CHAPTER 39
While the Turkish people rallied around their enthusiastic, eager young sultan and his bright, bold dreams, their eyes shining with hope every time they caught sight of him riding by in his gold-curtained litter or astride his black horse with its bejeweled saddle, the Janissaries despised him more every year. In black of night they tore down what he built, defiled his new schools, and gathered great piles of his newly translated books and set them afire. They ran amok in the Great Bazaar, and overturned booths and baskets and smashed jars in the spice market, and killed wantonly and randomly. A merchant who pleaded with them to spare his wares had his eyes gouged out so he would not have to witness his property’s destruction. A boy who meant only to be helpful by picking up pomegranates that spilled from a stall the Janissaries had smashed had his hand cut off for stealing. And outside the palace kitchens they beat their kettles, relentlessly sounding their discontent, and a warning, to Selim. It reminded me of the voodoo drums that used to shatter the quiet of the peaceful island nights. And every morning, without fail, we were certain to find another loyal supporter of our wonderful modern dream slain, his body dangling from a tree or his severed head set where we would be sure to stumble over it.
At the same time, the Russians were menacing our borders. The Janissaries with their fierce waist-length black moustachios and sabers were no match against the might and majesty, and modern guns, of the Russian army. They quite easily wrested the Crimea away from us.
While the Janissaries retired to their barracks to lick their wounds and bang their kettledrums, Selim sat on the floor, like a little boy playing with toy soldiers, thoughtfully maneuvering his little model men and rearranging their lines to win phantom victories. He was dreaming of the day when the Nizam-Djedid, his New Army, would march forth, a wholly modern army, cavalry, infantry, and artillery, each man loyal to the backbone, incorrupt and ready to die if need be for Turkey and the Sultan.
The Directory in France had fallen; an ambitious little Corsican general, Napoleon Bonaparte, a real man risen from the ranks of the people, an unparalleled military genius who dreamed of conquering the world, and had already carved great slices out of Italy and Austria, ruled now as the First Consul. After a lengthy silence, he at last responded to Selim’s request for assistance by sending us General Sebastiani and a corps of French engineers and naval officers.
I had a feeling that this Bonaparte was not a man to be trusted. I sensed that he, a ruthless conqueror, had set his sights on Turkey. Sending Sebastiani was a veiled gesture, to outward appearances a response to a request for foreign aid, a maneuver calculated to forge friendly ties between Turkey and France, but actually a reconnaissance mission. If Bonaparte made our army, he would know it inside out, including, when the time came, where the weak links were and how to break them.
Sebastiani was in Constantinople as Napoleon’s eyes and ears, friend now, foe when the time was ripe. But, since he was here, we might as well make use of him, I reasoned. We had a need and he could fulfill it. He could make Selim’s dream Nizam-Djedid march into reality. We would deal with Bonaparte later.
Selim said I had grown harsh and cold. I was suspicious and wary of my own countrymen who had most generously come to help us. He thought me too mistrustful while I thought him too trusting.
“I am by birth a Creole, not a Corsican,” I said, “but I have been reborn a Turk.”
* * *
For my thirtieth birthday, Selim, recalling my tales of the Montgolfier brothers and their marvelous hot-air balloons, arranged a special treat for me. A green-and-white-striped balloon was waiting for us in the verdant fields of Dolma Bagtché. Selim lifted me into the straw basket and up we went, soaring high above the golden domes of the city. Beneath us, the people craned their necks, waved, and cheered as they ran along, following our progress as best they could; some even took to the sea in little boats to get a better view of us.
It was wondrous to behold from so high above—the French officers drilling and putting the Nizam-Djedid through its paces, the new cannon foundry, the shipyards bustling with men the size of ants swarming over our new ships, the engineers and workmen reinforcing our fortifications and directing the placement of guns.
High above the golden spires, Selim took me in his arms again. His fingers lowered my veil, baring my face fully to his, as his lips found mine. This time I didn’t resist; I let him kiss me. I didn’t want to spoil it for him. And I knew things were less likely to go too far in a balloon flying high above the city, crowded into the straw basket with the balloon’s pilot pretending not to see or hear us, than if Selim and I were alone together in a private room in the palace.
For me, that kiss was a conciliatory gesture.
For Selim, it was another dream come true.
“Aimee, I love you!” he whispered as he shuddered in breathless urgency against the curve of my neck.
His brown eyes were like a wounded puppy’s when I didn’t tell him that I loved him back. But I couldn’t say what my heart didn’t feel.
When we returned to solid ground, at sunset every mosque in Constantinople was crowded with men giving thanks for Sultan Selim’s safe descent from the heavens.
Back in the harem, I tried to find every excuse not to be alone with Selim. The forlorn look in his eyes whenever we met in the company of others told me that he knew.
Why won’t you love me? his eyes beseeched me every time.
But I couldn’t answer.
