Garden of Venus

Mana’s black crêpe mourning dress is folded at the bottom of her coffer. In Bursa Maria Glavani would have been the talk of the town. Here, no one remembers Konstantin, the unlucky Greek with greying hair, or his widow. If only she knew what life had in store when she looked into his black eyes for that first time. If only she listened to her own mother who pointed out the threadbare clothes and the chaffed shoes of this man who talked incessantly of diamonds big as walnuts, of herds of cattle, of silk and gold lace. Such is the fault of love. Love that brings a woman down and leaves her at the mercy of strangers.

Mana no longer talks of Christian duties, of sin and honour and the good name. They are eating meat again, and fresh fruit Mana buys at the market herself. The days are still cool. To keep warm, they put hot ashes into the tandir and sit with their feet on it. The warmth stays in their bodies for a long time. They need to be strong and round off their hips. By the time a fat man gets thin, a thin man dies.

‘I want the best for you,’ Mana says, and Sophie believes that. Her thoughts fold and refold around the promises of the future. She knows her mother has been making enquiries. Do any of the foreign diplomats in Istanbul show the first signs of boredom with their current mistresses? A Frank, rich and powerful, and refined. A man who would not slap her daughter around and then leave her without means to lead an honest life. The girl, she hears her mother’s whisper, is an unspoiled virgin, worthy of a king’s bed.

When she hears this, Sophie thinks of Diamandi’s hand on her breasts, his body crushing her to the ground, his hot tongue parting her teeth, its earthy, lingering taste. She thinks of his strong, smooth legs, the man’s hair on the boy’s chest. The sharp pain of his love, and the blood on her legs.

An innocent girl, her mother says, with a good heart who could be grateful, who would be so grateful for a nice home, a carriage, beautiful dresses that would show off her skin and her hair. Dresses that would add glitter to these beautiful black eyes in which some have already seen the moon and the stars.

Dou-Dou. A virgin. Unspoiled. Innocent. Naïve to the highest degree, and with a good heart.

Yes, Dou-Dou can be grateful and funny and good at pleasing. Skilful, too, in the art of massage. Her touch is light, her skin is warm and dry. The girl is no weakling, she can press what needs to be pressed, knead what needs to be kneaded.

A foreign diplomat, her mother whispers, would leave one day. But, as any honest man would do in such a situation, he would provide a dowry for his girl. Sweeten the nibbled goods for his successor, a merchant or a shopkeeper. Someone solid, honest. Someone who would want children and a beautiful wife with a handsome dowry, even if he had to close his eyes and take a jewel from the second floor.

Why is Mana hiding all these schemes from me, Sophie thinks. Why the charades, the pretence, the games. I’m no longer a child. I know no one will marry me without a dowry. In bed at night she lets her fingers run down her neck, over her breasts, down to her belly. There is a moment in which a touch turns into a caress. A sweet moment of pleasure. She likes the thought of a rich man of the world who would tell her what lies behind Istanbul and Bursa. A man who would teach her the dances of the Frank courts, tell her what the ladies do to hold their hair so high. A man who would teach her to speak French. She is quick with languages, has always been. Greek, Turkish and Armenian come to her naturally like breath. She has already picked quite a few French words from her aunt, and some Russian ones too: Bonjour mon cherie. Spassiba. Slichnotka.

Aunt Helena, a frequent guest at the Russian mission’s balls and soirees, has promised to keep her eyes open. She has always liked the Russians whom she calls ‘the fair race from the North’, and ‘the people who know the meaning of pleasure’. She has always liked their caviar from Astrakhan, their clear vodka that goes right to your veins. Liked their dances until dawn, as if there were no tomorrow, as if the world would end that very day. Glasses, she tells her niece, get smashed against the wall so that they could not hold another drink at an inferior time. There is one more thing that pleases Aunt Helena. The Russian victories over the Turks. ‘The black camel of death will soon kneel at his doors,’ she says, pointing in the direction of the Sultan’s palace.

Yes, a Russian diplomat would be best for Dou-Dou.

All talk, Mana says with bitterness. Liars are branded in this country for a reason. Her sister, may dear Lord forgive a widow’s bitterness, has always been fickle and not above jealousy. Just because she lives in the district of Phanar does not make her rich and powerful. And all these stories she comes with are nothing more than accounts of her own goodness. Fanciful accounts given to them like scraps from her own table. Maria Glavani knows such talk when she hears it. Didn’t she have a good teacher? Konstantin too never stopped weaving his schemes until the day of his death.

