The Aviary Gate (28 page)

‘Who's Hanza?'

‘She used to be one of the Haseki's servants,' Celia said. ‘But last night she became one of the Sultan's concubines.'

‘You mean he …' Looking suddenly interested, Annetta struggled to sit up. ‘With
both
of you?'

‘Yes, both of us. But he only did it to her.'

‘Oh, goose!' There was a sympathetic pause. ‘I'm so sorry.'

‘Well don't be. “Nice fresh
culo
for that fat old man”, remember when you said that to me? Well, that's exactly what it was like. I know, I had to watch.'

‘You watched!' A ripple of laughter escaped from Annetta's throat. ‘I'm sorry!' She put her hand to her mouth. ‘What's she like, this Hanza?'

‘Don't laugh. She's about as bad as the Haseki is good. But fortunately not nearly as clever as she thinks she is.'

Celia told her about the blood and the napkin.

‘
Madonna
!' Annetta looked up at her in amazement. ‘How on earth did you know about all that?'

‘I didn't, I made it up.' When she saw the expression on Annetta's face Celia allowed herself a wintry smile. ‘Don't look at me like that. Something the Haseki said made me think: here we are, right at the very heart of things, but no one ever tells us anything. Not the rank and file girls, the
kislar
. It's all whispers and surmise; rumours and counter-rumours, most of them false. And the further up the ladder you go, the worse it gets. After a while, you don't know what to think any more. I realised that I was going to have to find things out for myself. You were always good at that, Annetta, but not me. It's as though I've been in a dream all this time.' She pressed her fingers wearily over her eyes again. ‘Lord, I'm so tired.'

‘So what did Hanza tell you then? It must have been good for you to save her miserable skin.'

‘It was.' Celia sat back. ‘Can you keep a secret?'

‘You know I can.'

‘It wasn't anything she said.'

‘What then? That look on your face – it's making me nervous.'

‘She gave me this.' From her pocket Celia produced a key.

Annetta stirred uncomfortably. ‘What's it for?'

‘The Aviary Gate. One of the old gates leading from the harem quarters into the Third Courtyard. It's hardly ever used these days. The Haseki told me that the English merchants have been told to set up their gift to the Sultan just behind it – I've heard them at work on it myself. So don't you see, if I can just …'

‘How did she know?' Annetta interrupted her again.

‘The Haseki?'

‘No, not the Haseki!
Hanza
, of course. Have you asked yourself
how
Hanza knew that you might be interested in the Aviary Gate?'

‘I don't know, I suppose she overheard Gulay telling me about the English merchants.' Celia shrugged. ‘I don't know and I don't care.'

‘Well, you should care.' Annetta's forehead was damp. ‘Don't you see, it means they're on to you – on to us.'

Celia stared at her. ‘What do you mean: “on to us”?'

‘I mean that they've guessed at your connection with the sugar ship.'

‘That's nonsense. If they thought I had anything to do with it someone would have said something by now.'

‘But that's just it, don't you see?' Annetta's eyes were hollow, smudged with tired shadows. ‘That's not how they do things here.' Her eyes flickered nervously towards the door. ‘They watch. They watch and they wait.'

‘For what?'

‘For you – for us – to make a mistake.'

‘Well, I don't care!' Celia said, reckless now. ‘This is my chance, and I'll never get another one. Don't you see?' Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘They're there; every day; just the other side of the gate!'

‘No!' Annetta's voice was sharp. ‘You mustn't!'

‘But why ever not?'

‘You just mustn't, that's all. Please! They'll kill us! You mustn't do anything that will associate us with the English merchants.'

For a long moment the two girls looked at one another.

A feeling of dread came over Celia.

‘What's wrong, Annetta?' Her words came out thickly.

‘I'm not well.' Annetta almost whimpered. She turned on to her side and closed her eyes. ‘That woman, that witch – she's put the Evil Eye on me, I know it.'

‘Don't be an idiot, you know that's not true.' Impatiently Celia shook her by the shoulder. ‘She gave you a fright, that's all. If you go on like this, Annetta, you're going to make yourself really ill.'

