The Fragment, page 9
They passed three large gatherings along the way. According to Sarah, two were in support of Atatürk, the third in favor of the caliph. This third group cheered wildly when the Seljuk guards came into view, trotting on horses as massive as the soldiers themselves. Six of the guards bore tall spears from which fluttered flags adorned with Arabic script. When the other two crowds spotted the Seljuks, they roared their defiance and started to rush forward. But the lead guards aimed their deadly spears straight at the people, while the others drew their guns. The crowd halted. The lead soldiers then flicked their reins, and the procession continued on.
The Daimler was a massive beast of a car with a wicker compartment for the passengers and a separate open seat for the driver and his companion. Charles Fouchet sat beside the driver in the forward compartment. Earlier that day, the senator had sent word to the French legate of their journey. When the ambassador protested, Senator Bryan replied that the French would most certainly hear of it, and probably already had. This way, they might defuse a problem before it arose. Now the ambassador fumed but said nothing, no doubt for fear that the senator would visit the caliph without him.
The procession traveled through streets that revealed a gray and crumbling city. Occasionally, Muriel glimpsed fragments of former grandeur—a wall made from painted tiles, a gilded balcony, a palace rising behind guarded gates. But the scars of war and neglect were everywhere. Especially on the faces of the people they passed.
Charles had not spoken with her when he arrived from the French embassy. His only acknowledgment had been a solemn nod in her direction. Then he had gone inside to confer with the ambassador. He sat ramrod straight in the open front compartment. Muriel stared at his back and wondered if she had made a mistake in suggesting that he be included.
They turned onto a broad avenue that flanked the Bosphorus Sea. A wall then rose up between them and the waters, so tall it cast the entire street in shadows. Along its length, every twenty meters, a pair of guards stood at rigid attention. The wall was unadorned save for occasional guard towers and continued for well over a mile. Finally, they arrived at a wide turning and the royal gates. Two massive guardhouses were connected by a galleried arch. Flags fluttered in the hot wind. The wall continued on down the lane until it melted with the dusty haze.
Their procession was saluted through the gates. They entered a different world. The fragrances of countless flowers filtered through her open window. Peacocks cried from the emerald lawns, and overhead she caught the flash of tropical birds in flight. The gardens were immaculate and stretched into the distance. The senator said, “I have heard the caliph’s private gardens are larger than all of Alexandria.”
The palace itself was so vast it was hard to take it in. Her research had included numerous descriptions penned by astonished diplomats. The main structure alone covered half a million square feet, a carved stone jewel set in an emerald field.
As Senator Bryan rose from the Daimler, the gilded portals opened, and guards flanking the doorway snapped to attention. Muriel and Sarah took the camera equipment from the Daimler’s massive trunk and followed the men up the stairs. The waiting majordomo was dressed in a cutaway jacket and striped formal trousers. He bowed a welcome and asked, “Which is the American photographer, please?”
“I am.”
“Your name, please, it is what?”
“Ross. Muriel Ross.”
“This way, if you please, Madame.”
“I would like to bring my companion.”
“A woman, yes? But of course. The both of you may come this way.”
The ambassador protested, “We were expecting to see the caliph.”
“And you are?”
“The United States ambassador, and this is Senator Bryan, who has traveled six thousand miles for this audience.”
“Yes, yes, we received this note also. Very well, you also may enter.”
“But will we see the caliph?”
“Perhaps. Yes, perhaps. I will certainly present Sultan Abdülmecid with your names.” He ushered them inside. “Please.”
As they stepped into the entrance gallery, Muriel stepped up close to Charles and asked, “Are you all right?”
“My ambassador is furious.”
“With you? Why?”
“He feels he should be here instead of me. I refused. The senator’s invitation was specific. The man is petty and vengeful. He intends to crush my career.”
“Perhaps you should not have...” But the procession moved forward, and Muriel left the sentence unfinished.
The Dolmabahçe Palace took thirteen years to build and was completed in 1856. Muriel had doubted much of what she had read in the embassy library. But as they entered the first formal gallery, known as the Crystal Staircase, she decided that the descriptions had in fact not done the place justice.
The double arms of the stairwell were floored in marble, but the banisters and pillars were fashioned from crystal. The banisters were thicker than her leg, and there were hundreds of supporting columns. The crystal staircase was the largest article ever to come from the Baccarat factories in France. Muriel and the others climbed the carpeted steps and gaped at the central chandelier, a gift from Queen Victoria that weighed over five tons.
At the top of the stairs, the majordomo halted and pointed Muriel to his left. “You will please to enter the Harem-i-Humayun through those doors there.”
Muriel hesitated, then asked, “Before I go, could I please see the Muayede Salonu?”
The majordomo smiled, revealing two gold molars. “You are speaking Turkish?”
“I read the name in a document yesterday. Please excuse my pronunciation.”
“No, no, is very good.” He stowed his smile away and bowed her forward. “This way, if you please.”
