The Harem Midwife (29 page)

“Isaac, we must look for him—and fast.”

“But there must be some expl—”

Hannah interrupted. “Isaac, no.” This was not a Talmudic debate about how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. Now was the time for action. A thought struck her. “This morning, when they left, Grazia insisted on taking Matteo’s blanket.” Hannah could not explain it, but there was something about Grazia’s insistence that had disturbed her. Matteo’s blanket—the only thing that linked him to his natural parents.

A look of alarm crossed Isaac’s face. Finally, he was beginning to see.

“We will find him. Don’t worry,” he said.

They hurried to the front door, where Isaac took his
berete
from the hook. Hannah slipped on her sandals. She called to Zephra to tell her they were going out, before remembering that she had already left with the baby for Tova’s house. Hannah wrenched open the front door and together they ran out.

“They must be heading through the crowds to the docks,” Hannah said.

“It will be impossible to get through the crowd in a carriage. Let us go by foot.”

Several streets later, they encountered the parade. “Isaac, how will we find them?”

Hand in hand, Hannah and Isaac squeezed through the crowds, ducking past the various guild floats, including the chalk-makers’. The men riding on top of the wagon were crunching chalk in their hands and using handfuls of it to whiten their faces. A band followed in their wake, playing eight-fold Turkish music.

A cart lumbered by, drawn by massive draught horses pulling the silversmiths and their forges. Which of the many floats would Matteo insist on seeing? The carpenters building a wooden house? The bricklayers raising a wall? The silver thread-spinners? The saddlers? The felt-makers? The confectioners’ guild that flung their sugary delights into the crowd—Lips of the Beauty, Hanum’s Finger, and Ladies’ Thighs?

Thousands of people were milling about, mothers holding babies in their arms, fathers carrying children on their shoulders. She spotted a red-haired boy, arms extended to catch a piece of marzipan thrown from the confectioners’ float. Her heart nearly stopped. But he was an older child, five at least, and not as handsome as Matteo.

A mime spotted Hannah and Isaac rushing through the forest of people and followed them, stroking his beard in imitation of Isaac. Isaac tossed a coin at the man, trying to get rid of him, but it only encouraged the mime and soon he added ribald gestures to his act.

They pushed and shoved, Isaac shouting for people to move aside. It was too much movement, too much, too fast. She stood for a moment to catch her breath.

Isaac pulled her arm and they raced along the Street of the Armourers, side-stepping a cart piled high with cooked sheeps’ heads. In the distance was the blue expanse of the Bosporus. Now Hannah had a stitch in her side. She cursed herself. Just when she needed all of her endurance, she seemed to have none.

“Are you all right?” Isaac asked, slowing.

“Of course,” she said. “I am fine.”

Hannah pressed her fist into her side, grabbed Isaac’s hand, and carried on.

CESCA HAD NOT
wanted to steal Matteo from the only mother he had ever known any more than she had wanted to kill Leon, but God had ordained otherwise. She walked along Caddesi Selçuk. And there in the distance was Foscari, waiting at the
simit
seller’s, just as arranged. What greater proof did she need of God’s approval? She approached him, dragging Matteo by the arm. The boy was exhausted from excitement over the wonderful sights of the parade.

“Hello, Foscari,” she said, taking in his handsome face and the thick hair that had grown too long and now curled over his collar. “You are looking well.”

“As are you.” Foscari beamed at the boy and said, “We shall see some marvellous sights, you and I. Perhaps the sponge divers’ float? Or maybe the confectioners’? You look like a boy who enjoys sweets.”

Matteo grinned, clearly fascinated by Foscari’s silver nose. Cesca smiled brightly and stared at it too. It was as though his silver nose were a fortune teller’s crystal ball in which she could see her future. There was her villa in Maser, with its apple orchards, rich pastures, and honey-coloured cows. Since that evening at the embassy, everything had fallen as neatly into place as pleats in a silk dress. The dower money had dropped from the heavens into her lap. The absurd divorce had saved her the trouble of murdering Isaac and claiming his paltry estate—a trivial loss. Cesca had bigger fish to catch. She had Hannah’s hundred ducats, an enormous sum. She was free to sail to Venice. And Matteo could keep his precious blanket, thus avoiding a tantrum. They would all be reunited soon enough at the docks. The villa would soon be hers.

Cesca paused a moment, deciding how best to phrase what she was about to say next. “Foscari, there has been a slight change in my plans. You’ll be pleased to hear that I can sail with you after all. And soon,” she added. Without Isaac as her husband, there was no reason to remain in Constantinople. It would be a relief to go to Venice, where she could understand the language. She would not have to pretend to be someone she wasn’t, constantly vigilant lest she make a slip and mention the Virgin Mary or eat cheese with a piece of roasted meat,
or violate some other preposterous dietary prohibition.

Cesca spoke in a low voice so Matteo would not hear. “I shall look after the boy during the voyage.”

Foscari did not look as pleased as a man should look at the prospect of several weeks of a beautiful woman’s company aboard a small ship.