‘Can't you see?' There were specks of foam at the corners of her mouth. ‘I
am
ill.'

Perhaps it was true. Her skin was drained of colour, and had a greasy sheen to it. Looking at Annetta, Celia had been reminded of something; now she knew what it was.

‘I've seen you like this before, haven't I? Just after they found the Chief Black Eunuch,' she said. ‘You wept when they found him – I couldn't understand it. You're not ill, Annetta, you're frightened.'

‘No!'

‘What are you frightened of?'

‘I can't tell you.'

‘Yes, you can—' Celia was pleading with her now, ‘you
must
tell me.'

‘I can't! You'll hate me!'

‘Don't be a fool, we haven't got much time. They'll be coming for me in a moment.'

‘I'm so sorry! It's my own fault.' Tears were seeping now from Annetta's eyes. ‘And it
is
an Evil Eye … you don't understand.' There was a note of hysteria in her voice now. ‘They're punishing me!'

‘You're right, I don't understand.' Celia shook her again, more roughly this time. ‘What punishment? It's me they're spying on. Why should anyone want to do that to you?'

‘Because I was there!'

Outside two pigeons who had been pecking in the courtyard started up in alarm.

‘You were there?'

‘Yes! I was there when the Chief Black Eunuch was poisoned.' Annetta's voice was barely a whisper. ‘They didn't see me. They thought it was the cat.
They
didn't see me,' she swallowed nervously, ‘but he did.'

Celia's head was spinning. So
that
was why Annetta had been so upset when they found him. That at least made some kind of sense. But what in God's name had she been doing there? It was not Annetta's body that was ill, but her mind. Her terror of Hassan Aga was so great she seemed almost unhinged.

‘So Hassan Aga knows you were there? You're sure of it?'

‘I think so. I thought he was dead. But then … then … he wasn't. And he isn't. And, oh Celia,' she was crying harder now, ‘then they found him, and now it looks as if he will live after all. Suppose he did see me there, he's going to think I had something to do with it.' She stared up, her eyes dry now, burning in her sallow face. ‘They know we came here together.'

‘What's that got to do with it?' Celia said, perplexed.

‘It's the other thing I should have told you. The sugar ship, the one they think poisoned Hassan Aga – it wasn't a figure of the English merchantman at all. It was a replica of your father's boat, goose. An exact replica of the
Celia
.'

The next day dawned cold and grey. Elizabeth awoke with a sense of well-being, surprised to find that she had slept through the night. Half a sleeping pill lay untouched on her bedside table. Her body felt warm, soft and pink with sleep. She lay back amongst the pillows, contemplating the sky outside. Something was different, something had changed. Sleepily she put her hand out to turn on her mobile, checking the screen for messages; but as usual there were none from Marius. Only a short text from Eve, which must have been sent the previous evening:
sleep tight darling speak 2morrow xx
.

Marius had not rung in the night, was not thinking of her, was not pleading with her to change her mind; but this morning, for some reason, the feeling of bleakness she was so used to feeling every day when she woke up did not materialise.

She had not dreamt of Marius, she realised, but of the Turk she had seen the day before in the Malta Kiosk. The thought of him still lingered, an erotic whisper at the edges of her mind.

That morning Elizabeth was the last down to breakfast. The other guests – the old American woman in the turban, the French professor, the film director – had almost finished by the time she emerged. She took her coffee and a bread roll with rose-petal jam and went to sit upstairs in the sitting room beneath one of the potted palms. The antique gramophone was playing Russian marching songs. From her bag Elizabeth took out a pen and paper, and as she ate, she began to write another letter to Eve.

Hello again, Eve darling, so sorry about my last gloomy missive. You're right, I probably am the last person in the world who actually writes letters, but without you here I need someone to talk to, don't you see? Who else is going to listen to me moaning on about Marius. Heigh-ho: it's cheaper than therapy I suppose (and who knows, perhaps some historian or DPhil student down the years will thank us some day: thank me anyway; they say that no email ever really disappears, but I've never believed it myself. Where do they go? Where are they stored? On a microchip; or do they just float about in the ether somewhere? God knows, paper manuscripts can be hard enough to track down – don't I know it – let alone something the size of a nanobite).

