The Fragment, page 8
She divided her research into two components. First, she read what she could find about the current situation in Turkey. When she approached the librarian and requested certain documents, he frowned over his half-moon spectacles and refused point-blank. Muriel politely offered to find the senator and ask his help in locating the requested papers. The librarian departed in a snit, only to return and give her everything she requested.
The second portion of her research was about the reliquary itself. The embassy library was a treasure trove containing tens of thousands of books, pamphlets, official documents, maps, and globes. The largest of the bedchambers, the one that had belonged to the prince’s senior wife, was given over to a private collection that had been deeded to the embassy by an American businessman who had lived and died in Constantinople. A plaque by the door dedicated the room to his memory. The shelves contained a wealth of information about the entire region.
She had often studied in such a fashion, splitting her time between two seemingly disconnected themes. Often, she found the topics fed upon each other, such that she would be deeply involved in one and suddenly find herself struck by an idea about the other. Which was precisely what happened that afternoon.
There were no clocks, and all but one of the harem’s windows were narrow slits set high up in the walls. The only exception was a balcony set over the street and surrounded by beautifully carved wooden latticework. The balcony was intended to grant the women a chance to see the outside world while keeping them from being observed by passersby. The narrow balcony was stiflingly hot and shrouded in shadows even while the street below blazed with afternoon sun. Muriel worked at a long central table that she had gradually filled with her two areas of research. Which, because of her idea, had melded into one unified concept that left her so excited she felt she might burst.
Even so, she did not speak of it when Senator Bryan arrived. She lifted a pile of nineteenth-century pamphlets off the chair at the head of the table. The senator surveyed the table and did not notice as she dusted the padded leather seat with her sleeve. “You certainly have been busy. Has it been fruitful?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Then at least one of us has found some benefit to the day.” He dropped onto the chair with an exasperated sigh. “All of the embassies have been ordered to remain cloistered away. By order of the caliph himself. For their own safety. This afternoon word arrived that the sultan may in fact order the closure of all Western embassies. How on earth we are supposed to go about our business while imprisoned within these walls is beyond me.”
Muriel glanced around the chamber, thinking of the generations of women who had moved in here and never left. Some, she knew from her research, had been as young as thirteen. Others, girls born into the harem, had been gifted as wives to men they had never met, trading one elegant prison for another.
“Our contact is Sultan Ahmet, principal advisor to the caliph. I have sent word to him by way of a messenger, a Turk who works here and no doubt spies for his own government. They are the only ones allowed beyond the embassy gates. The French legate is the only one in Constantinople permitted to travel about freely. The ambassador tells me the prince’s hands are tied as well. The caliph has ordered his own cabinet to be sequestered, just like us. He does not trust them, you see. He fears they might turn against him and pledge loyalty to the opposition.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “The rivals are led by a man named Atatürk, an upstart general from the hinterlands.”
“I have been reading up on him.”
“Have you indeed.” But her words did not seem to register with the senator. “I am not good at waiting. I feel stifled, as though my air is being cut off. Why on earth aren’t there any windows to this place?”
“It is the harem.”
“Eh, what’s that?”
Muriel did not want to share her idea with him when he was in such a state. “Would you care to see something special?”
“Oh, very well. I suppose…” He did not want to come, and he did not want to stay. But he followed her through the interconnecting rooms. The librarian glowered at them as they passed, but Senator Bryan did not appear to notice the man at all. “We have come so far and have gotten so close, but now, I fear…I dare not even say what I fear.”
She led him through a pair of carved wooden doors and out into a walled garden. Rose bushes climbed the high stone walls. The shadows were thick here, and a faint trace of wind found its way down into the space, bringing a hint of coolness. Muriel pointed them to stone benches set by a central fountain. “We can sit here.”
The senator settled on the bench, fiddled with his watch chain, squinted at the patch of blue sky overhead. Gradually he relaxed enough to take in his surroundings. “What on earth is this place?”
