The Silence of Scheherazade Page 7

  ‘At first he wanted me to leave your father and run away with him to Athens. Impossible! What impertinence! I refused, of course. He wouldn’t leave me alone. He went and bought that house just to be near me. It seemed he would move to Smyrna! Until your father got rid of him for good, he furnished that house as if I lived there – he was a dreamer!’

  Edith walked to the centre of the room, then stopped suddenly. She had remembered something. An incident she’d not thought about for years came bit by bit to mind, like a long-forgotten dream.

  In the visitors room at the convent school in Paris, a strange foreigner had come to see her. Pointed beard, face like a goat’s, sad eyes…

  ‘Salut, Edith. I have brought you some rose-flavoured Turkish delight. I hope you like it. I thought you might be missing it.’

  He wore an elegant frock coat over a carefully starched white shirt with a collar like a swallow’s wings, and a gold chain hung from his waistcoat pocket. His deep-set eyes were as black as Ayvalik olives, with black rings around them.

  There was giggling from outside the room. The other girls. The girls who teased little Edith about her Levantine French accent, the girls who took advantage of her being small and pushed her around. The strange-looking foreigner had a pointed beard and a head of hair like a bird’s nest. Her own hair escaped from its plait and fell across her face. Her visitor wore an expression that spoke of either pain or pleasure, she couldn’t decide. ‘I heard you were from Smyrna. I lived there myself years ago. It is the most beautiful city in the world, if you ask me. They call it the Pearl of the East.’

  It was uncomfortable, awkward. Her glance slid to the visitor’s hands. She was relieved to hear the bell for evening study. ‘Kali tihi kori mou, omorfia mou.’ His thick, purplish lips opened as if to say something more, and then immediately closed. His bowler hat disappeared from sight down the school’s endless marble staircase.

  ‘May good fortune be yours, beautiful daughter.’

  Suddenly she felt dizzy. Stumbling, she sat down on the stool in front of the dressing table. She could no longer follow the progress of her emotions. Anger gave way to sadness. An inappropriate joy bounced in her heart like a rubber ball.

  Perhaps Nikolas Dimos had dreamed of his daughter across the sea so intensely that a gossamer bridge had formed between their two consciousnesses. Edith had long sensed this connection. She had always known deep in her heart that there was something linking her to a distant place. Her father’s love had been like a lighthouse sending messages into space from the middle of the sea. Through all those years, it had blinked its lights with patience and perseverance, waiting for Edith to take notice.

  Now she was discovering Nikolas Dimos’s feelings in her own heart. The pain that had consumed her since childhood was not her pain but that of her olive-eyed father. That burning emptiness inside her was only the faraway echo of Nikolas Dimos’s lovelorn melancholy. He had truly loved Juliette. Because of the terrible hurt he’d suffered, he had never married, though he was young. He had traced the steps of his black-eyed, black-haired daughter growing up in Bournabat, and, finally, in the throes of pneumonia, he had bequeathed to her all of his fortune and the house he had bought with who knew what dreams.

  The sadness that had weighed on Edith’s soul, like her mother’s shame, that had alienated her from people, was not her own; it was Nikolas Dimos’s. Could the half-realized dreams, the sorrows and hurts, the losses of a mother, a father, ancestors, invade one’s heart? If so, if she could weed out from it those feelings which were not hers, she could begin life anew, with a fresh breath of air. What was more, there was now a house in which she could live all alone, with no need to speak to anyone until noon!

  When joy leapt in her heart once again, Edith surrendered herself to it.

  Love

  That evening Edith appeared in society for the first time in many years. In the glow of the discoveries concerning her inner world, she felt as light as a feather, and she sparkled with excitement at the vision of the brand-new life that now awaited her. She glided into the reception room of the mansion. So beautiful and so elegant was she that Avinash, who at that moment was showing his emeralds and sapphires to Juliette’s guests, knew at first glance that he would love her without cease to the end of his life.