The Muayede had been the point at which words had failed every observer. As soon as the Ceremonial Hall’s enormous doors were drawn open, Muriel understood why.
The palace had cost over a million ounces of gold to build. The ceilings and walls of the Ceremonial Hall were gilded with over a ton of gold leaf. The floors were an intricate mosaic of semi-precious stones set in Carrara marble. Pillars of rose quartz extended down both sides of the six-hundred-foot-long chamber. Far, far in the distance, upon a dais of gold and onyx, stood the empty throne.
The majordomo gave them a moment, then said, “The gentlemen are to come and wait in the Medhal. Mesdames, if you will now proceed to the harem, the ladies await you.”
: CHAPTER 18 ::
The palace women were quiet and reserved and reluctant to meet Muriel’s gaze. The children were like children everywhere, shy and excited in turn. The rooms were ornately decorated and stuffy. The women refused to respond when Sarah asked their names.
Muriel had no idea who they were, maid or wife or concubine, except through the ornate nature of their dress. There were many, many women, aged from infants to the seventies. The only boys were young children and a pair of eunuch guards who followed Muriel everywhere she went.
Since the women refused to utter a word, Sarah talked with the children. They scampered about, sheepishly answering her. The youngest hid behind the women’s robes. Muriel used the Graflex for several group portraits, the women stiff and severe, the children somber. Then she stowed away the large camera and walked slowly through the six formal chambers, using the light and shadow to photograph the occupants. She shot four rolls of film and spent over two hours on her knees, sitting quietly, waiting and watching and absorbing.
Tea was served by maids as brightly dressed as their mistresses. Muriel and Sarah remained isolated throughout. But as she drank, Muriel sensed a presence and looked up to find a middle-aged woman watching her closely. She gestured with her cup in the direction of the French doors leading to the gardens. Muriel hesitated, then nodded once in response.
The woman set down her cup and rose to her feet. She stepped up to the eunuch, touched his arm, and spoke a few soft words. The man’s upper arms were almost as thick as Muriel’s waist. He wore a sash of woven gold about his vast middle and golden bands around his wrists. He pursed his lips, then nodded once. The woman glanced again in Muriel’s direction and left the room.
Muriel rose and said to Sarah, “Wait here.”
“But shouldn’t I come…”
“Stay. Please.” Muriel followed the stranger from the room, feeling eyes tracking her every step.
The enclosed garden was filled with brilliant sunlight and was so vast it was almost possible to ignore the high stone walls. Six fountains sprayed perfumed water and cooled the air. A bird with long, golden plumage stood so still Muriel thought at first it was a statue. Then it cocked its head so as to watch Muriel pass.
The woman continued through the garden, pausing only once when a child’s voice called plaintively from the room they had left. She turned back and responded in a voice that almost sang with her calm assurance. Muriel was left with the comfortable sense that this woman meant her no harm.
Muriel followed her down a path that was almost lost to the vines and the flowering shrubs. At its end was an ancient door, so small and narrow it appeared made for children. But there was nothing childish about the warning look that the woman gave Muriel. “Do not speak. Do not even breathe loudly.”
“How do you come to speak English?”
The woman’s gaze carried centuries of secrets. “Hush now. All questions must wait.”
She drew an elaborately carved key from the folds of her gown and slipped it into the lock. The door opened silently, and the woman stepped inside. Muriel had to lower herself almost to her knees to fit through the portal.
Inside was a web of shadow and light. The hall was so narrow her arms grazed the two walls, one of stone and the other of carved latticework. The woman moved silent as the shadows and stopped where the light did not enter. She turned and gripped Muriel’s arms, her fingers carrying a dread warning. Carefully she moved Muriel forward, an inch at a time.
When she saw the scene that was revealed, Muriel started to gasp, but the woman’s grip tightened in admonition.
The lattice was carved from sheets of marble. The stranger’s hands kept her from approaching too closely, so that Muriel remained encased by shadows. It also permitted her to see through the lattice, like she was looking through a stone net. On the other side was the Medhal, the caliph’s waiting room. Charles stood by the narrow windows, frowning into the afternoon light. The ambassador angrily paced the circular chamber. The senator and the ambassador’s chargé sat on a padded onyx bench and talked softly.
The stranger allowed Muriel to study the scene for a moment, then drew her back down the hall and out into the sunlight. Muriel watched her lock the door, then followed her down the secret path. When they were again by the perfumed fountain, she asked, “Who are you?”
“My name is Shayla. I am wife to the grand vizier. I am also friend to the caliph’s senior wife. She invited me to join you this day.”
“Where did you learn your English?”