“The harem gardens. The walls are intended to shield the women from view, even from the highest windows.”
The fountain was framed by a shimmering pool fashioned from the same painted tiles as the women’s bath. As they sat, a pair of birds flew in to drink. They were small as robins but with breasts of brilliant gold. Muriel watched them flutter away and felt bonded to the women whose only hint of freedom had come from watching birds go where they could not. Year after year.
When she turned back, she saw that the senator had managed to set aside his worries enough to hear what she had to say. Muriel announced, “I think I may have found us a way forward.”
• • •
That night she dreamed again of standing at the foot of the cross. It only lasted a second or two, and perhaps that was why she woke up without feeling the same sense of overwhelming sorrow. When she gasped awake, she felt a lingering aftereffect, like a fever now gone. Muriel rose from her bed and walked to the window. Four stories below her, in the embassy’s main forecourt, a trio of Marines talked softly while another walked the periphery. Beyond the gates were more of the Turkish soldiers. The faint light reflected off their gold fez caps and their trousers’ white stripes. They slouched and ignored the American soldiers inside.
Then the soldiers tensed, both those inside and those outside the main gates. The Turkish soldiers snarled at the Americans when they gathered by the entry, but there was no real force to the words, and the Marines ignored them.
Then Muriel heard it. The sound was very faint at first, a nervous rush of sound coming from several different locations. It intensified five or six streets away and seemed to move toward them, carried on so many footsteps they sounded like rain.
The mob yelled and shouted and then gathered together and stomped out a verbal cadence, one voice calling and then a thousand in response. Ten thousand. The sound was so great it echoed off the distant hills.
Suddenly the night erupted with a gold flash, then a massive boom resonated through her body. She did not hear it so much as feel it like an earthquake. The wind buffeted her with a fierce and careless fist. Four blocks removed from the blast, Muriel was almost knocked from her feet. The silence that followed was more dreadful than the explosion.
A woman’s shrill scream sliced the night like a rapier. Dogs barked. Then gunfire erupted. A few shots, another scream, then a barrage so vicious she saw the light as one burning ember.
Then the night became hushed once more. Even the dogs went quiet. Muriel had never thought silence could carry such dreaded menace.
She slept no more that night.
: CHAPTER 17 ::
When Muriel entered the dining hall that morning, there was a noticeable difference to the atmosphere. The waiters politely offered her an Oriental breakfast of cheese and dates and hot flatbread and spiced tea. But their eyes were clouded, their smiles forced. Charles did not appear. The soft conversations at other tables carried a worried, fretful tone.
Then the senator appeared with the ambassador. There was a second room, smaller than the main hall, where the senior diplomats took their meals. Senator Bryan crossed the room, wished her a good morning, stared at her plate, and asked, “What on earth is that?”
“What the locals eat. Charles arranged it. We both found the standard fare…difficult to digest.”
The ambassador sniffed, “My wife has spent two years trying to teach them how to cook properly. They cannot even percolate a proper cup of coffee.”
Senator Bryan did not smile. His face showed no real reaction at all. But Muriel had the impression that he was very pleased. “Ambassador, be so good as to instruct your kitchen that from now on I will have what the lady is having. Muriel, I would be grateful if you would join us in the other room.”
The room was paneled in mahogany that was carved to resemble vines climbing a trellis. One panel up by the ceiling had become so water stained and warped it peeled away from the wall. The two windows were stained glass, such that the room was bathed in odd combinations of orange and red. Muriel refused the waiter’s offer of more food and sat watching the others.
The ambassador’s narrow features creased with displeasure. He fretted over his plate, then pushed it aside with an irritated gesture. Joining them was the ambassador’s chargé. Edward Vaughan was a small man with an oversized belly that seemed barely contained by his glittering vest. He wore sideburns so long they almost joined with his moustache. The librarian sat at the oval table’s far end and glared at her over a cold cup of coffee.
“I am interested,” the senator said, “in learning what you found in your research that led you to make yesterday’s suggestion.”
