Dancing with Kings. Eva Stachniak

Istanbul show the first signs of boredom with their current mistresses? A Frank, rich and powerful, and refined. A man who would not slap her daughter around and then leave her without means to lead an honest life. The girl, she hears her mother’s whisper, is an unspoiled virgin, worthy of a king’s bed.

      When she hears this, Sophie thinks of Diamandi’s hand on her breasts, his body crushing her to the ground, his hot tongue parting her teeth, its earthy, lingering taste. She thinks of his strong, smooth legs, the man’s hair on the boy’s chest. The sharp pain of his love, and the blood on her legs.

      An innocent girl, her mother says, with a good heart who could be grateful, who would be so grateful for a nice home, a carriage, beautiful dresses that would show off her skin and her hair. Dresses that would add glitter to these beautiful black eyes in which some have already seen the moon and the stars.

      Dou-Dou. A virgin. Unspoiled. Innocent. Naïve to the highest degree, and with a good heart.

      Yes, Dou-Dou can be grateful and funny and good at pleasing. Skilful, too, in the art of massage. Her touch is light, her skin is warm and dry. The girl is no weakling, she can press what needs to be pressed, knead what needs to be kneaded.

      A foreign diplomat, her mother whispers, would leave one day. But, as any honest man would do in such a situation, he would provide a dowry for his girl. Sweeten the nibbled goods for his successor, a merchant or a shopkeeper. Someone solid, honest. Someone who would want children and a beautiful wife with a handsome dowry, even if he had to close his eyes and take a jewel from the second floor.

      Why is Mana hiding all these schemes from me, Sophie thinks. Why the charades, the pretence, the games. I’m no longer a child. I know no one will marry me without a dowry. In bed at night she lets her fingers run down her neck, over her breasts, down to her belly. There is a moment in which a touch turns into a caress. A sweet moment of pleasure. She likes the thought of a rich man of the world who would tell her what lies behind Istanbul and Bursa. A man who would teach her the dances of the Frank courts, tell her what the ladies do to hold their hair so high. A man who would teach her to speak French. She is quick with languages, has always been. Greek, Turkish and Armenian come to her naturally like breath. She has already picked quite a few French words from her aunt, and some Russian ones too: Bonjour mon cherie. Spassiba. Slichnotka.

      Aunt Helena, a frequent guest at the Russian mission’s balls and soirees, has promised to keep her eyes open. She has always liked the Russians whom she calls ‘the fair race from the North’, and ‘the people who know the meaning of pleasure’. She has always liked their caviar from Astrakhan, their clear vodka that goes right to your veins. Liked their dances until dawn, as if there were no tomorrow, as if the world would end that very day. Glasses, she tells her niece, get smashed against the wall so that they could not hold another drink at an inferior time. There is one more thing that pleases Aunt Helena. The Russian victories over the Turks. ‘The black camel of death will soon kneel at his doors,’ she says, pointing in the direction of the Sultan’s palace.

      Yes, a Russian diplomat would be best for Dou-Dou.

      All talk, Mana says with bitterness. Liars are branded in this country for a reason. Her sister, may dear Lord forgive a widow’s bitterness, has always been fickle and not above jealousy. Just because she lives in the district of Phanar does not make her rich and powerful. And all these stories she comes with are nothing more than accounts of her own goodness. Fanciful accounts given to them like scraps from her own table. Maria Glavani knows such talk when she hears it. Didn’t she have a good teacher? Konstantin too never stopped weaving his schemes until the day of his death.

      So Aunt Helena’s words are listened to but not believed. For there is always a little mishap in her stories, a small obstacle that would have to be waited through, ironed out, removed. The undersecretary who kept asking to see Dou-Dou before he would recommend her to his superiors was a known libertine and his request to meet Sophie had to be dismissed. We don’t want to cheapen her, Maria, her aunt has said. No touching if they are not buying.

      The plague is what makes Sophie’s situation worse. The plague cools many a heart. In the presence of death, amour wilts and shrivels. Besides, even a foreign diplomat caught with a Greek woman would have to face the Ottoman justice. Not everyone wants to risk that much. Not even for such a beautiful pair of eyes.

      In the Russian Mission, Monsieur Stachiev’s wife is so terrified of the plague that she has locked herself and her children in an upstairs bedroom and refuses to see or meet anyone. This, in itself, is not such a bad thing, for it leaves Monsieur Stachiev free to pursue his own merry interests. But it doesn’t help to have people talk that she has sent her surgeon away for wanting to bleed her. That she screams at the top of her voice. ‘We’ll all die here in this infidel country. We’ll all be punished.’ She has already cursed her husband. ‘Your sons will pay for your fornication,’ she said. ‘You will kneel at their coffins and then where will your whores be?’ She will call the Janissaries, if she but spots a Greek woman entering the mission building.

      

      ‘Dou-Dou, you are slowing me down,’ Mana says. They are coming back from the market, their baskets heavy with meat and fruit. As always, people stare at them as they pass. The men look at them with longing and often stop them, asking for directions or pretending they have mistaken them for someone else. Women’s eyes are curious, assessing their beauty as if it were a threat, a challenge.

      ‘Come on, girl, we don’t have all day.’

      A black man who stops them is a eunuch. Not an ordinary eunuch either, but a eunuch from the Sultan’s court. His robes are woven with gold and silver and mazanne blue. The face under the burgundy fez is smooth, layers of fat testifying to the richness of his table. His voice is soft and warm. Having lived his life among women, he knows how to calm their fears.

      ‘Beautiful ladies,’ he says and smiles, flashing his teeth. As white as hers, Sophie thinks.

      The Ottoman Princess, the Sultan’s daughter, has ordered him to stop them. He was summoned by his mistress, told to drop all he was doing, and go after them. Go after two Christian women who have caught the Princess’s eye.

      Sophie’s eyes travel upwards, toward the palace windows. She cannot see anyone there. Perhaps it is the Sultan himself who has seen her. Perhaps, with one look of His eyes, her life has changed forever.

      ‘Follow me. We mustn’t make the Princess wait.’

      ‘Are you sure you are not taking us for someone else,’ Mana asks the eunuch, but the black man laughs. His mistress’s mind is an open book to him. They should not doubt their luck. The heavy baskets can be left with the servants who can take them to their home. ‘Just tell me where you live,’ he says.

      ‘We’ll take them on our way back,’ Mana says sharply. ‘Ourselves!’

      Is there is a note of fear in Mana’s voice? Unease? Anger as she clasps her daughter’s hand in a firm grip as if she wanted them to turn away and run? But how can a Christian woman refuse an Ottoman princess? How can a Greek say no to a Turkish master?

      Dou-Dou does not want to notice Mana’s fear. Her mind flutters with delicious visions of glittering jewels, gauzy dresses and garden paths bathing in sweet, dappled shade. She can feel the harsh impatience of her mother’s hand, the reluctance of her steps. She wants to laugh and assure her Mana there is nothing to worry about. She is ready. When her chance comes, she will know what to do.

      They follow the black eunuch past the palace gate, past the first courtyard filled with cool shade, fragrant with the jessamines and honeysuckles that coil around tree trunks, past the giant clay vases filled with blooming roses. The big courtyard is bustling with life. Two tall grooms hold Arabian horses, snow white, with the legs of dancers. A short, fat man in a leather apron is rolling a big wooden barrel. A young man is whistling a merry tune, trailing Dou-Dou with his eyes until the eunuch’s look stops him.

      Inside the Seraglio the sweet perfume of the jessamines penetrates the gilded sashes easily. A white marble fountain releases the stream of water