The Silence of Scheherazade Read online

  When he left the inn a half-hour later, his mind, like his breathing, was calm; the morning’s distractions had passed. With his five senses, he drew in the world like a sponge. The young man was alert to every sensory impression; he felt things keenly and lived as if each moment were a delicious titbit to be chewed slowly in order to extract its true taste. The wind had picked up. He decided to go down to the docks after his coffee and watch the waves pounding the shore before beginning his duties in the bazaar.

  Avinash’s primary work in those years was to stroll around the Muslim neighbourhoods and gather information. His day passed wandering through the businesses, baths and bazaars which the Secret Service had identified, following suspicious individuals. His commander mostly wanted information on people with connections to the Young Turks organization in Salonica and Paris, but one ear had to be tuned to the French, who were trying to grab business contracts from British firms and for this reason were playing all kinds of tricks, sending ambassadors and couriers to charm the Sultan with their ostentatious accents. Thus, in the evenings it was necessary that he mingle with Smyrna’s Levantines.

  At the entrance to the Yemiscizade Bazaar there was an Albanian sahlep seller. Avinash drank a cup of the hot, milky, cinnamon-flavoured drink as he stood there and felt warm inside. After filling the cup, Kerim, the sahlep seller, squatted down beside his jug and, taking a pinch of tobacco from his pocket, began to roll a cigarette. Kerim was a taciturn man; his face was sharp and hard, his lips always puckered and sulky, as if an unpleasant thought had just come to him. In the mornings one couldn’t get a word out of him; not even pliers would have done it. Though Avinash drank sahlep every day throughout the winter, he’d not been able to find out anything about the man except that he was from Albania. He appeared to have nothing to do with politics, but one had to be particularly careful about such seemingly indifferent types. He could be an informer for Sultan Hamid, or for the Committee of Union and Progress, or a militant supporter of Greek independence.

  Next to the jug was a covered basket containing Damascus doughnuts. While handing back the cup, Avinash took one. The doughnuts were as big as his palm, and he’d been addicted to them since the day he’d eaten his first one. When the sahlep seller’s cart disappeared in summer, it was mostly the lack of Damascus doughnuts that bothered Avinash. Munching on the doughnut, he headed down the bazaar’s long, dark passageway and out into its spacious courtyard. Two workers in leather boots pulled up to their knees entered the courtyard from the Carsi Mescidi side at the same moment as Avinash. They were arguing about something in low voices, but when they saw the Indian man, they stopped talking. A sleepy young fellow with drooping eyelids – the Armenian jeweller’s apprentice – was sweeping in front of the workshop.

  Under the arbour of the coffeehouse on the Street of the Goldsmiths side of the courtyard, several early risers like himself were seated on stools with their waterpipes already bubbling. Passing by them, Avinash placed his right hand over his heart in greeting. The men responded with only a nod of their turbaned or fez-covered heads. Avinash was aware that his presence in this neighbourhood created confusion. The coffeehouses of Smyrna were accustomed to spice merchants from the Orient, to travellers, acrobats, magicians and herbalists, but they somehow couldn’t find a place for Avinash, a well-dressed gentleman from the East. Thus they were uncomfortable with him. His grandfather used to say that ‘the mind forever desires to classify the world; it tends to reject what it cannot categorize’.

  Inside, the coffeehouse smelled of cloves, plums, apples and freshly ground coffee. It was empty. A fair-haired boy was murmuring a sad song in a language Avinash didn’t recognize as he swept the floor. When the coffeehouse owner saw him, he raised his head from his waterpipe and roared, ‘Hizir, where in hell are you, boy? Quick! Run and prepare Mr Avinash’s waterpipe.’

  Avinash settled himself on the couch next to the coffeehouse’s cat, Pamuk.

  The cat, entirely unconcerned, continued to lick herself. The colourful rays of light beaming in through the stained glass played on her white fur in vain; she was busy cleaning herself.

  With a coffee pot in his hand, Hasan approached the couch where Avinash was sitting. Directly behind him, the blonde-haired boy who’d been sweeping the floor now stood waiting with a brass tray bearing a cup and a plate. He set these on the low table in front of the couch and withdrew. Without taking his grey eyes off the coffee pot, Hasan slowly filled the cup. A delicious smell of mastic filled the air.