“I told you it was a mistake to allow her access to embassy documents,” the librarian protested.
“The senator insisted,” the ambassador said sourly.
“Indeed so.” The senator’s expression carried a certain gleam, a barely repressed energy that neither the diplomats’ sour mood nor the previous night’s events could extinguish.
Muriel sat alone and isolated, the gleaming inlaid table a barrier between her and these men of jealous power. Muriel took a long breath and then began, “We face two problems. Or so it appears to me. First, there is the caliph’s recent decree isolating the embassies. Second is the fact that the caliph actually holds no power whatsoever.”
“Really, this is absurd,” the ambassador said. “If you will excuse me, Senator, I have work to do.”
“You are not excused. This not only pertains to your work, it defines your work. We will hear the lady out. Continue, if you please.”
Muriel ignored the ambassador’s glare as best she could. “The caliph is not in fact a caliph at all. The caliphate of Medina and Mecca was an honorary title assigned to the Ottoman sultan. But the Ottoman Empire ceased to exist at the end of the Great War. Allied forces conquered Baghdad, Damascus, and Jerusalem during the conflict. Two years ago, they divided the Ottoman Empire among themselves at the San Remo conference. France took a mandate over Syria, the British took control of Palestine and Mesopotamia, and the Turks were left with a fraction of their land. This fueled the uprising led by Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, which has set up a so-called democratic government in Ankara. The last sultan, Mehmed the Sixth, was deposed eight months ago and sent into exile. And this has left the United States and the European allies in a quandary.”
Senator Bryan was openly smiling now. To Muriel’s surprise, his expression was mirrored by the chargé, who had slid his chair back far enough to mask his expression from the ambassador. The senator asked, “Why are we troubled by this?”
Muriel continued, “Three reasons. First, the election was far from democratic. No opposition candidates were allowed to stand. Atatürk won by mandate. Second, no Western government has recognized Atatürk or his government. Which leads to the third issue.”
To their surprise, the chargé said, “The present caliph.”
The ambassador protested, “Really, Edward. Must you—”
“Go on,” the senator insisted.
“Sultan Abdülmecid is a ruler in name only. He was appointed caliph after his cousin, Mehmed, was sent into exile. He is here so that the Europeans and the Americans can’t say that the legitimate Ottoman ruler has been overthrown. The edicts you worry about don’t come from the Abdülmecid at all. They are Atatürk’s way of reminding you that real power now lies in Ankara, and it is time the Western governments recognize it.”
The chargé said, “You read my report.”
“Twice,” Muriel said. “It was excellent.”
The ambassador snorted. “Really, Senator, if it were only half as simple as Miss Ross makes it out to be, we wouldn’t be in this predicament at all. And Edward’s report has been repudiated by any number of experts in Washington. The uprising continues, as we all witnessed last night. The caliph is the ruler of Turkey. The rest is supposition and poppycock.”
The senator leaned back so as to share a grim smile with the chargé, then said to Muriel, “Tell me about the caliph.”
“Abdülmecid was chosen to rule because he has no interest whatsoever in politics or power. He is also named General of the Ottoman Army but has never served a day in the military, and the Ottoman Army itself no longer exists. He devotes his days to his two passions, collecting butterflies and painting.”
This caught everyone by surprise, even the librarian, who exclaimed, “Where on earth did you come up with that?”
“A pamphlet in your library,” Muriel retorted, “written by the Italian legate.”
“You read Italian, I suppose?”
“He wrote in French,” Muriel replied. “The language of diplomacy.”
Senator Bryan coughed discreetly. “Which leads you to your idea.”
“The caliph’s favorite paintings are those he has made of his harem,” Muriel confirmed. “I just wondered if he might like to have photographs taken. This work must be done by a woman, since no man other than the caliph is permitted entry.”
“Which is why,” the senator told the ambassador, “I sent her pictures to the caliph, along with a suggestion that I be allowed to accompany her.”
