The Silence of Scheherazade Read online

  So be it. But could Edith not have returned to Smyrna in the self-same company motor car or have made the chauffeur wait until Dr Arnott, whom they had called, had given Juliette an injection to calm her nerves? No matter how hard Philippe Cantebury had contrived to cancel her partnership in the business – for the past eleven years her brother-in-law had continued to insist that Edith, not even being a real Lamarck, should not receive the annual profit dividend – Edith remained one of the legal partners of Lamarck and Sons Chandlery Business. Thus the motor car could also be considered hers. But, no, Edith Lamarck was an adventurous woman who loved a challenge. Maybe it was not only hashish that she was addicted to but also adventure. The only way she could tolerate her solitary, childless, husbandless life was by fabricating certain excitements. Who knew how long she’d been waiting for an opportunity to go into that Turkish neighbourhood with its connections to old wounds. She knew that this could not be realized in the motor car her brother-in-law had so reluctantly provided, and so, as soon as Juliette had fallen asleep under the effects of the tranquilliser, she slipped out of the mansion into the street, without anyone seeing her, and paused to catch her breath at the gate of the neighbour’s estate.

  The high gate with the Thomas-Cook monogram – HTC – was locked. Edith rang the bell. Far away a dog barked. After the rain, the air smelled of fresh earth, rosemary and lemon balm. On the other side of the gate, on the white gravel drive leading to the house, two crows had their heads down and were fighting over a dead frog. They paid no attention to Butler Kosta and his dog Chakir as they passed.

  Seeing that it was Edith at the gate, Kosta was half running down the drive. Like Mustafa, he was past sixty, an old and faithful servant.

  ‘Don’t run, Kyr Kosta mou,’ Edith shouted through the decorative bars of the rarely locked gate. ‘Min anisihite. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve just come to visit Edward. Please do not tire yourself.’

  Chakir, already at the gate, was wagging his balding black tail. The elderly butler was out of breath. Taking the long, narrow key from around his neck, he unlocked the gate. As a child, Edith had always thought Kosta looked like an owl, and now, in his old age, his close-set eyes had sunk even deeper into their sockets and he had turned into a real owl.

  ‘Welcome, Miss Edith. It is not safe for you to be out alone on the streets on such a day. Not safe at all! Come in immediately, sas parakalo. Kala iste? Are you well?’

  Edith was accustomed to the butler’s anxieties. When she and Edward were children and used to go and hide in a secluded place or play in the poplar forest that formed a natural boundary between the two families’ estates, Kosta would invariably appear within the first ten minutes. Opening his owl-like eyes wide, he would say, ‘Little master, it is inadvisable for you to wander about here. I entreat you, play within sight of us,’ and he’d shepherd them over to where the ladies were having their tea on the veranda or to where he himself could see them. Now, like all anxious people, age had made him even more apprehensive, and his eyesight had weakened.

  As they walked towards the mansion beneath an avenue of mulberry trees in new leaf, he whispered, ‘They are ransacking the Turkish neighbourhoods, our Greek palikaria, our young men. All of the coffeehouses and the barber’s shops have lowered their shutters. A messenger has just come from the business office in the city. He saw two bodies floating in the sea near Konak.’

  Edith’s heart began to beat rapidly. Surely some misfortune had come to Mustafa. She said nothing to Kosta. The two old butlers were very close friends. On Saturday evenings they liked to go together to Yorgi’s Tavern at Great Taverns Street, where, to the accompaniment of raki, hors d’oeuvres and music, they talked over the lives of their masters and mistresses.

  Although the Levantine families had lived in Smyrna for generations, in the butlers’ eyes they were still vulnerable foreigners in need of protection. Unbeknown to Edith, Mustafa had been very upset when she left her family home and moved to live all by herself on Vasili Street in Smyrna. ‘The little lady is burning down her future with her own hands,’ he’d said to Kosta, pouring out his troubles at length to his friend. In Mustafa and Kosta’s world, there was nothing more dishonourable than the sharing of secrets beyond the family. Some misdemeanours could be discussed formally within the family as long as secrecy was preserved. Thus Mustafa was perfectly aware of various indiscretions – that on a moonlit night a long time ago a merchant from Athens had shared his bed with the lady of the house; that a baby had been born in the turret one September evening not so long ago; and who knew what else – but it was a butler’s duty to ensure that such things never slipped beyond the mansion gates.