So Aunt Helena’s words are listened to but not believed. For there is always a little mishap in her stories, a small obstacle that would have to be waited through, ironed out, removed. The undersecretary who kept asking to see Dou-Dou before he would recommend her to his superiors was a known libertine and his request to meet Sophie had to be dismissed. We don’t want to cheapen her, Maria, her aunt has said. No touching if they are not buying.

The plague is what makes Sophie’s situation worse. The plague cools many a heart. In the presence of death, amour wilts and shrivels. Besides, even a foreign diplomat caught with a Greek woman would have to face the Ottoman justice. Not everyone wants to risk that much. Not even for such a beautiful pair of eyes.

In the Russian Mission, Monsieur Stachiev’s wife is so terrified of the plague that she has locked herself and her children in an upstairs bedroom and refuses to see or meet anyone. This, in itself, is not such a bad thing, for it leaves Monsieur Stachiev free to pursue his own merry interests. But it doesn’t help to have people talk that she has sent her surgeon away for wanting to bleed her. That she screams at the top of her voice. ‘We’ll all die here in this infidel country. We’ll all be punished.’ She has already cursed her husband. ‘Your sons will pay for your fornication,’ she said. ‘You will kneel at their coffins and then where will your whores be?’ She will call the Janissaries, if she but spots a Greek woman entering the mission building.

‘Dou-Dou, you are slowing me down,’ Mana says. They are coming back from the market, their baskets heavy with meat and fruit. As always, people stare at them as they pass. The men look at them with longing and often stop them, asking for directions or pretending they have mistaken them for someone else. Women’s eyes are curious, assessing their beauty as if it were a threat, a challenge.

‘Come on, girl, we don’t have all day.’

A black man who stops them is a eunuch. Not an ordinary eunuch either, but a eunuch from the Sultan’s court. His robes are woven with gold and silver and mazanne blue. The face under the burgundy fez is smooth, layers of fat testifying to the richness of his table. His voice is soft and warm. Having lived his life among women, he knows how to calm their fears.

‘Beautiful ladies,’ he says and smiles, flashing his teeth. As white as hers, Sophie thinks.

The Ottoman Princess, the Sultan’s daughter, has ordered him to stop them. He was summoned by his mistress, told to drop all he was doing, and go after them. Go after two Christian women who have caught the Princess’s eye.

Sophie’s eyes travel upwards, toward the palace windows. She cannot see anyone there. Perhaps it is the Sultan himself who has seen her. Perhaps, with one look of His eyes, her life has changed forever.

‘Follow me. We mustn’t make the Princess wait.’

‘Are you sure you are not taking us for someone else,’ Mana asks the eunuch, but the black man laughs. His mistress’s mind is an open book to him. They should not doubt their luck. The heavy baskets can be left with the servants who can take them to their home. ‘Just tell me where you live,’ he says.

‘We’ll take them on our way back,’ Mana says sharply. ‘Ourselves!’

Is there is a note of fear in Mana’s voice? Unease? Anger as she clasps her daughter’s hand in a firm grip as if she wanted them to turn away and run? But how can a Christian woman refuse an Ottoman princess? How can a Greek say no to a Turkish master?

Dou-Dou does not want to notice Mana’s fear. Her mind flutters with delicious visions of glittering jewels, gauzy dresses and garden paths bathing in sweet, dappled shade. She can feel the harsh impatience of her mother’s hand, the reluctance of her steps. She wants to laugh and assure her Mana there is nothing to worry about. She is ready. When her chance comes, she will know what to do.

They follow the black eunuch past the palace gate, past the first courtyard filled with cool shade, fragrant with the jessamines and honeysuckles that coil around tree trunks, past the giant clay vases filled with blooming roses. The big courtyard is bustling with life. Two tall grooms hold Arabian horses, snow white, with the legs of dancers. A short, fat man in a leather apron is rolling a big wooden barrel. A young man is whistling a merry tune, trailing Dou-Dou with his eyes until the eunuch’s look stops him.