Muriel looked from one face to the next, the sulking librarian, the fuming ambassador, the gratified senator, the grimly smiling chargé. She saw what she had missed before, the underlying frisson, an electric charge to the atmosphere, like before a summer storm.
“Why is this important?”
“We have received word that the caliph will reply this afternoon.”
“He hasn’t said yes,” the ambassador muttered.
The senator exchanged another tightly wound smile with the chargé. “When was the last time the caliph responded to any of your queries, sir?”
The muscles in the ambassador’s jaw bunched and writhed. He stared at his hands and did not speak.
• • •
The caliph’s personal guards were known locally as Seljuks, after the dynasty that ruled Turkey a thousand years earlier. The ten who came from the palace were huge and silent and stood over six feet tall. They wore peaked caps instead of helmets, which added another ten inches to their height. Their uniforms were a fanciful combination of Western military and Oriental garb. Their trousers bore bright crimson strips down both legs, which they tucked into glossy black boots with silver chains at the top. More silver dangled from their right shoulders and from the broad belts holding both scimitars and pistols. Their moustaches were waxed and curled and woven into their sideburns. Their eyes blazed with centuries of fierce contempt.
They arrived in the early afternoon with Muriel’s official summons. A private messenger had arrived earlier to warn them that the caliph was indeed going to respond and that they must be prepared to depart at a moment’s notice. The caliph’s invitation was a royal command and was to be obeyed without an instant’s hesitation.
Muriel was joined in the ambassador’s Daimler by Senator Bryan, the ambassador, his chargé, and Edward’s wife, who proved to be fluent in Turkish. Muriel had insisted upon being accompanied by a woman who spoke the language. Sarah Vaughan shared her husband’s brightly intelligent gaze and had mobile features that seemed constantly ready to break out in a smile. When the three men started talking softly among themselves, she whispered to Muriel, “I couldn’t believe it when Edward asked if I wanted to serve as your companion. I haven’t been out of the compound for weeks. I’m not even allowed to go to the market. I was ready to scream. And I would have, if I had thought it would do any good.”
“Where did you learn Turkish?”
“I studied with a local tutor. Languages have always come easily for me.”
“I wish I could say the same. I speak only French, and it took years of sweating over the books.”
“Turkish is a fascinating tongue. There are elements of Arabic and Hebrew and ancient Mongol dialects, all rolled into a language that contains a thousand different ways to hide the truth in plain sight.”
Muriel turned back to the window and the city. But she found it impossible to enjoy the journey. Her mind swirled with all she had learned about the current state of affairs. The city’s din was punctuated by her memory of the explosion and gunfire from the previous night.
For six hundred years, the Ottoman Empire ruled the Caucasus, the Middle East, Greece, parts of Central Europe, and much of North Africa. But it began to crumble almost as soon as it was built. The sultans feared technology and despised the bustling frenetic energy of the Industrial Revolution. Russia was continually invading from the north, seeking to ignite a war that would allow it to swallow the Ottomans whole. The regime also suffered from rampant corruption. When the Allies invaded Turkey during the Great War, the whole house of cards came tumbling down.
France and Britain and America left a few troops in Turkey, propping up the caliph whom they intended to treat as a puppet. But the rise of Atatürk and his generals changed all that. Atatürk did not attack directly. Instead, small uprisings erupted in one place after another, with no direct tie to the hands that controlled them, much as the Allies were doing through the shadow caliph. The Allies could have brought in more troops and stamped the upstarts into the dust, of course. But the West had lost all appetite for further war. So the Allies watched helplessly as Atatürk won gradual control of Turkey. Eight months earlier, the newly elected Turkish parliament ordered the caliph to leave the country. Despite the Allies’ plea for him to stay, Mehmed packed up and departed for a villa on the Italian Riviera. In his place, the parliament appointed Mehmed’s cousin, Abdülmecid. Who ruled over nothing, and according to the documents Muriel had read, cared little either way.