  When Avinash had begun receiving invitations to the Levantine mansions, there were many rumours circulating about Monsieur Lamarck’s younger daughter, who had not been seen in society for quite a while. A group known to be close friends of Juliette whispered that the young woman was ill and had remained at a sanatorium in Germany. Others agreed that after finishing her schooling she had settled in Paris. Everyone, from ladies reclining on their chaises longues beside ornamental fountains to businessmen sucking on their pipes, had a theory about where Edith had vanished to, and it seemed as if Bournabat Levantine society as a whole had made up its mind to disabuse Avinash of his ignorance about this matter.

  ‘Unfortunately, Edith has been stricken with a most pernicious illness. The disease has spread to her lungs. For this reason, Juliette has taken her to Germany, where she remains, poor girl.’

  ‘Yes, I have heard the same. Apparently, she is in a sanatorium in Switzerland.’

  ‘I heard it was Baden-Baden.’

  ‘Nonsense! Edith wanted to stay in Paris for a time to mingle in its literary circles. I heard this from Edith herself.’

  ‘Just between us, Monsieur Pillai, the truth is that Edith has become the mistress of a poet. She lives in a penthouse flat in Montparnasse.’

  ‘You have the wrong information, sweetie. Edith has joined an organization of women writers. They’ve come up with something called Women’s Rights.’

  ‘They make love with women, not with men!’

  ‘Ah, it is hard to imagine – that tiny little Edith with women, eh?’

  ‘Don’t believe a word of it. The truth is that she is the mistress of a poet. She also poses nude for an artist in order to earn money.’

  ‘But, mon cher, Edith has no need to earn money! What? Or…?’

  ‘Don’t even ask. Before Charles died, his business was about to go bankrupt. The son-in-law Philippe Cantebury saved the sons. Or, and you didn’t hear this from me, their situation was hopeless and Philippe bought the business. Pay no attention to those words implying partnership – Lamarck and Sons has passed entirely into Cantebury’s hands.’

  Amid the buzz of the salon, which was now full of guests, Avinash did not immediately realize that the bright-eyed young woman in the wine-coloured dress was the daughter of the charming Madame Lamarck, who was herself kissing everyone’s cheeks in turn and talking vivaciously. How could he have known? In contrast to the daughter’s modest entrance, Juliette had blown into the room like a gust of wind, causing a stir among her guests, who were sipping wine that had just been served on silver platters and conversing in soft voices. Opening both her arms wide as if to embrace everyone there, Juliette had shouted, ‘My dear guests, welcome! What a pleasure it is to have you here. I must apologize for my tardiness. Excusez-moi s’il vous plaît. It was necessary that I inspect the kitchen at the last moment. You all know me – I just had to check that the cheeses, the caviar and the herring were properly aligned on the platters. As I predicted, they were in need of my magical touch. Please forgive me.’

  She was wearing a green silk dress that showed off her peach-like décolletage, and the red and yellow of the firelight in the grand fireplace glinted so enticingly in her hair, it made you want to touch it. Juliette Lamarck was a pretty woman. Her features were perhaps a little too sharp for Avinash’s taste, but she was definitely attractive. And powerful. The sober atmosphere of the salon had lifted the moment she made her spectacular entrance. Like a butterfly, Juliette passed from one guest to the next, connecting one to the other.

  ‘Good evening, Peter, mon cher. How lovely that you came! We are neighbours in name but never see each other. How is your mother? I wish she could have come too; I will
visit soon. Is that sweet rascal Edward ever going to return from New York? This summer, God willing – is that correct? Très bien. Good! You’ve not met Dr Arnott, have you? He himself came from New York last year. He works in Paradiso, but I hear that he will join us during the summer. Isn’t that right, Doctor? Let me introduce you to my most esteemed neighbour, Helene Thomas-Cook’s elder son, Peter. He is a true Bournabat prince, born and raised right here. And he has a great interest in antiques. With your permission, let him describe the neighbourhood for you. Perhaps one day he will even take you to Vourla in his sailing boat.

  ‘Lady Dulcinea! How lovely that dress looks on you! On anyone else it would definitely not be the same. You are so elegant, whatever you wear becomes you, but this is magnificent! You had it made by Dimitrula, did you not? I am sure of it. The tailors in Paris are no match for Dimitrula’s hands. She came all the way from Smyrna to sew new uniforms for my maids, bless her heart. My youngest daughter-in-law had a lavender silk evening gown sewn by her recently. It is a fabulous piece. Oh, look, I speak of her, and she appears. Marie, darling, Lady Dulcinea and I were just talking of you. Do join us.