Inside the Seraglio the sweet perfume of the jessamines penetrates the gilded sashes easily. A white marble fountain releases the stream of water that falls into four basins below. The sound is pleasing. By this fountain, the eunuch leaves them. ‘The Princess shall send for you,’ he says, lifting Dou-Dou’s head with his index finger and looking straight into her eyes.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmurs. ‘These eyes will shame the light of the moon.’

When they are left alone, Sophie looks around. The tiles on the floor are cool to the touch. She would have liked to take her shoes off and step on them with bare feet, but Mana’s eyes stop her. The walls are covered with tiles of different patterns. Most of them have blue, and gold in them, and the colours mingle in her eyes and shimmer. The thick stained glass windows dim the rays of the sun, make them dance with colours of amber and silvery dust. There are no chairs, but a few big cushions on a raised sofa covered with Persian carpets. The scent of honeysuckle joins the jessamine, the scent that penetrates her hair, her dress, clings to her skin.

Is this how the Sultan smells, she wonders. Is his skin as soft as she imagines? As cool as the tiles?

‘Don’t say anything until you are asked,’ her mother whispers. Her face is pale and her eyes dart around the room. What is it that she wants to find?

‘Don’t look at the Princess. Keep your eyes down.’

Mana has removed her own kerchief and wraps another layer of cloth over her daughter’s hair.

What if the Sultan will not care for her? What if he takes one look at her and sends her back?

But these are thoughts easily laughed away. In her heart of hearts she trusts her joy. A woman the Sultan summons becomes a quadin, a chosen one.

‘Someone must have seen you,’ Mana hisses, her voice rough with anger. ‘Didn’t I tell you not to wander alone.’

The servant woman who enters the antechamber is wearing a pink kaftan over blue drawers, her hand touching her heart and lips in greeting. Silent, she beckons with her right hand and they follow, their heels clicking on the tiles. They walk through long winding corridors of closed doors, past a big room where women sit on big satin cushions, smoking nargila, working on their embroidery. One of them with diamonds in her turban, sitting on a lap of a Negress throws herself into her arms as if to hide in them. In another room a woman in a red dress is bending over a big loom, absorbed in the invisible patterns. To Sophie these images seem like pieces of a puzzle, a mystery she alone would be allowed to solve. This is making her deaf to Mana’s sighs.

The Princess is wearing a vest of purple cloth, set with pearls on each side down to her feet and round her sleeves. It is tied at the waist with two large tassels embroidered with diamonds. Her shift is fastened with an emerald as big as a turkey egg. In the middle of her headdress two roses glitter, each made of a large ruby surrounded with clean diamonds. She is seated on a big silk-covered cushion, like an enormous animal at rest, its belly still full, but its eyes already on the lookout for the next meal. Her arms are strong and muscular, her skin smooth. Her black eyes, lined with kohl, are short-sighted for she leans forward as she speaks.

‘You have come,’ she says, as if their obedience surprised her. ‘Welcome to my home.’

Perhaps, Sophie thinks, the Princess has been sent to appraise her, to see if she is worthy of the Sultan’s time. The Ottoman Princess, blessed with the riches of her father, her body cared for by her army of slaves, scraped, massaged and perfumed with the most precious of scents. Her hands are too big though, in spite of all the beautiful rings. Five on her right hand only. Two have diamonds bigger than hazelnuts.

‘Your Highness,’ she says, with her loveliest smile. ‘Is too kind.’

The Princess gives a sign and servants enter with wooden trays, carrying sweets and strong Turkish coffee, its aroma filling the air. There are dried apricots, figs, raisins and dates from Basra, the sweetest that there are. Nuts in a gilded bowl. Fresh figs too, black and green. A jug of sherbet to drink. A sherbet for which, Sophie is told, snow has been fetched all the way from the highest mountains of India.

‘I love figs,’ Sophie says brightly and clasps her hands in delight.

It’s too late for Mana’s look of warning. The Princess laughs too and promises that such a sweet child, such a beautiful girl could have all the figs in the Ottoman Kingdom. And apricots, and raisins. And pistachio nuts and sweet dark coffee that races in the veins and brings flashes of colour to the cheeks.

She can have everything she wants. Beautiful dresses. Shawls. Velvet and damask and silk that the merchants bring all the way from China. The most exquisite patterns. A girl so beautiful should be wearing lots of gold to set off her raven hair and her olive skin. And soft, soft leather for her feet.