  What Edith did – moving into a house left to her by the man who had fathered her out of wedlock, thus letting the whole world know of her mother’s sin – was not something he could understand. The little lady had both shamed her family’s honour and also closed the door to a favourable future for herself. Kosta completely understood his friend Mustafa’s troubles but knew of no remedy. The family secret had escaped out the door before Mustafa had had the chance to contain it; a crushing situation for a butler.

  Edith followed Butler Kosta into the Thomas-Cooks’ high-ceilinged mansion, which was always cool, even on the hottest of summer days. With its chandeliers of Bohemian crystal, silk carpets, marble columns and doorknobs of silver-lined crystal, their magnificent estate made Edith’s family home seem like a shack. In the past the differences between her house and the houses of the British families had upset Juliette no end. But now that her elder daughter had married a British man, she was mollified to some degree. Still, when the opportunity arose – at a social gathering where Anna and Philippe were not present, for example – she couldn’t resist pointing out ‘their’ British vulgarity as compared with ‘our’ French good taste.

  Edward was seated at the wide rectangular table in the salon, putting together a miniature train set. All of his attention was focused on gluing the front wheels of the engine; his shoulders were hunched to his ears with the mental effort. At first he didn’t notice Edith standing on the threshold of the double doors. He had gained quite a few pounds, and because of the gin cocktails he had become accustomed to from an early age, his slightly flaccid cheeks were streaked with thin red lines. Edith tried to recall when she had last seen him. Since she’d moved to the house on Vasili Street, the two old friends had gone their separate ways. Because of the infrequency of social events during the war years, as well as Edith’s having isolated herself, they sometimes didn’t see each other from one New Year’s ball to the next.

  Suddenly the wheel of the toy train jumped out of Edward’s fingers and rolled over to beside the toe of Edith’s satin slipper.

  ‘Fuck!’

  Edith laughed in spite of herself.

  Raising his head and seeing his childhood friend standing there, Edward at first appeared angry at having been spied on. Then he too began to laugh.

  ‘Touché! You caught me! Please do not tell Mother I cursed like a cart driver.’

  Edith leaned down, picked up the little wheel and put it on the table. Edward rose and gave her a big hug. They were too close for such formalities as hand kissing.

  ‘Edith mou, what a surprise! You look beautiful. Red is so becoming on you. I thought you never came to Bournabat, finding us too provincial.’

  ‘How ridiculous, Edward.’

  ‘I don’t know – you never even come to the van Dijks’ Sunday breakfasts any more.’

  Edward pouted, the way he used to as a child. According to the rumours, the reason why Helene Thomas-Cook’s younger son was not interested in marriage, not even to one of the most beautiful, cultured girls in Bournabat or Boudja, lay in his undying love for Edith. Furthermore, as if the woman’s living alone was not enough, the fact that she openly had a man in her bed, a dark-skinned, second-class Hindu man, had caused Edward bitter disappointment, causing him to drown his sorrows in gin cocktails and various other shame
less addictions. On the other hand, the fact that Edith after all these years had still not married Avinash kept Edward’s hopes alive, giving him reason not to give up on his childhood friend.

  ‘I did not have the opportunity, Edward mou. And you? You never come to Smyrna! Let us have tea together one day at Café Zapion. What do you say? Once things have quietened down…’

  Edward’s eyes, which had been shining with excitement, went blank.

  Edith switched from French to Greek. ‘I’m talking about Venizelos and his soldiers. You’ve heard about the Greek invasion, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh, that? Ne, ne vevea. Yes, of course. But why should that interfere with our plans? Quite the opposite. Under the Greek administration there will be more parties, you wait and see. Pretty soon the whole city will turn into a giant ballroom. The Greeks are a fun-loving people. Let’s go to Zapion at the first opportunity – whenever you like.’

  For a moment Edith looked at Edward in astonishment.

