telling the hours, and on either side of the clock two angels, silver trumpets at their lips, sounded a silent tantara. On the topmost part of the structure was what appeared to be a bush made from wires, and in amongst the wires were the figures of birds of different kinds, their beaks open as though they were singing, only no sound came from them. Frozen in the moonlight, their little glittering eyes seemed to follow Celia as she walked round and round them, marvelling at the delicacy and artistry of the workmanship.

Paul, oh Paul! Celia put one her hand to her cheek. It's a thing of beauty, so it is! Did you have something to do with this? At once she felt her eyes begin to smart with tears, and yet when she put her other hand up to her mouth, she knew that she was smiling too. As if I didn't know! With an expression of absolute anguish Celia laid her trembling fingers against the keys, feeling them against her skin. Oh God! Paul, my sweet love! She was half-laughing and half-crying. It's a box of curiosities, so it is! I'll bet my life this was your idea. Celia laid her forehead against the wooden casing, and then, her cheeks damp and salty now, stretched out her arms as far as they would go, as if she were melting into the wood, feeling for each grain and whorl, stroking it with her fingertips, breathing in its pungent, new-cut smell.