merchants bring all the way from China. The most exquisite patterns. A girl so beautiful should be wearing lots of gold to set off her raven hair and her olive skin. And soft, soft leather for her feet.
‘This child deserves the best,’ she says, her eyes leaving Sophie for a moment and resting on Mana, as if she were responsible for her daughter’s poverty. ‘Not the rags that she is wearing now.’
Mana wriggles on her cushion.
‘Most illustrious of Princesses,’ she begins. ‘Your Imperial Highness. The light of my eyes.’
She begs the Princess to think of her. A widowed mother of an only daughter. A beloved daughter she cannot think of parting with.
‘But she would live with me, in the palace, you silly woman. Have everything she could ever need. Can’t you see that? Does every Greek have to be so dense, so infernally stupid?’
Seeing a frown on Sophie’s forehead, she changes her tone, quickly. Too quickly.
Surely a mother cannot deny her child’s fate. Fight the fortune God offers her. The good life of opulence and comfort. Look at her hands, the Princess says, still accusing. Cracked and reddened like those of a scullery maid. Is that what you want for this angel? Is she to beyour maid? Scrubbing pots? Ruining the gifts Allah has bestowed on her?
‘My God,’ Mana says, ‘forbids a mother to leave her child among strangers.’
‘My God,’ she says, looking straight into the Princess’s eyes, ‘does not allow some kinds of love.’
The Princess laughs. ‘I know your God, woman,’ she says. ‘All your God wants is a good price for her. Here. Take this!’
A purse filled with cekins lands in Mana’s lap with a thud. It is heavy. A bounty, a treasure. Money that could last them a few months. Pay the debts, buy new dresses, good tender lamb and fresh fruit. Pay for dangling earrings that would set off Dou-Dou’s shapely lobes, the graceful turn of her neck.
A purse filled with gold.
This is a fair price for a poor Greek girl, isn’t it? This and a promise of a good life, a full stomach, and hands that would not have to touch dirt ever again.
‘With me she will want for nothing.’
Sophie looks at her mother. There is nothing I can do, Mana’s body tells her. I can refuse the gold or take it, this won’t make any difference. But I cannot tell her I do not allow you to stay here.
‘She’ll be like a daughter to me,’ the Princess coos. She has moved closer and the heat radiating from her touches Sophie’s arms.
‘She will sleep in my bed. She will go everywhere with me. I’ll buy her everything she wants.’
Fear signals its beginning with a spasm in her stomach, then another, closer to Sophie’s heart. The soles of her feet are cold, her hands begin to tremble. In Bursa she has seen men show a bloodied leg of a fox, all that has remained in the snare they have set. The beast has chewed off its own hind leg and escaped.
‘I have never even asked your name,’ the Princess says.
Sophie hesitates. She doesn’t really like the Princess at all. She doesn’t like the way her strong hand rests on her knee and squeezes it, as if the two of them had to stand together against Mana. She doesn’t like the hint of rot in her mouth. The tooth in front is black with decay. The visions of the Sultan’s favour have receded and suddenly she sees herself as a servant in this palace, carrying trays with raisins and nuts, making coffee somewhere in the kitchen. Perhaps scraping hair from the Princess’s legs and arms, holding a towel for her in
hammam
as her big body breaks out with sweat.
How do you say
no
to an Ottoman Princess whose whims are their orders? Who could, with one word, send them to their deaths, the way the Sultan is said to dispose of unfaithful concubines: wrapped in a burlap bag, and thrown into the waters of the Bosphorus; or left naked in the street of Istanbul, unknown to anyone, a corpse with raven hair and skin white as milk, chest pierced with a
‘This child deserves the best,’ she says, her eyes leaving Sophie for a moment and resting on Mana, as if she were responsible for her daughter’s poverty. ‘Not the rags that she is wearing now.’
Mana wriggles on her cushion.
‘Most illustrious of Princesses,’ she begins. ‘Your Imperial Highness. The light of my eyes.’
She begs the Princess to think of her. A widowed mother of an only daughter. A beloved daughter she cannot think of parting with.
‘But she would live with me, in the palace, you silly woman. Have everything she could ever need. Can’t you see that? Does every Greek have to be so dense, so infernally stupid?’
Seeing a frown on Sophie’s forehead, she changes her tone, quickly. Too quickly.
Surely a mother cannot deny her child’s fate. Fight the fortune God offers her. The good life of opulence and comfort. Look at her hands, the Princess says, still accusing. Cracked and reddened like those of a scullery maid. Is that what you want for this angel? Is she to beyour maid? Scrubbing pots? Ruining the gifts Allah has bestowed on her?
‘My God,’ Mana says, ‘forbids a mother to leave her child among strangers.’
‘My God,’ she says, looking straight into the Princess’s eyes, ‘does not allow some kinds of love.’
The Princess laughs. ‘I know your God, woman,’ she says. ‘All your God wants is a good price for her. Here. Take this!’
A purse filled with cekins lands in Mana’s lap with a thud. It is heavy. A bounty, a treasure. Money that could last them a few months. Pay the debts, buy new dresses, good tender lamb and fresh fruit. Pay for dangling earrings that would set off Dou-Dou’s shapely lobes, the graceful turn of her neck.
A purse filled with gold.
This is a fair price for a poor Greek girl, isn’t it? This and a promise of a good life, a full stomach, and hands that would not have to touch dirt ever again.
‘With me she will want for nothing.’
Sophie looks at her mother. There is nothing I can do, Mana’s body tells her. I can refuse the gold or take it, this won’t make any difference. But I cannot tell her I do not allow you to stay here.
‘She’ll be like a daughter to me,’ the Princess coos. She has moved closer and the heat radiating from her touches Sophie’s arms.
‘She will sleep in my bed. She will go everywhere with me. I’ll buy her everything she wants.’
Fear signals its beginning with a spasm in her stomach, then another, closer to Sophie’s heart. The soles of her feet are cold, her hands begin to tremble. In Bursa she has seen men show a bloodied leg of a fox, all that has remained in the snare they have set. The beast has chewed off its own hind leg and escaped.
‘I have never even asked your name,’ the Princess says.
Sophie hesitates. She doesn’t really like the Princess at all. She doesn’t like the way her strong hand rests on her knee and squeezes it, as if the two of them had to stand together against Mana. She doesn’t like the hint of rot in her mouth. The tooth in front is black with decay. The visions of the Sultan’s favour have receded and suddenly she sees herself as a servant in this palace, carrying trays with raisins and nuts, making coffee somewhere in the kitchen. Perhaps scraping hair from the Princess’s legs and arms, holding a towel for her in
hammam
as her big body breaks out with sweat.
How do you say
no
to an Ottoman Princess whose whims are their orders? Who could, with one word, send them to their deaths, the way the Sultan is said to dispose of unfaithful concubines: wrapped in a burlap bag, and thrown into the waters of the Bosphorus; or left naked in the street of Istanbul, unknown to anyone, a corpse with raven hair and skin white as milk, chest pierced with a
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