  ‘I’m joking, Edith mou. Why so serious? I did hear about the landing, but it is not such important news. My brother went to work as usual this morning and just a while ago sent a boy with some papers for me to sign. He said work was going on as normal. For example, a tobacco ship of ours has set out for Alexandria. Please, have a seat. Kosta will have informed the kitchen and our coffee will be here in a moment. Oriste, please sit down.’

  He indicated the table where his train set was. Wheelless wagons with glass windows, Edward’s first accomplishments, were lying on the tracks as if they’d had an accident. As she sat down, Edith glanced at the bronze tan of his arms visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his sharp-collared white shirt. Edward’s greatest passion was to go out on the open sea in his beloved yacht, whatever the season.

  ‘Edward, the Turkish district has been ransacked. They’ve even raided the houses of our Turkish neighbours here in Bournabat. The servants told us about it when I brought my mother home just now. They turned Rauf Bey’s villa upside down, taking everything of value, smashing up everything else. The poor man hasn’t received the news yet. In the morning they almost took him prisoner, almost locked him up in the ship Patris. Fortunately, influential friends of his were sitting in Kraemer’s and saved him. Jean-Pierre witnessed all this himself.’

  A shadow passed over Edward’s face. He picked up the tiny metal wheel that had fallen to the floor and began turning it around in his fingers.

  ‘That’s awful.’

  They sat without speaking for a while.

  The sun had come out; the raindrops on the leaves of the trees in front of the dining room shone like silver.

  Edith switched to English. ‘Edward, I came to ask you a favour.’

  Edward raised his head in surprise. He had never heard his childhood friend asking anyone for help. ‘Of course. Whatever you want.’

  Edith briefly noted the hope rising in his face like the sun, but, as was her wont, immediately forgot about it. ‘I wish to return to Smyrna on the four o’clock train, but Mustafa is nowhere to be found. He accompanied my mother and Jean-Pierre to Smyrna on their visit to my grandmother this morning, but while we were at the hospital he vanished into thin air. I searched nearby but couldn’t find him. There was the rioting down at the docks and I wonder if Mustafa hid somewhere or, I don’t know, maybe went to his son’s house. Could he have been taken prisoner, God forbid? Without Mustafa, it is unwise for me to travel by train, especially today, so I thought maybe… um… maybe if I were to borrow one of your cars, for example the Wilson-Pilcher, to return to the city – if you’ll let me, I mean. Only for today. I’d bring it back tomorrow.’

  She moved her chair nearer to Edward’s. The servant girl had brought their coffees. Throwing a pistachio lokum into her mouth, she chewed for a long time. It was a gamble. She knew Edward would never allow her to go on her own. But perhaps with Kosta… Her heart was beating fast.

  Edward tugged at his russet moustache. ‘Things are more serious than I imagined, it seems. In the circumstances, I think it would not be clever for you to return to Smyrna and spend the night there. Why don’t you stay here tonight?’

  He laughed when he saw the stubborn expression on Edith’s face, so familiar from childhood. When Edith got an idea in her head, she would always find a way to make it happen. It would be safer to help the crazy girl rather than risk her courting danger.

  ‘All right. You know I can never refuse you, Edith mou. But I tell you: it is not a good idea. Leave aside the chaos in the city, the Wilson-Pilcher is very old. But if I gave you one of the new cars, neither you nor Kosta could drive it. Are you aware of how much the car industry has advanced? They’re not making motor cars that look like horse-driven carts any longer. I’ve ordered a new four-cylinder Essex, due to arrive in the middle of June. It’s magnificent – fifty horsepower, automatic transmission, three gears. According to the literature, it will run even more smoothly than my yacht.’

  Edith set down her coffee cup noisily in its saucer. Edward had forgotten how impatient his friend was. He continued in French.

  ‘But that would not suit you, ma chérie. If I said that I myself would drive you in a different motor car, Mother and Mary, who will be returning from a tea party quite soon, would be frightened at being left here on their own. I promised them that I would remain at home. However, if you could wait for a few hours, we can go to the city together. Perhaps we could even have dinner at Zapion. Ha, ti les, what do you say?’