* * *
Sebastiani worked wonders. Already the Nizam-Djedid was something to be proud of. Selim delighted in every parade, mock battle, and inspection and dreamed of the day when they would vanquish the Janissaries. But others were watching too, and with much less enthusiasm.
Senieperver and the Janissaries concocted a bold scheme to ally themselves with the British, bartering favorable terms for when Mustafa became sultan. By the time we learned of their plans, the British fleet, resentful of our alliance with their archenemy Bonaparte, was already sailing in our direction. We had to act fast. Sooner than we thought, the mettle of the new Turkish army was about to be tested.
Selim’s strength wavered in the face of grim reality; we were outnumbered, we should surrender now, he said, while we could still do it peacefully, before the smoke and heat and bloodshed of battle, and get the best terms possible from the British. But Sebastiani and I held firm. A show of strength can make a difference even when you are weak and outnumbered. The Nizam-Djedid would stand; Constantinople would not fall. We would not consider any other possibility.
Sebastiani rode out amongst the people and stirred them up into such a patriotic fervor that they rose up to defend their city. Nobles and commoners alike wheeled cannons through the streets and ranged themselves along the walls. People collected stones that we could use in lieu of cannonballs if we ran out, and anyone who had anything they could use as a weapon came out, ready to fight and, if need be, die with us.
I stood cloaked and veiled between Selim and Sebastiani atop the Galata Tower and watched the English ships round Prinkipo Island. Time seemed to drag unbearably. We waited tensely for the first shot to be fired. Then, a miracle happened—God had given me so many!—a mighty wind rose up. The British ships were battered and scattered and left so shaken and disorganized that General Duckworth made the decision to turn back and sail for home. We had won without a single shot being fired or a single life lost.
* * *
In the French sitting room Selim had made for me, we celebrated with General Sebastiani and his wife, Fanny, a sweet dark-haired young woman with lively brown eyes, who was swollen great in expectation of their first child. She didn’t have to say anything. I could tell she was very excited about becoming a mother.
Sebastiani brought a bottle of champagne, and though Selim as a devout Muslim shunned it, he was happy to see the rest of us toasting our victory. I even let Mahmoud beg a sip from my glass and he fell instantly in love with the bubbly golden wine.
It was an interesting experience to meet a Frenchwoman again. Fanny and I were fascinated by each other’s clothes. The fashions in France had changed dramatically. Gone were the days of hoop skirts and panniers, and powdered towers of outlandishly decorated hair. Dresses now harkened back to ancient Rome and Greece, flowing down naturally over the body in straight, simple lines with just a hint of a train trailing behind, but eschewing a woman’s natural waist to clasp just beneath her breasts with a jeweled belt or simple sash. Right after the Revolution there had been a craze for short shorn hair, the coiffure à la Victime, but now women were growing their hair long again, twisting it up in loose buns with little kiss curls or wisps framing their faces, or, for more formal occasions, intricate arrangements of braids ornamented with ropes of pearls, jeweled bands, or diadems.
We laughingly decided that one day, after Fanny’s baby was born and she had regained her figure, we would trade. I would put on her clothes and she would put on mine. She had never worn trousers and thought my short embroidered vest and blouse with gauzy puffed sleeves, jeweled pillbox hat trailing veils, and curly-toed slippers would be a novel experience. She even talked of having her portrait painted in such attire so she could show all her friends back in France.
She was curious to see more of the harem and our customs and I agreed, when she was recovered from her confinement, to take her on a tour. The mischief-maker in me remembered my first reaction to the baths, with all the naked, lolling odalisques, and the rituals I had taken for personal assaults upon my modesty, and wondered what Fanny would make of it all.
“I promise you many interesting stories to tell your friends,” I assured her.
Sebastiani also interested me. Though he had helped us greatly and was being hailed by the people as the Hero of Constantinople, I knew his first loyalty was to Napoleon, so I could never quite trust him, yet I found myself nonetheless attracted. He had charm, strength, and brilliance, and those fine qualities combined with his lean but muscular physique encased in tight breeches and a coat smothered in gold soutache, a full head of gold cupid curls, and gilt-flecked amber eyes . . . well, it really was no wonder that he was known to cause women back in France to erupt in drawing room riots. He was both soulful and sensual, an almost irresistible combination in either a woman or a man. Fidelity was not a fixture in most French marriages, but he seemed genuinely devoted to his darling Fanny.
* * *
To please Selim, I tried to occasionally spend a little time in the French sitting room, so he would not think I was unappreciative of his gift. I was always careful to choose a time when I knew he would be elsewhere and unlikely to seek me out, hoping to be alone with me. I would sit alone and read, embroider, or else just think, though I found the sofa and chairs terribly uncomfortable now that my body had become accustomed to the Turkish habit of lolling on soft cushions and divans.