  The coffeehouse owner settled down on the couch next to the cat and signalled with a tiny gesture which only the boys could understand that they were to dust the tables. Avinash took an ivory mouthpiece from under his sash and attached it to the rubber tube of the waterpipe. Pamuk had buried her head in the palm of Hasan’s hand.

  ‘Look at that rascal. How well she knows you!’

  ‘And how could she not, Mr Avinash? She was born right here in the back courtyard. You know, it is considered a good deed to care for a cat. Our Prophet loved cats very much. They say that during the Battle of Uhud a nursing cat appeared in front of his army in the desert. A guard was placed at the animal’s side and the entire army was ordered to encircle it. When the battle was done, our Prophet took the cat with him, brought it home and named it Muezza. Muezza was a black and white Abyssinian cat, not white like our Pamuk. A traveller once told me that white cats like Pamuk come from Angora; Pamuk had a mother, but she ran away. People say cats are selfish, opportunists, things like that, but I love them anyway.’

  Avinash had discovered this coffeehouse the morning after his first night in the inn. He had immediately warmed to the calm, grey gaze of the elderly, white-bearded owner. The coffee-maker talked a great deal, but he was also a secret sage. By asking clever questions of his regular young customers, he managed to expertly encourage them to find their own way. He was a stout man, with a bushy moustache, and before opening the coffeehouse he’d been a night watchman in the Iki Chesmelik neighbourhood. He still kept a cudgel from those days hidden under his couch and if ever there was a problem in the bazaar or the courtyard of the inn, he would take up his cudgel and confront the troublemakers. When he conversed inside the coffeehouse, his voice was low, but when he was angry, the sound rising from his chest was full and strong, loud enough to be heard at the far end of the fleamarket.

  With skilful fingers he arranged the Persian tobacco in the pipe and lit the coals. It did not escape Avinash’s eyes, trained to see the invisible, that he added some green paste to the tobacco. When the smoke was drawn, the plums and cherries in the water of the pipe danced spiritedly.

  ‘Sir, I have driven you crazy by talking too much.’

  Avinash had lost himself in the dance of the cherries and plums in the waterpipe. He straightened up. ‘Not at all, Hasan Usta. Your conversation is even sweeter than your coffee. However, I have business I must see to in the city. Then I shall go to our trading house. My boy Selim is probably there already. I will stop by again tomorrow morning, and we will continue then.’

  ‘What’s happened? Are you not coming this evening, sir?’

  ‘No, this evening I have business in the Bournabat district.’

  ‘Good fortune, God willing.’

  ‘It is good fortune, Hasan. Good fortune indeed. The Levantine ladies have heard about my precious jewels and have invited me to tea. I will take them some samples.’

  Hasan smiled. ‘You do well, sir. If word of your gemstones spreads around the Bournabat ladies, you will open a shop on Madama Street and forget all about us.’

  ‘Could your waterpipes ever be forgotten, Hasan Usta?’

  Hearing this, the giant man smiled like a child, his eyes becoming slits. Then, abruptly, he grew serious. ‘Sir,’ he whispered, ‘I heard they are going to overthrow the Sultan. Have you received that news?’

  As he made his way to the door that opened onto the Street of the Goldsmiths, Avinash spread his hands as if to say, ‘How should I kno
w?’ He was used to Hasan trying to pin him down at the last moment. Anyway, the coffee-seller didn’t expect an answer. This parting comment was a way to remind the spy of his political stance. They walked to the street together.

  Thunder rumbled in the sky. Hasan frowned as he looked up at the dark clouds louring over the rooftops as they blew in from the sea.