  ‘This cheese is not bad, is it, Monsieur Dumont? I sent our butler to Fasoula specially to buy us some camembert. There is nothing you cannot find at Yorgo’s Delicatessen. Have a cracker. What is this – your glass is empty! Sotiraki, would you look here, se parakalo? Bring Monsieur Dumont a gin cocktail. Grigora! Quick! Or would you prefer red wine, Monsieur Dumont?’

  Avinash understood as soon as he first saw her that, in spite of the merry laughter, Juliette was wearing her ebullience like a mask. Anxiety shone out from behind her blue-green eyes like the blinking lights of a fishing boat. If you looked above the smiling mouth and into the eyes, you met with a nervous, even very frightened woman. On the rare occasions when she took a break from talking, for example when she was listening politely to one of her guests, her hennaed eyebrows had a tendency to frown. With the expertise of his profession, the Indian spy registered all the signs of the anxiety that was eating away at her soul and made a note of them in a corner of his mind.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Pillai, I am so pleased to see you. What an honour! Thank you for accepting my invitation and not disappointing me. I hope you have brought one or two examples of your magnificent gems. Ah, très bien, you have already begun to exhibit them. The humble ladies of Bournabat couldn’t wait, of course. But they are quite right. What splendid stones they are! You will stay for dinner, n’est-ce pas? Wait, let me introduce you to Madame Dumont right away. In a word, she has a superb jewellery coll—’

  When the hostess’s gaze slid across to where her guest was staring, she stopped mid-sentence. As soon as she ceased talking, the salon chatter quieted too. All the guests turned to look at the door. Noting the silence, which cut through the air like a knife, and the roomful of eyes directed at her, Edith smiled. With one hand on the doorknob and the other lifting a glass of wine which she had plucked from a passing tray, she said, ‘Good evening.’

  Everyone stared at her, curious and impressed. Avinash felt his ears heating up. How was it possible that such a deep voice could emerge from such a slender, swanlike neck? He swallowed. Her eyes, meeting his for a second, were as warm as embers; her silky lips were a dark pink, like the rose petals from which Yakoumi extracted his oil. His gaze followed this mysterious daughter of the Lamarcks, whose name he had heard countless times, to the centre of the room. There was something about the way Edith spoke, something about the way she comported herself, the way she carried her head, that revealed her to be not the naive younger daughter of a mansion but an already mature woman. She was not coquettish like her mother, but there was a spark in her black eyes that flashed on and off, signalling that her body had tasted secret passions and found unashamed satisfaction therein. And there was more.

  Avinash realized with a pain in his heart like the prick of a thorn that this woman would never, under any circumstances, play second fiddle to anyone, to any man; she would never find with a man the peace and pleasure that she found in solitude. Conversely, he, Avinash knew immediately that the emptiness in his heart could be filled only by the touch of those rosebud lips. The yearning that had ravaged his inner being for as long as he could remember could only be assuaged in her arms. From that first night, the desperation and jealousy that Edith’s self-sufficiency aroused in him seeped into his blood like a poison.

  Just as his lips were about to graze her tiny, lavender-scented hand, Edith’s old friends surrounded her and in the excitement of seeing her at a party began screaming, ‘Edith mou, what a surprise! Have you been in Smyrna?’

  They dragged her over to a pink satin sofa in a far corner.

  ‘Wherever have you been, darling? No one has seen your face in two years. Frankly, we were offended.’

  ‘Come, we’ve so much to tell you. You won’t believe your ears.’

  *

  In the later hours of the evening, the tea party turned into a grand dinner. Avinash tried in vain to get near Edith. A French attaché had seated himself next to her and was chatting away. When she smiled from diagonally across the table as if to apologize, Avinash noticed the gap between her two front teeth. This gap inflamed his desire still more. For a moment, one brief moment, their eyes met. Beneath the curl of her lashes, her black eyes glistened like cinders, and a tacit acknowledgement passed between the two of them. At least that was how it appeared to Avinash in the intoxication of first love.