On that subject, nothing to report about the Lamprey captivity narrative. My reader's ticket for the the Bosphorous University has come through, but I'm still waiting for permission to look in the State archives – so far,
nada
. Now, if Celia Lamprey had written a letter or two, think what a help that would have been …

Elizabeth licked the sticky traces of rose-petal jam from her left hand, and turned the page. What should she tell Eve about? Her morning in the harem's deserted labyrinth, of Thomas Dallam's ‘other curious matter'? Or, better still, the stranger at the Malta Kiosk. For a moment or two her hand wavered over the page.

The other guests here get odder and odder. Two of the Russians I thought looked like white slave traders turn out to be a pair of opera singers invited here by a congress of the Turkish Communist Party. The American in the turban – the Angela Lansbury look-alike – is a writer, or so she claims. Haddba, the guest house owner told me. Now
she
is the strangest of the lot: always wears black and has a face like nun, while somehow contriving to be exactly like a madame in an old Parisian brothel (pure Brassaï – you'd love her), and for some reason has taken me under her wing. Perhaps she's thinking of selling me to the white slave traders …

She could imagine Eve's reply via text:
u got 2 b joking we 2 old 4 that worst luck
. Elizabeth smiled. Past it at twenty-eight … So how old were you supposed to be? Thirteen, fourteen, that's how young some
of those slave girls had been. Celia Lamprey had probably been older than that if she was already betrothed to someone when she was captured, but the others? They were no more than children. Could Berin have been right about them being willing participants in the system? What could they possibly have known about love, about sex? Well, that was the point, wasn't it? They weren't supposed to know; weren't supposed to have needs and desires of their own, just be moulded by what others wanted them to be. It sounded almost restful … Elizabeth thought of Marius and sighed.

The old gramophone creaked to a halt, and an unaccustomed silence descended on the room. Elizabeth's mind wandered. She kept waiting for that familiar feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach to return, but to her surprise it did not. And last night she had dreamt, not of Marius, but of another man, a stranger. How odd: she tried to remember exactly what it was that she had dreamt, but as soon as she tried to grasp it in her conscious mind it dissolved like smoke. All that was left was a vague feeling of – what?

Warmth. No. Disquiet.

‘Elizabeth?' It was Haddba. ‘You're not going to the library today, I see? May I sit?'

Without waiting for a reply she sat down next to her and fitted one of her cigarettes into the ivory holder with her elegant fingers. ‘I'll send the boy down for some more coffee.'

She snapped her fingers at Rashid and said something in Turkish. Then she turned her beautiful kohl-lined eyes on Elizabeth again. ‘This weather – simply perishing.' She gave a little shiver, pulling a gold-embroidered pashmina a little more closely around her shoulders. ‘Today is a good day for you to be going to the hammam, I think.'

‘Well, I was thinking of writing up my notes …' Elizabeth began, then saw a determined flicker in Haddba's eyes.

‘No, Elizabeth.' Haddba had a way of saying her name, which made her sound as if she were singing it. E-
li
-za-beth. She gave the cigarette holder two impatient little taps against the arm of her chair. Ash fluttered around her, making little pools on the floor. ‘You must look after yourself. You do not, why is this? Look at you, always so melancholy.' She regarded Elizabeth from beneath her curious thick eyelids. The boy arrived with the coffee. Haddba did not so much take the cup from him as accept it from him, like a tribute.

‘Thank you, but really – I've so much to do.' Again Elizabeth began to make her excuses.

‘But E-
li
-za-beth, do not say no. This building is by Sinan. So beautiful, you really must see it; you will enjoy.' Haddba's tiny coffee cup, no bigger than a thimble, rapped against the saucer. ‘Rashid will take you,' was all she said.

With the boy to escort her, Elizabeth took the bus over the Galata Bridge to the district of Sultanahmet; then the tram up to the Burnt Column near the Grand Bazaar. When they got out Rashid pointed to a door in an anonymous-looking building, hung about on the outside with telephone wires and shop signs.