‘This child deserves the best,’ she says, her eyes leaving Sophie for a moment and resting on Mana, as if she were responsible for her daughter’s poverty. ‘Not the rags that she is wearing now.’

Mana wriggles on her cushion.

‘Most illustrious of Princesses,’ she begins. ‘Your Imperial Highness. The light of my eyes.’

She begs the Princess to think of her. A widowed mother of an only daughter. A beloved daughter she cannot think of parting with.

‘But she would live with me, in the palace, you silly woman. Have everything she could ever need. Can’t you see that? Does every Greek have to be so dense, so infernally stupid?’

Seeing a frown on Sophie’s forehead, she changes her tone, quickly. Too quickly.

Surely a mother cannot deny her child’s fate. Fight the fortune God offers her. The good life of opulence and comfort. Look at her hands, the Princess says, still accusing. Cracked and reddened like those of a scullery maid. Is that what you want for this angel? Is she to be your maid? Scrubbing pots? Ruining the gifts Allah has bestowed on her?

‘My God,’ Mana says, ‘forbids a mother to leave her child among strangers.’

‘My God,’ she says, looking straight into the Princess’s eyes, ‘does not allow some kinds of love.’

The Princess laughs. ‘I know your God, woman,’ she says. ‘All your God wants is a good price for her. Here. Take this!’

A purse filled with cekins lands in Mana’s lap with a thud. It is heavy. A bounty, a treasure. Money that could last them a few months. Pay the debts, buy new dresses, good tender lamb and fresh fruit. Pay for dangling earrings that would set off Dou-Dou’s shapely lobes, the graceful turn of her neck.

A purse filled with gold.

This is a fair price for a poor Greek girl, isn’t it? This and a promise of a good life, a full stomach, and hands that would not have to touch dirt ever again.

‘With me she will want for nothing.’

Sophie looks at her mother. There is nothing I can do, Mana’s body tells her. I can refuse the gold or take it, this won’t make any difference. But I cannot tell her I do not allow you to stay here.

‘She’ll be like a daughter to me,’ the Princess coos. She has moved closer and the heat radiating from her touches Sophie’s arms.

‘She will sleep in my bed. She will go everywhere with me. I’ll buy her everything she wants.’

Fear signals its beginning with a spasm in her stomach, then another, closer to Sophie’s heart. The soles of her feet are cold, her hands begin to tremble. In Bursa she has seen men show a bloodied leg of a fox, all that has remained in the snare they have set. The beast has chewed off its own hind leg and escaped.

‘I have never even asked your name,’ the Princess says.

Sophie hesitates. She doesn’t really like the Princess at all. She doesn’t like the way her strong hand rests on her knee and squeezes it, as if the two of them had to stand together against Mana. She doesn’t like the hint of rot in her mouth. The tooth in front is black with decay. The visions of the Sultan’s favour have receded and suddenly she sees herself as a servant in this palace, carrying trays with raisins and nuts, making coffee somewhere in the kitchen. Perhaps scraping hair from the Princess’s legs and arms, holding a towel for her in hammam as her big body breaks out with sweat.

How do you say no to an Ottoman Princess whose whims are their orders? Who could, with one word, send them to their deaths, the way the Sultan is said to dispose of unfaithful concubines: wrapped in a burlap bag, and thrown into the waters of the Bosphorus; or left naked in the street of Istanbul, unknown to anyone, a corpse with raven hair and skin white as milk, chest pierced with a dagger.

‘Don’t be shy, my precious,’ the Princess says.

Sophie raises her eyes. There is a flash of defiance, though she is trying to disguise it.

‘My name is Sophie,’ she says. ‘It means wisdom.’

She watches how, with one gesture of dismissal, her mother is made to leave the room, the purse of gold cekins in her hands. How she takes one more look at her daughter, a look of such pain and despair that Sophie wants to run toward her and throw her hands around her neck. ‘I’ve failed you after all,’ Mana’s eyes say. ‘I have not kept you from danger. Forgive me.’

The doors close after her, silently, like the doors of a tomb.

Rosalia

Only a week had passed, even if the memory of the journey seemed already faded and oddly remote, as if whole weeks separated them from the grimy inns and the jostling carriage.