“My husband served as a diplomat in Washington under the former caliph, Mehmed. Unlike most Ottoman officials, my husband chose to take his family with him.” She motioned Muriel toward one of the stone benches lining the fountain. “Deniz knew the end was near. He wanted me and the children to see America. He wanted us to understand we had a decision to make. Not then, not even that year. But soon. And now the time has come.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“The caliph will not see your ambassador. The caliph sees no one. He has received instructions from Atatürk to refuse all audiences. This suits him. He despises everything to do with power. He is only too happy to pretend to hold office. Atatürk has promised him a life of ease in Paris when this is done.” Shayla stopped and waited.
Muriel read the silence and offered, “Atatürk is making no such promises to you and your husband.”
“Deniz fears that once the revolution is complete, the citizens will demand that someone be put on trial. My husband would make the ideal criminal. We are Christians, and for us life has become increasingly difficult. Plus, my husband’s family has served the sultans for eleven generations, mine for six. Our children…” She gathered herself. “You seek the reliquary, yes?”
“That is why we are here.”
“Your senator claims that you are an expert in these matters. Is this true?”
“Reliquaries have been my field of study for several years.”
“My husband will give it to you. In exchange, we want American citizenship. For the five of us. My husband, myself, and our three children. And you must help us escape.”
“I don’t know how—”
“There is to be no bargaining. The terms are what they are. The reliquary for our freedom.” She rose to her feet. “Tomorrow morning at ten, come to your embassy’s main gate. A trusted messenger will arrive. He will speak English, and he will offer you greetings from Deniz. Give him your answer.”
: CHAPTER 19 ::
The entire journey back, the ambassador and the senator remained locked in argument. Senator Bryan saw how disturbed Muriel became by their talk and tried to smooth the troubled waters by describing it as a spirited diplomatic exchange. But for Muriel a quarrel was a quarrel.
By dinnertime, cables had been exchanged with the State Department. Edward Vaughan was busy preparing the required documents. But still the squabbling continued. Muriel refused to join them for dinner and instead sat with Charles in the main dining room.
“This is the price of getting anything done in the diplomatic world,” Charles said.
She could hear the raised voices through the connecting doors. “How you can stand this is beyond me.”
“There are worse ways to resolve a dispute. War, for example.”
“It’s as though the last conflict taught them nothing.”
“They are not arguing over the vizier’s demands.”
“Oh, I know that.” She disliked how the friction was affecting her own state, yet felt helpless to change things. “It’s about turf. Isn’t that the word you use?”
“That is the correct term, yes, but it goes far deeper. The ambassador has staked his reputation on following the line set down by his allies in Washington. They insist that the caliphate can be saved. That Atatürk will fail. My own superiors want the same thing, even though it would result in a continuation of the same conflict they have had with America and Britain for fifty years.”
“But why?” She did not realize how loudly she had spoken until heads turned toward her around the hall. “What on earth could be the benefit of such a move?”
“It protects them from the unknown.”
She found herself settled, not so much by his explanation as the manner in which Charles spoke. She saw once more the officer who had commanded men in battle, the ability to size up a situation under the heat of war.
“Out there are a thousand questions, for which neither Paris nor Washington have answers,” Charles went on. “Atatürk represents a total loss of control. Yes, they have bickered for fifty years over Turkey and the Bosphorus. But there are rules that govern this dispute. With Atatürk, they are powerless to even guess what might happen. They sought to prop up the caliphate, but Atatürk has turned the West’s attempts into a mockery. One that they are powerless to do anything about.”
“The ambassador and his allies are afraid.”
“As are many French officials,” Charles agreed.
“Why don’t they try to forge an alliance with Atatürk?”
“I suspect that is why the senator came.”
“He came for the reliquary.”
Charles nodded slowly. “So he has insisted all along.”
“You don’t believe him?”
Charles did not reply.
“Have you been infected by the same suspicions and mistrust as your minister?”
Charles remained silent.
She found herself saying, “Senator Bryan warned me about you.”
“I would never harm—”
“He said you might have lost the desire to ever heal. Or allow yourself to know God’s peace.”
The stern visage turned dark, as though Charles had the ability to suck the shadows from the room and apply them to his features. “I admire the senator’s ability to believe in anything these days.”
“Then why not share his faith?”
“It is a question my wife would have liked, or perhaps even asked herself.” His voice grated, raw and harsh. “Look where it took her. And our child.”
Muriel leaned forward, drawn to him by a sense of desperate yearning, a desire she had denied she even felt until that moment. To love this man. To claim a future together. If only… “Charles, look at me. Please.”
His dark gaze swiveled about, but she could not tell if he saw her at all. She said, “Pray with me.”
He blinked slowly. Again.
“Please. For both our sakes. For the life that could be yours to—”
“Anything I said would be a lie.” His voice carried the dismal quality of the night beyond the windows. “And I respect you too much for that.”
She forced herself to rise from the table. She nodded once, then turned away. There was nothing more to be said.
• • •
That night Muriel dreamed of the cross again. As before, when she awoke she found herself gripping the simple wooden crucifix she wore around her neck, and her pillow was wet with tears. Yet this time she felt oddly at peace.