I was sitting there one afternoon when General Sebastiani came in to leave a book he had promised to Selim. They had become such good friends that Selim had generously given him the run of the palace; he was welcome anytime, to converse, dine, enjoy the baths, and make use of Selim’s extensive library of French books. They even rode horseback and practiced archery together, so it was not exactly a surprise to see Sebastiani walk into the sitting room, appearing completely relaxed as though he were entering a room in his own home. I had been told that they often sat and talked together in this room; that would explain why Sebastiani was bringing the book here.
I was quite alone and had taken my veil off; I had no reason to think that anyone who shouldn’t would see my face. I instinctively reached for the veil, but Sebastiani stopped me. There was a look in his eyes that should have made me run, but it didn’t.
What is hidden behind the veil fascinates every male and Sebastiani was no exception. He liked what he saw and he wanted to see the rest of me. It started with a caress of my face, followed by his fingers in my hair, a kiss, light at first, but then more urgent, mouths opening, devouring, tongues mingling and probing, as his hands found my breasts. We lay back on the striped sofa, but that was neither comfortable nor practical, and we ended up naked on the rose-covered carpet.
It felt good to know a man’s body again, one I desired and had chosen of my own free will. The right to choose, to take and give freely, was almost as pleasurable as the act itself.
I lay back afterward very aware that if I had still belonged to a sultan what I had just done was enough to send me sinking in a weighted sack into the Bosphorus. But I didn’t belong to a sultan, though Selim wanted me to. I belonged to no one. I occupied a unique position in the harem no other woman had ever attained. I had been spared the living tomb of the Palace of Tears, I remained at Topkapi Palace for my son, but I was no longer sure what rights I had and didn’t have. What if I wanted to leave or marry? Was that allowed? Could I? Was what I had just done still a crime punishable by death? I had betrayed no one. Abdul Hamid was dead and I was not an odalisque in Selim’s harem. I couldn’t be; women were not passed down like possessions. Where did I stand exactly?
Sebastiani propped himself up on one elbow and stared down at me.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Everything and nothing,” I sighed. “It is better not to ask.”
“Who are you?” He leaned over me. “I am very curious to know—How did you come to be here? What is your name? Your real name?”
I shook my head and rose and began to put on my clothes.
“Why won’t you tell me?” he persisted, sitting up naked, cross-legged on the carpet.
“It’s a name I will never answer to again,” I said, “so it is best forgotten.”
I had no idea if my parents still lived or what had become of my sister, Marthe. If anyone knew my real name, they might make inquiries, inquiries that might cause pain. I preferred to keep my silence, and my secrets.
“Why must you be so maddeningly mysterious?” he sighed. “I would just like to have a name to call you that is really your own.”
“The one I have is mine, someone I loved very much gave it to me, and I would have no other even if I could. You had better get dressed; we shouldn’t linger here like this,” I said, and handed him his clothes. A snuffbox fell from his coat pocket and I picked it up. There was a portrait of a beautiful dark-haired woman’s face on the lid ringed in diamonds. I recognized her instantly.
“Who is she?” I asked. I was not about to lay my cards on the table and reveal what I already knew.
“You won’t tell me your name, but you ask me hers?” Sebastiani said as he stepped into his breeches.
I shrugged my shoulders and continued dressing in silence.
“She must be someone very special for you to carry her likeness in your pocket,” I observed. “You seem at first glance very devoted to your wife, yet after what we have just done—” I shrugged—“I would not be at all surprised if you had another mistress, or even several.”
“Oh, not her! Never her!” Sebastiani laughed. “She is Bonaparte’s wife; he calls her Josephine, but her name is really Rose. She was the wife of Alexandre de Beauharnais, but they separated. He went to the guillotine and she almost did too.”
I knew it! It was Rose! She had survived the Revolution; she was alive and married to the man who now controlled the destiny of France.
“If she is General Bonaparte’s wife, why do you carry her picture then?” I asked.
“Many of the men do. The General considers her his good-luck charm, he is madly in love with her and always carries her likeness with him into battle, so we do the same, just in case there is some truth in it,” Sebastiani explained.
“Ah”—I nodded—“well, we all have our superstitions.” I turned around and showed him the serpent swallowing its tail tattooed on the small of my back.
Sebastiani stepped up close behind me, lifted the heavy golden weight of my hair over my shoulders, and nuzzled my neck and ear. “I do love my wife,” he whispered, “I love her very much, but that doesn’t mean I can’t love anyone else. And it’s my business where I choose to put my prick.” He nuzzled and kissed the back of my neck again. “Tell me your name. . . .”
To stop his questions, I turned around and stopped them myself with my own mouth. But every time we met he asked me the same question—What is your name? It rapidly evolved into a battle of wills.
I was right, he was very charming, attractive, and intelligent, soulful, sensual, a very skillful lover, and a brilliant tactician, but he was also not to be trusted. We met several times more in the French sitting room. I let him make love to me because I enjoyed it, but I never told him the name I was born to. That was my secret to keep; I would never share it.