  ‘In the name of liberty,’ he grumbled, ‘they’ve set people at one another’s throats. I hear that the Bulgarians are wanting independence. Today or tomorrow they’ll break from the empire. Take those Cretans… they just have to attach themselves to Greece! They have the British backing them now. If they were still the Sultan’s subjects, could they have done that? They wouldn’t have had the courage. If those thrill-seeking youngsters come to power, God help us, they’ll cause nothing but chaos. And many will suffer in that chaos, my friend; a great many. When the Ottomans were in power, would such things have happened? Definitely not. All of us must work to make the empire strong and worthy of respect once more. Strength comes from unity, not division. We want no such thing as “a Turk”, “a Greek” or “a Bulgarian” – if you divide humanity like that, we will be crying tears of blood. The young ones would like to break up this country into nations now. What did we lack when we were all Ottomans, man? We were getting on with our lives perfectly well.’

  ‘May all be well, Hasan Usta. It isn’t only here that is afire, but the whole world. Sultans and kings cannot hold onto their positions. The young are discontented everywhere. Without change, fortune’s wheel cannot turn. Don’t worry your sweet soul about it. There’s a time for everything. Now goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Sir.’

  It was raining harder now and the ditches at the side of the street were like streams, brimming with water. Avinash took a five-piastre coin from his jacket pocket, pressed it into Hasan’s palm and disappeared into the covered bazaar of the new fleamarket, which twisted along between the inns and courtyards.

  Confession

  From upstairs, Juliette and the two servant girls, Irini and Zoe, heard the library door slam first, followed by footsteps reverberating on the wooden staircase. As if it weren’t enough that she was running inside the house, Edith stormed into the bedroom without knocking. Her curly black hair had fallen over her face and down her back like an unruly river, and her eyes shone like a wild animal’s. Irini’s fingers, which were buttoning the back of Juliette’s dress, stopped halfway up, level with her mistress’s shoulder blades. Zoe dropped the pillow that she’d been fluffing up for the umpteenth time. Juliette was just about to reprimand Zoe, but her words froze in her mouth.

  In two strides Edith stepped into the space between her mother and the full-length mirror. In a voice loud enough to be heard in the cellar, she shouted, ‘Explain to me! Immediately! Now! Who is this Nikolas Dimos? What in hell did you do that this scoundrel of a stranger declares that Nikolas Dimos was my father?’

  She could have strangled her mother right there. On the one hand she was shaking; on the other, she was thinking how everything was now suddenly clear: her black hair, the neighbours whispering about her when she was a child, the maids, her mother’s eyes turning away from her as though they saw something shameful, her sister and brothers teasing her at the dinner table: ‘The gypsies brought you, Edith; that’s why your eyebrows are so thick.’

  Of course!

  Thinking such thoughts, anger surged through her like an eruption of hot lava; her eyes, ears and neck were burning. That strange, cold, distant attitude of her mother’s towards her was not because of a fault in Edith, but because of Juliette’s own shame. For years she had seen her guilt reflected in her daughter. Every time she looked at Edith, she was met with the ghost of her illicit relationship, and she recoiled. Juliette had always placed the blame for the storm in her daughter’s soul on Edith, not on herself. ‘Edith, dear, ma chérie, I beg you not to make your mother angry by being naughty, d’accord? Look, you’ve been running again and dishevelled your hair. Do you do such things just to spite me?’

  No, Edith had never done things just to spite her mother, and now, after what had been revealed today, she realized her mother would have been angry no matter what she’d done. Her mere presence upset Juliette. Edith had carried that burden for no reason. She was innocent. And what about her father? Had he known that another man had sired her?

  ‘It’s all made up – lies, slander,’ Juliette said adamantly. She threw Zoe and Irini out of the room, then sat on the edge of the newly made-up bed. ‘You know that your father loved you dearly.’

  Edith’s heart was broken, not for her mother, sitting there diminished, withdrawn, with her beige dress only half buttoned, but for her father, who had thought she was his. Monsieur Lamarck had not deserved such deception, such a betrayal. He had loved his daughter with all his heart, had been her best friend. Or had he known of his wife’s unfaithfulness and wanted to protect the little girl, the fruit of her sin? Big-hearted Charles Lamarck! Everything Edith had known to be true was slipping through her fingers. Her face flushed as waves of anger surged through her.