“And the blanket? Where is it?”

“Where it always is, in the boy’s pocket.”

“Very well then.” Foscari studied Matteo for a moment. “Such a handsome little trot. Quite the image of his father.” He held out his hand. “Let me see that blanket I have heard so much about.”

Matteo backed away.

Cesca bent down to him. “It’s all right, my son. You do not have to give it to him now.”

To Foscari, Cesca said, “Don’t worry about the blanket now. You’ll frighten him. We’ll have plenty of time for that later.

“You be a good boy, Matteo. Enjoy the parade and don’t leave the Marquis Foscari’s side. He will buy you any treats you want.”

The boy finally lost his shyness and spoke. “But Mama gets angry when I eat too much
lokum
.”

“Today is a special day, and you can have anything you wish. I will meet you later for a special adventure.”

“All right, Mama Grazia.”

“I shall meet you at the embassy later,” she said to Foscari. “You will purchase passage for me?”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

Cesca kissed Matteo and told him to be a good boy. Then she left to reclaim her valises from where she had hidden them and take them to the docks.

An hour later, Cesca marvelled at her own stupidity. What use had Foscari for her with both the boy and the blanket in his possession? She raced down Caddesi Istiklâl toward the Venetian embassy. She had trusted him simply because he had promised her the villa. She must be more calculating if she was ever to become the owner of a grand villa. But—perhaps it was not too late.

Cesca fought her way to the embassy, past floats, squeezing through the crowds. By the time she finally saw the Venetian flag, the golden lion on a field of red flying high over the walls of the embassy, she was faint from the heat. She hurried up the street, praying to see Foscari ordering his servant, Kamet, to load his valises onto a porter’s cart. Then they would all proceed together to the docks.

Cesca pulled on the bell at the entranceway, not a tentative jerk like last month but a desperate tug. No one came to the door. Kamet was probably in the garden, out of earshot, or helping Foscari to pack. She yanked the bell cord harder. The two guards on either side of the doorway turned to glance at her and then looked away, no doubt amused by her appearance, her hair coming unbound, her mud-spattered skirts. They were tall and fierce-looking and wore black turbans. It had been a different pair altogether when she had been here before.

A yellow street cat wandered over and sniffed at her shoes. She hissed at it and it slunk away. At last, she heard footsteps and the door swung open, framing a tall, fat Nubian wearing a blue turban. This slave had whiskers that grew down the sides of his face. It was not Kamet.

He waited for her to speak.

“I wish to see the ambassador. Will you tell him Grazia is here?”

“The
bailo
is not in residence, Madam. He is in Venice on business and has been there for several months.” The servant spoke in the Venetian dialect.

Did he mean that Foscari had already departed for the docks? No. He clearly said the ambassador had been away for months. “That is not possible. I saw the Marquis Foscari a few hours ago.” The Venetian flag flapped in the wind above her head like the sails of a ship.

“The ambassador is Andrea Ridolfi, and I assure you, Madam, he has been gone for many months. Perhaps you mean the embassy of the Franks on the next street?”

The impertinence of the servant took her breath away. “You brainless creature. I am talking about the
bailo
Foscari—tall, well-proportioned, and wearing a silver nose. He has a little boy with him. Fetch him at once.”

“I have been serving here for many years and know what goes on under this roof.” He moved to close the door. “There is no man here with a silver nose, ambassador or not.”

“What of Kamet? A Nubian servant who wears a yellow turban?”

The slave paused, holding the door halfway closed. The guards in the entranceway sidled closer to Cesca, making her uncomfortable.

“Kamet worked here for a short time but was relieved of his duties some time ago. Where he went, I do not know.” The slave wiped a rivulet of sweat from his brow. “Good day.”

Cesca found herself staring at the closed, heavy oak door of the embassy. She hammered on it with her fists until the two guards on either side ordered her to stop, and she gave up.

She turned and walked down the street, a wide one filled with carriages and flanked by mansions. What did it all mean? Was Foscari
not
the ambassador? She was filled with rage and humiliation. When she caught up to him, she would make him pay. She would see him hanged as the mountebank he was. She strode along so rapidly she tripped over a sleeping dog in the road and fell to her knees.

A liveried servant from an adjacent house helped her to her feet. “Tell me,” she said to the servant. “Have you seen a man with a silver nose, coming and going from that place over there?” She pointed to the flag fluttering over the embassy.

The servant shook his head. “I am out here in all weather. Never have I seen such a person.”

She continued on. The muggy air and the mud on her skirts weighed her down. Her thoughts went in crazy directions as she tried to make sense of the situation. She was certain the
Medusa
had not yet sailed, but suppose Foscari planned to sail on a different ship? Suppose she
arrived at the
Medusa
and he had not bought passage for her? What if Foscari alone claimed Matteo’s fortune?

No. She would not have it. She could buy her own passage. After all, she had her hundred ducats. She reached into the pocket of her skirt where she had carefully placed a thin silk wallet. She fumbled desperately for it. The wallet was gone.