In the first days of October, morning took a long time to arrive. With curtains drawn, the only light in the grand salon was a votive lamp underneath the icon of St Nicholas. In the twilight, the red reflections on the Saint’s bearded face made the holy image waver and float.

The countess was awake already. She tried to lift herself up, but the task was too strenuous and she fell back on the pillow.

‘Don’t look at me, Rosalia,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to remember me like that.’

Blood stained her clothes, seeped through the sheets, the blankets. They should be soaked in cold water right away. The mattress would have to be burned. The maids have to stop gossiping in the kitchen and clean more carefully. Rosalia could see the patches missed by the duster, the trails of neglect. One cannot rejoice at this constant lowering of your station in life, Aunt Antonia had written, hinting once again at the disastrous but perhaps foreseeable consequences of her father’s Jacobin dreams, the true cause of all her misfortunes. She herself was far from supporting tyranny or injustice, but all this talk of freeing the serfs or making Poland a republic frightened her. Like everything else in life, equality too had its limits. Your place is here, her letters to Rosalia invariably ended, at my side.

An operation would take place right in this room. A mattress could go on a table. She did warn Frau Kohl that one might be needed at short notice. A fairly big one, with sturdy legs.

Since their arrival in Berlin, breakfast meant a few morsels of bread dipped in red wine to strengthen blood and on a better morning a few sips of consommé the cook prepared fresh every day. Dr Bolecki always came around ten o’clock and, after a short examination of the countess, insisted that Rosalia escorted him downstairs. This was the only time, he said, they could exchange their observations about the patient, only they never did.

On the first day Dr Bolecki told her that his father had fought in the Ko?ciuszko Insurrection; that he, Dr Bolecki, trained in Paris, thanks to Napoleon’s insatiable need for army surgeons; and that the French doctor who was coming from Paris could amputate a limb in under two minutes. On the following day she learned that Dr Bolecki’s beloved wife died of consumption and his only daughter was a Carmelite nun, in Rome. He had to take her there himself, in January last year. On a day so cold that he couldn’t stop thinking of Napoleon’s Russian campaign. ‘Was it really that terrible?’ Rosalia asked, out of politeness. ‘I mean the campaign,’ she added quickly lest he thought she was prying into his life. He hesitated for a moment, and said that the most eerie was the silence before the Moscow fires started. ‘A void,’ he said, ‘awaiting human screams.’ Of the march back he refused to speak at all. ‘It’s better for you not to know,’ he said. But then, even though Rosalia did not insist on returning to the subject, he added that death from cold was kind. ‘The worst,’ he said, ‘always comes from a human hand.’

‘I think him very pleasant,’ Rosalia said when the countess asked how she liked Dr Bolecki. She meant ‘reliable’, but ‘pleasant’ seemed a safer word to use. Olga had complained, on two occasions, that Rosalia was putting on airs. ‘As if she were a doctor here,’ were Olga’s words.

Today, as the examination followed its usual route—pulse, signs of fever, the usual questions about appetite, bleeding, and acuteness of pain—a lock of grey hair kept falling over Doctor Bolecki’s left eye. This, Rosalia thought, might be responsible for his air of restlessness. The countess suffered these ministrations without a sign of impatience, but let Rosalia answer all the questions. Only Dr Bolecki’s assurance that he would bring the French surgeon the next day, restored some alertness to her face. ‘As soon as possible,’ he kept saying. He kept looking at her too, Rosalia noted, as if something managed to change about her since the day before. Her nursing skills, he said, were most impressive. Not every patient was thus blessed. ‘I trust you, Mademoiselle, completely.’ This he repeated three times in a row, adding that he was sure his high regard would be shared by Doctor Lafleur.

There was a sound of footsteps outside the grand salon, then silence. The door opened and Marusya appeared, balancing a tray with letters and a pot of coffee with some difficulty. It was one of the countess’s whims, a pot of freshly brewed coffee at her bedside. The smell of it, she said, was enough. She could not drink any of it, but that shouldn’t stop Rosalia from having some. The maid put the tray on the table. Her eyes were fixed on the tray and her chore, as if any distraction could cause her to lose control. The tray wobbled and Rosalia half expected to hear the crash of china falling to the floor, but this did not happen.