back.
“Different,” I said. “But I don’t know that tedious . . . yes, you’re right. Tedious.” We both laughed, and although I felt somewhat less exposed, my degree of anxiety dropped little more than the weight of a hummingbird.
“I would never go there,” she said. “You know that Perestu sent only those whose English is good to speak to you today.”
“I appreciate it. How long have you lived in the harem?”
“Since I was a girl. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”
“You don’t feel . . . restricted?”
“Of course not. Our options for amusement are endless.”
“But you can’t leave?”
“We take excursions whenever we want. I was shopping in Pera yesterday. Not everyone’s as discontent as Roxelana.”
“You know her?”
“Her room is near mine.”
“Are you friends?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she said. “Roxelana is very careful about her choice of confidantes. There’s an air of superiority about her—she won’t even pray with any of us. Furthermore, she prefers the friendship of men.”
“In the harem?”
“The guards. Jemal is a favorite of hers.”
“I’m surprised to learn that,” I said.
“Who else are we to flirt with? Each other? Jemal is useful. Bezime may have no power anymore, but she can sometimes help us—and he arranges it.”
“Help you how?” I asked, cataloging away in my head the fact that Roxelana and Jemal were friends.
“She practices the dark arts. Can tell our fortunes, read our charts. And she’s something of a physician as well. There’s no one I’d rather have prescribe a treatment for me when I fall ill.”
“And Jemal tells you what she suggests?”
“He brings us her medicines.”
“I understand he knew Ceyden well.”
“Everyone knew her,” she said. “She was impossible to escape.”
“What can you tell me of their relationship?”
“It wasn’t so unusual. As I said, we’ve no one to flirt with but the guards. Most of us have a favorite.”
“Was she as close to him as Roxelana is?”
“Not at all. But Ceyden was less discreet and drew too much attention to them.”
“Did he do anything to help her get the sultan’s notice?” I asked.
“He let her believe he did, but I never saw anything that suggested he’d succeeded. Jemal’s a pleasant enough distraction,” she said. “But I wouldn’t consider him reliable.”
Melek had returned and motioned for me to follow her, putting a stop to our conversation with a sharp shake of her head. I stood, unsteady on the ill-fitting wooden clogs, and shuffled behind her to a large, octagonal marble platform in the middle of the room. Following the lead of the women who were already there, I lay down, resting my head on a small pillow, my heart racing.
Melek pulled a mohair mitt onto her hand and began scrubbing my skin with an earnest vigor, so hard that it almost hurt, leaving no inch unpolished, fingertips to toes, until I was tingling. I flipped onto my stomach and she continued with my back, pausing to show me the horrific amount of residue that had collected on the mitt. When she’d finished, she had me stand and soaked me with water before helping me to lie back down. Next came a gentle massage, another rinse, and another scrub. This time, instead of the mitt, she used a long, tail-like brush, which she rubbed with soap. As she moved it over my body, it left behind inches of fine lather. More rinsing followed, and now when I stood up, my self-consciousness had started to fade, but I kept my eyes closed, wanting neither to see the other women nor to notice them watching me.
I had to look, though, when she took my hand to lead me across the room to a small wooden door, through which she ushered me. The room beyond it was small, verging on claustrophobic, and radiated a heat that reminded me of the searing burn that accosted a person standing on the Acropolis in Athens on the hottest of summer days. I sat on the marble bench that lined the
“Different,” I said. “But I don’t know that tedious . . . yes, you’re right. Tedious.” We both laughed, and although I felt somewhat less exposed, my degree of anxiety dropped little more than the weight of a hummingbird.
“I would never go there,” she said. “You know that Perestu sent only those whose English is good to speak to you today.”
“I appreciate it. How long have you lived in the harem?”
“Since I was a girl. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”
“You don’t feel . . . restricted?”
“Of course not. Our options for amusement are endless.”
“But you can’t leave?”
“We take excursions whenever we want. I was shopping in Pera yesterday. Not everyone’s as discontent as Roxelana.”
“You know her?”
“Her room is near mine.”
“Are you friends?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she said. “Roxelana is very careful about her choice of confidantes. There’s an air of superiority about her—she won’t even pray with any of us. Furthermore, she prefers the friendship of men.”
“In the harem?”
“The guards. Jemal is a favorite of hers.”
“I’m surprised to learn that,” I said.
“Who else are we to flirt with? Each other? Jemal is useful. Bezime may have no power anymore, but she can sometimes help us—and he arranges it.”
“Help you how?” I asked, cataloging away in my head the fact that Roxelana and Jemal were friends.
“She practices the dark arts. Can tell our fortunes, read our charts. And she’s something of a physician as well. There’s no one I’d rather have prescribe a treatment for me when I fall ill.”
“And Jemal tells you what she suggests?”
“He brings us her medicines.”
“I understand he knew Ceyden well.”
“Everyone knew her,” she said. “She was impossible to escape.”
“What can you tell me of their relationship?”
“It wasn’t so unusual. As I said, we’ve no one to flirt with but the guards. Most of us have a favorite.”
“Was she as close to him as Roxelana is?”
“Not at all. But Ceyden was less discreet and drew too much attention to them.”
“Did he do anything to help her get the sultan’s notice?” I asked.
“He let her believe he did, but I never saw anything that suggested he’d succeeded. Jemal’s a pleasant enough distraction,” she said. “But I wouldn’t consider him reliable.”
Melek had returned and motioned for me to follow her, putting a stop to our conversation with a sharp shake of her head. I stood, unsteady on the ill-fitting wooden clogs, and shuffled behind her to a large, octagonal marble platform in the middle of the room. Following the lead of the women who were already there, I lay down, resting my head on a small pillow, my heart racing.
Melek pulled a mohair mitt onto her hand and began scrubbing my skin with an earnest vigor, so hard that it almost hurt, leaving no inch unpolished, fingertips to toes, until I was tingling. I flipped onto my stomach and she continued with my back, pausing to show me the horrific amount of residue that had collected on the mitt. When she’d finished, she had me stand and soaked me with water before helping me to lie back down. Next came a gentle massage, another rinse, and another scrub. This time, instead of the mitt, she used a long, tail-like brush, which she rubbed with soap. As she moved it over my body, it left behind inches of fine lather. More rinsing followed, and now when I stood up, my self-consciousness had started to fade, but I kept my eyes closed, wanting neither to see the other women nor to notice them watching me.
I had to look, though, when she took my hand to lead me across the room to a small wooden door, through which she ushered me. The room beyond it was small, verging on claustrophobic, and radiated a heat that reminded me of the searing burn that accosted a person standing on the Acropolis in Athens on the hottest of summer days. I sat on the marble bench that lined the
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