  ‘Thank you, Edward, you are very thoughtful, but I need to go before the evening. Let’s have our dinner one day next week, when things are calmer. The Wilson-Pilcher will be fine for today. I beg you, don’t worry. Um… if you don’t need Kosta for anything urgent, could I ask for one more favour?’

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘I am really worried about Mustafa, Edward. I wonder if, once we’re in the city and in a motor car, would you permit us to stop by his son’s house to ask about him?’

  ‘You want to go to the Turkish district? Up that serpentine hill and along those narrow, dead-end streets – on a day like this? Edith, do your ears hear the words coming out of your mouth?’

  His voice came out louder than intended. Edward only ever went to the Turkish district as a sightseer, to show it to the girls his mother invited over from London as potential brides. The girls would peer through the tightly closed curtains of the two-horse carriage (Edward would never drive his valuable motor cars on such narrow, winding roads) and gaze at the men smoking their waterpipes in front of the coffeehouses, dressed in baggy trousers and with turbans wrapped around their heads, and would imagine themselves princesses in The Arabian Nights. This gave Edward indescribable pleasure. For him, the Turkish district was an exotic museum, and for a foreign woman like Edith to venture into it not as a tourist but to make a house visit was inconceivable. Furthermore, he would not allow his Wilson-Pilcher, no matter how old and out-of-date it was, to enter those alleyways.

  But… But how many times in her life had Edith asked him for a favour? The last time was when she’d wanted to learn how to drive, and Edward had arranged both a motor car and an instructor. When was that – ten years ago, or fifteen? Why hadn’t he gone with Edith then, instead of sending her off with the mechanic Ali for driving lessons? Ah, the carefreeness of youth… Back then, he’d been sure that he and Edith would be married. If he’d had the sense he had now, would he have let those afternoons they could have spent together in the meadows slip away? How could he refuse Edith now, the first time in fifteen years she had come to his door to ask a favour? There was also the invitation to tea at Café Zapion, and plans for an evening dinner. Maybe her heart was slowly turning towards him. How much longer could she amuse herself with that Hindu man?

  ‘Look, here’s what I propose,’ he said, removing his hand from his moustache. ‘Kosta can leave you at your house. Then he can park in the garage at the Sporting Club, jump on a tram car, go to Mustafa’s son’s house and check on Musta
fa. What do you say? That way, you won’t have to go to the Turkish district, and Kosta and Mustafa… Well, you know they’re very close. It will be easier for Kosta to go to that house than for you to do so. Turks don’t readily admit women into their homes, kseris, you know.’

  Edith, who did not agree with any of this, nodded. She had won the argument for once! Once they’d got going, she would take over the driving from Kosta, and then she’d convince him to accompany her to the Iki Chesmelik neighbourhood.

  And that was how adventure-addict Edith and owl-faced Kosta came to take the midnight-blue, four-cylinder Wilson-Pilcher, close witness of that still-aching wound in the darkest corner of Edith’s heart, out of the garage and set off down the road.

  The Wilson-Pilcher

  In those days, it was impossible for a motor vehicle to pass through the Iki Chesmelik neighbourhood where Sumbul and Hilmi Rahmi lived. You had to use a carriage, a cart for heavy loads, a donkey or a bicycle. In some places the streets were so narrow that two neighbours could get stuck if they opened their doors at the same time. If two vehicles met head on, one of them would have to reverse all the way back to the end of the road and any pedestrians would have to throw themselves into the nearest shop – or garden, if the gate happened to be open – for fear of getting run over. While the pedestrians were fleeing, the drivers would be arguing about who should reverse. Occasionally a camel train laden with bundles would pass that way, carrying goods from the local warehouses down to the ships in the harbour, descending the hill behind a donkey, bells jangling; when this happened, all traffic was obliged to come to a standstill.

  It was along such roads that Miss Edith drove the car. She crossed the Caravan Bridge, came through the Chorakkapi Gate, then continued from there down to Basmane and along Iki Chesmelik Street until she got to the Jewish Cemetery at the top of the hill. Kosta sat perched on the raised seat in the back as Edith drove them all the way from Bournabat to the Caravan Bridge, taking an hour to travel the one-parasang-long road, past vineyards, olive groves and melon fields and then into the narrow streets of the city itself.