The Sultan's Seal by Jenny White

Author:Jenny White
Language: eng
Format: mobi, azw3, epub
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Published: 2009-01-31T00:00:00+00:00

26

Salt, Not Sweet

“Yes, this might belong…have belonged to Mary. I think I saw her wear one like it.” Sybil holds up the soiled blouse. They are sitting at the broad kitchen table, its rough wood worn concave by decades of scrubbing. Sybil led him here without thinking when he said he had something to show her, then asked the servants to leave and close the door. It seemed somehow appropriate that the kitchen be the scene of revelations.

Her voice cracks just enough for Kamil to see that, beneath her calm manner, she is aware that it is death she is touching, the last moments of Mary Dixon. He fights his desire to hold her in his arms as he has done Feride. She has much in common with her, he thinks. A kind, dutiful daughter dealing alone with a difficult father absent in mind and feeling. Spirited and intelligent. A modern woman with Ottoman virtues. A good wife for the right man. It is permissible for a Muslim man to marry a giavour woman, but he does not care about such rules anyway. He will marry or not as he pleases, and marry whom he pleases. He takes a deep breath, pushing his hands into his jacket pockets, and leans back in his chair. The fingers of his right hand tangle in the chain of amber beads, while his other hand closes around the cool metal of his pocket watch. In any case, he thinks with guilty relief, her family would never approve. He is aware that Europeans distrust a Muslim man, no matter whether he wears a fez or a top hat.

Sybil lets the blouse drop to the table. It is not ripped or soiled, but badly crumpled, as if it had been wadded up wet and dried inside the rocky niche. Its pearl buttons are intact. Life, Kamil thinks, clings desperately to everything, against all odds. He lets go of the watch and reaches for Sybil’s hand. Sybil’s eyes meet his. They sit unmoving, each unwilling to risk losing the other’s touch by changing anything. Every word, every movement constitutes a risk.

A knock on the door startles them and their hands fly apart.

“Miss Sybil, should I make the tea now?”

“Not now, Maisie.” She struggles to put a cheery tone in her voice, but it comes out hoarse with nervousness. “Later. I’ll ring for you.”

“Yes, Miss Sybil.” The maid’s footsteps recede down the hall.

Sybil smiles shyly, no longer willing to meet Kamil’s eyes. Kamil too is smiling, his cup sunk deep in the jar of well-being. One sip, he thinks. Is that enough?

Suddenly aware of what might now be expected of him, Kamil rises abruptly to his feet.

“I apologize, Sybil Hanoum. I should go.” He begins gathering up the objects on the table and wraps them in the oiled cloth.

“No, please don’t go yet.” His abruptness has soured her pleasure. Exasperated that suddenly it is she who is pleading, Sybil points to the table. “We haven’t finished looking at these things.

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