  ‘Tell me everything from the beginning. With all the details, please.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. These are all old slanders. That merchant, Nikolas Dimos, was madly in love with me. He would come and go between Athens and Smyrna, importing your grandfather’s grapes for winemaking, and would stay at our house. When I paid him no attention, he was all over me. I rejected him; he got angry, threatened me, and then he left. However, we see that before he died, he planned one last act of revenge. He sent that would-be attorney all the way here to give you this news. Ah, what an unhappy woman I am! Even my own daughter is deceived by the slander.’

  Edith was pacing up and down between the door and the window, her arms folded across her chest. An electric current coursed through her. Each strand of her hair – hair whose provenance was no longer a mystery – was alive with electricity; her head was encircled by a black halo.

  ‘I demand the truth, Maman. You can deceive your friends with your melodramatic stories, but not me. Why would a strange man leave his entire fortune to me in order to get revenge on you? And why do you suppose the attorney came? There is also a house! I am sure you know which one it is. If I say Vasili Street, would that help you remember?’

  Juliette’s hand flew to her mouth. She had not expected this much. She had entered a blind alley. Reaching out, she opened the drawer of her bedside table, took a cigarette from the stash she had hidden there, set it in an ivory holder, and waited. Remembering that there was no one to light her cigarette, she leaned towards the wooden lighter on her dressing table. When she began to speak, her voice had dropped to a deep bass tone like her daughter’s.

  ‘I was young, Edith. I had been married off to an old man. Your father didn’t even stop by the house during that time. If his children had seen him on the street, they wouldn’t have recognized him. It was that bad. You want the truth? I’ll give you the truth, daughter. Our guests used to spend far longer sitting around our dinner table than your father did; it was they who soothed my young heart with words which weren’t even in his repertoire. As for him, if he wasn’t on a business trip, he was with his male friends somewhere – at the Cercle Européen or at the New Club. Or he was in the library with the door closed, writing that damn never-ending book of his. If you intend to make out that the deceased was the victim here, do not ignore the fact that he himself committed many sins.’

  Edith was standing in front of the window, biting her fingernails. So, this was the story the neighbours had whispered to each other as they reclined on their verandas on long, hot afternoons. With a child’s sensitivity, she had always known that behind their fans they were gossiping about something that concerned her. As she and her friends raced from one green, luxurious garden to another, Edith would hover near the women, pretending to be tying her shoelaces, storing away in her memory the words she overheard as if filling her pocket with precious stones she’d
found on the beach.

  ‘And then, my dear, Monsieur Lamarck lifted this Athenian man up by the collar…’

  ‘Oh, mon Dieu, what are you saying?’

  ‘But, darling, he was such a fool!’

  ‘Ah, oui. He went and bought a house. He even got porters to carry a piano in on their backs because Lady You Know Who likes to play the piano.’

  ‘Ah, but ti romantiko, how romantic! Monsieur Lamarck beat him up badly, huh? And then what happened?’

  ‘Don’t even ask! That two-bit young merchant escaped by the skin of his teeth, found himself on the street with his clothes in tatters.’

  ‘You don’t say!’

  ‘Then he jumped aboard the first ship and fled back to his country.’

  Speaking thus, the women would bury themselves in silence when they noticed Edith still busy tying her laces. Or, thinking the little girl couldn’t see them, they would gesture towards her with an inclination of the head. ‘And what about the child?’

  Edith remembered how anxious she’d felt as she waited in the silence that followed. Now, however, a surprising calm enveloped her. The news that the attorney had brought was balm for a wound she hadn’t even known existed. She felt a twinge of emotions she hadn’t experienced in a long time. Relief, happiness, excitement… or was it that she felt victorious?

  She looked at her mother. Juliette’s face wore none of the expressions she practised in front of the mirror. She was smoking her cigarette and staring blankly at the door. It was the first time Edith had seen her mother this honest, this naked. After her initial panic at the exposing of the secret she had carried inside her all these years, Juliette now appeared relieved. The confession had allowed her to relax, and with that she had became sincere, turning into the mother that Edith used to long for. Was the wall between them finally crumbling? This wasn’t the time for that! Edith didn’t want to soften towards her mother just when she had the right to hate her. In an icy voice, she asked, ‘And the house on Vasili Street?’