  The French attaché was calling out with a lisp to Juliette, seated at the head of the table. ‘My honourable lady, Madame Juliette, if your daughter had been born a boy, I would have immediately enlisted her to be trained as a spy. One never hears such a pure Istanbul accent around here, not even from the Turkish girls. Bravo, little lady.’

  It was clear that the man had drunk too freely of the wine, which was being passed around like water. Juliette nodded coldly, wearing the sort of expression she used when speaking to the servants. Some of the other guests cast furtive glances at Avinash.

  Edith joined the conversation. ‘Actually, I don’t know very much Turkish. I learned a little from our butler Mustafa and his wife Sidika when I was a child. Then at school in Paris my best friend was a girl from a wealthy Istanbul family. When we wanted to say something secretly, we would switch to Turkish so that the other girls couldn’t understand. Because of that I can speak three or four words in an Istanbul accent.’

  Juliette’s face was drawn. It was obvious that her daughter’s knowledge of Turkish bothered her. Avinash made a mental note of this detail.

  ‘Such delicious soup – the fish melts in your mouth! In a word, it is perfect,’ said the plump woman sitting beside Avinash. She was one of the friends who had pulled Edith over to the far sofa. Good health burst from her pink cheeks; it was obvious she’d grown up on steak and truffles. She began her sentences in French and completed them in Greek, and no one at the table seemed to find this odd. The other heads around the table nodded in confirmation.

  The food was indeed marvellous, but Avinash was, as always, having difficulty maintaining his vegetarian diet without being disrespectful to his hostess. ‘Never refuse food that is offered; take it onto your plate. If you cannot eat it, leave it there.’ This was the advice his grandfather had given when he spoke to him on the subject before going to England.

  ‘Would you like some quiche, Monsieur Pillai? Our head chef works wonders with pumpkin, cheese and cream. Please try some.’

  These words uttered by Edith from across the table were not extraordinary, but Avinash perceived every one of them, every twitch of her lips, every tiny movement of her slender white wrist with its emerald bracelet, as a coded message, like those he had learned in his Secret Service training. The glances they exchanged over the china dishes and silver knives and forks were loaded with many emotions. They held understanding and respect. Edith had recognized his dilemma, understood and respected his choice. She hadn’t shouted with fake concern,
‘Oh, Monsieur Avinash, sweetie, didn’t you like the soup?’ as the other women at the table had done upon seeing the pieces of fish swimming in his bowl. Edith had spoken in a low voice, as if she were stroking his soul. Maybe, as she looked at him across the quiche platter, there was even in those coal-black eyes promise, hope, and – yes, why not? – love.

  Someone was shouting, ‘Look, I’m writing it down here and now: they will overthrow the Sultan within a year.’ It was the French attaché next to Edith again. ‘I know, because I have friends in Paris. You think the revolt will be organized from Paris, do you not? Or from Salonica, ha, ha, ha. Goodness, Doctor, it is so obvious you have only just arrived from Europe. No, my dear fellow, you are wrong. The revolution will be organized from Germany. You will see. If what I say doesn’t happen within a year…’

  Swallowing down his glass of wine, he wondered briefly what he would do if what he had said did not take place. He did not have to think about it for too long, for by the time he set the empty glass back down, everyone’s attention had turned to the head of the table.

  Juliette Lamarck, tapping her crystal glass with a knife, rose to her feet.

  ‘Dear friends, today we are joined by a very esteemed new guest. He has been living in Smyrna for more than a year, but it is only now that we have the pleasure of meeting him. He comes from a prominent family in Bombay and was one of the first Indian students to graduate from Oxford University. With your permission, I would like to raise a toast to our new friend. To Avinash Pillai!’

  During the rest of the evening, who did Avinash meet and what did he talk about? He remembered nothing. The next morning, as he lay on his straw mattress at the Menzilhane Inn, trying to understand the storm that had broken inside him at his first glimpse of Edith, he went over the events of the evening and even recalled the anxiety on Juliette’s face, apparent only for a few seconds, when her daughter appeared at the door of the salon. When the young woman had lifted her emerald-ringed fingers to his lips, something had jumped in Avinash’s stomach.