blackness so thick she felt for a moment that she couldn’t breathe. Her disorientation lasted a full minute until she fought down her panic and began to remember.
Gabriel, she thought, anguish like bile in her mouth. Gabriel must never know. The men had used only their hands, but she felt as violated and humiliated as if they had done the rest. Worse than the physical damage, her memory of her wedding night had been perverted. She would never be able to undress before her husband again, to lie with him and bear his touch without these men’s hands sliding alongside his. When she looked up at him, it would be their lust-glazed eyes and obscene lips she would see.
Then she leaned over and vomited. She reached up to wipe her mouth, but jerked back in pain when she touched her bruised face. Her tongue felt swollen in her parched mouth. Where was she? Her palms rested on a carpet. Was she back in the original room? She struggled to her feet and shuffled cautiously forward into the dark. They must have taken the lamp, or perhaps it had gone out. She had no sense of the passage of time.
She remembered the room in flashes of color. There had been a chair beside the stove. The stove. She focused her eyes in the dark and finally saw the faint glowing eye of the stove like a distant pulsing star. Using that to orient herself, she inched her way across the room, edging each foot forward gingerly, until her knee encountered the chair. Her slippers were lost, her feet cold. There had been a small table with water. She almost tipped over the carafe, but caught it in time and slaked her thirst, ignoring the pain of flexing her mouth. Worse things could happen. Worse things had happened to her comrades, worse things happened to peasants all the time. She was a soldier in the fight against injustice. For once the words struck a chord in her and didn’t just seem like a callow wish.
She shivered and blew at the embers through the slots of the stove. The fire swelled and shed enough light so she could see herself. Her dress and coat were unbuttoned, and her stockings sagged between her legs where they had been inexpertly drawn up. Once she had adjusted her stockings beneath her skirt and buttoned her coat, she felt calmer, as if she had gathered and smoothed her heart beneath her fingers and the circumstances of this room were now encompassed and controlled. Sitting in the circumference of the fire’s eye, Vera considered what she needed to do.
16
K AMIL AND O MAR LEFT the carriage at the police station in Fatih and continued on horseback to the district of Eyüp to look for Huseyin. The Eyüp Mosque was located at the inland tip of the Golden Horn where two rivers spread through meadows to replenish the estuary. They found themselves in a broad expanse of kitchen gardens now heaped with hay against the frost. In the distance, the stately cypress groves of the Eyüp cemetery fenced off the sky.
“Let’s hope he’s here,” Omar said.
“It’s worth a try. But he could be in any of the hospitals or infirmaries.” Or he could be dead, Kamil thought.
“If he’s not here, I’ll get my men to look in all of them,” Omar assured him.
The mosque and its complex of buildings were enormous compared with the poor structure that served the Austrian nuns in Galata. Kamil and Omar left their mounts at a hostlery and took a shortcut through the cemetery, where for some reason the snow had not accumulated, as if the ground were hot with decay. The sour smell of the soil permeated the air. After several wrong turns, they found the hospital, a broad-backed stone building of great age set within a garden. Kamil breathed in the scent of herbs, growing in a sheltered spot. He recognized sprigs of salvia and melissa, round mallow leaves, spikes of purple foxgloves, and the hard brown capsules of opium poppies. He brushed against a low shrub, causing it to release a scatter of black berries. He identified it as Atropa belladonna , or deadly
Gabriel, she thought, anguish like bile in her mouth. Gabriel must never know. The men had used only their hands, but she felt as violated and humiliated as if they had done the rest. Worse than the physical damage, her memory of her wedding night had been perverted. She would never be able to undress before her husband again, to lie with him and bear his touch without these men’s hands sliding alongside his. When she looked up at him, it would be their lust-glazed eyes and obscene lips she would see.
Then she leaned over and vomited. She reached up to wipe her mouth, but jerked back in pain when she touched her bruised face. Her tongue felt swollen in her parched mouth. Where was she? Her palms rested on a carpet. Was she back in the original room? She struggled to her feet and shuffled cautiously forward into the dark. They must have taken the lamp, or perhaps it had gone out. She had no sense of the passage of time.
She remembered the room in flashes of color. There had been a chair beside the stove. The stove. She focused her eyes in the dark and finally saw the faint glowing eye of the stove like a distant pulsing star. Using that to orient herself, she inched her way across the room, edging each foot forward gingerly, until her knee encountered the chair. Her slippers were lost, her feet cold. There had been a small table with water. She almost tipped over the carafe, but caught it in time and slaked her thirst, ignoring the pain of flexing her mouth. Worse things could happen. Worse things had happened to her comrades, worse things happened to peasants all the time. She was a soldier in the fight against injustice. For once the words struck a chord in her and didn’t just seem like a callow wish.
She shivered and blew at the embers through the slots of the stove. The fire swelled and shed enough light so she could see herself. Her dress and coat were unbuttoned, and her stockings sagged between her legs where they had been inexpertly drawn up. Once she had adjusted her stockings beneath her skirt and buttoned her coat, she felt calmer, as if she had gathered and smoothed her heart beneath her fingers and the circumstances of this room were now encompassed and controlled. Sitting in the circumference of the fire’s eye, Vera considered what she needed to do.
16
K AMIL AND O MAR LEFT the carriage at the police station in Fatih and continued on horseback to the district of Eyüp to look for Huseyin. The Eyüp Mosque was located at the inland tip of the Golden Horn where two rivers spread through meadows to replenish the estuary. They found themselves in a broad expanse of kitchen gardens now heaped with hay against the frost. In the distance, the stately cypress groves of the Eyüp cemetery fenced off the sky.
“Let’s hope he’s here,” Omar said.
“It’s worth a try. But he could be in any of the hospitals or infirmaries.” Or he could be dead, Kamil thought.
“If he’s not here, I’ll get my men to look in all of them,” Omar assured him.
The mosque and its complex of buildings were enormous compared with the poor structure that served the Austrian nuns in Galata. Kamil and Omar left their mounts at a hostlery and took a shortcut through the cemetery, where for some reason the snow had not accumulated, as if the ground were hot with decay. The sour smell of the soil permeated the air. After several wrong turns, they found the hospital, a broad-backed stone building of great age set within a garden. Kamil breathed in the scent of herbs, growing in a sheltered spot. He recognized sprigs of salvia and melissa, round mallow leaves, spikes of purple foxgloves, and the hard brown capsules of opium poppies. He brushed against a low shrub, causing it to release a scatter of black berries. He identified it as Atropa belladonna , or deadly
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