Tasha Alexander - Tears of Pearl

Signs pointed me to the visitors’ entrance, and I sat on a bench to slip off my shoes. My breath caught in my throat as I entered the building, my eyes drawn to the high, domed ceiling, a space that seemed to pull you up to heaven. I stood next to a thick column, bracing myself against it with a shaking arm before sinking to my knees and starting to pray.

First I turned to the words I’d known all my life. The prayers I had learned as a child, in whose familiarity I had always found comfort. But I knew it was not enough, so I leaned back on my heels and started again. I pleaded. Pleaded that she would be safe, that her child would bring her years of joy, that it would be the first of many, that she would know the pleasure of grandchildren. And then I began to bargain. I would never step beyond the careful bounds Colin placed on our work. I would better respect my mother. I would reach out to those less fortunate than I and give them whatever they needed. I would welcome eighteen children of my own. This thought stopped me, but only for a moment. My eyes closed, and I held my breath, trying to feel every bit of my body, searching for some sign of another life inside me, but feeling nothing. And that gave me the courage to offer my final bargain. Me instead. If one of us had to be taken, it couldn’t be Ivy.

No sooner had the thought formed than I knew my offer was tainted, as it had been made only after finding no sign that I was with child, and I struggled at once for some way to prove my sincerity, to convince God or Allah or whoever was listening in this tiled sanctuary, watching me in the light filtering through stained glass, that my prayers were worthy of consideration. I was too numb and terrified for tears to form, and my mouth was dry, my lips beginning to chap. But I stayed on my knees, determined to stop what felt like inevitable tragedy.

When at last I rose, I felt no better than when I’d begun. The low-hanging iron chandeliers swam in front of me, their votive candles throwing scattered light over the soft carpet under my stocking feet. I watched the men on the other side of a wooden barrier designed to separate the tourists from the faithful. A few knelt, prostrating themselves, heads touching the ground, pointing in the direction of Mecca, across the Bosphorus, which was visible out tall windows that lined the far wall. Had they found peace here?

I turned away from them and faced a wooden screen blocking off a small area in the back of the mosque. A sign was pinned next to the entrance, identifying it as the section where women might pray. No view of the water here, no spectacular stained glass to inspire them, not even a location as good as that given to visitors. Without even momentary consideration, I went inside.

As it was not a designated prayer time, there were only a handful of women present, and I knelt next to them, not looking at their veiled faces, and began again my supplication. The sound of the murmured voices surrounding me, sweet and soft, isolated in this tiny space, stirred the tears that before would not come, and soon I, too, had my forehead on the carpet, my body shaking with sobs. Almost at once, I felt a hand on my back, and I pulled myself up as the woman, not removing her hand, began to speak to me in Turkish.

“English,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

She tried a language I did not recognize, and I shook my head. The other women around us had gathered close, whispering to one another, until one voice rose above the rest.

“I speak a very little English. Why you so sad?”

A figure in black pushed her way to the front of the group, motioning for us to be silent, then taking my hands in hers. “We go outside,” she said. I followed her—as did the other five ladies—to the park behind the mosque, where she sat on a bench and patted the seat next to her, gesturing for me to take it.

“You are scared,” she said. “You have a lover or husband who is in danger?”

“No.” My voice was little more than a whisper.

“A sick parent?”

“No.”

She studied me, her eyes lingering on every part of me. “You are with child and you fear for your safety.” It was not a question.

“I—I don’t know,” I said. One of the women around us was speaking quietly in Turkish, the words too rapid for ordinary conversation. She was translating for the others.

“You are. But I do not think you weep for yourself.”

This unnerved me in no small way. My stomach clenched, then felt as if it would fall all the way through me. “I do not. It is my dearest friend.”

“We will pray for her, too.” Again she took my hands in hers, pressing hard on them. “It is a danger that cannot be avoided,” she said. “But we are all sisters in this and must always take care of one another. Even if you are not with her, you will watch over her and keep her safe.”

And for just an instant, I believed her. I smiled—and they all smiled—and we laughed, all tension dissipating. They left me, waving as they went, and I had the peace I’d sought in the mosque. But it did not last. As suddenly as it had come, it flew away, and I knew that I would need more than fleeting moments of comfort to get me through these next weeks.

Although my calm did not last long, at least the edge was gone from my fear. Colin had beat me back to the yalı and was toying with chess problems on the terrace when I stepped off the boat. I flung myself onto the chair across from him.

“Are you well?” he asked, meeting my eyes. “You don’t look like yourself. Have you been crying?”

“I’m tired, that’s all,” I said, not wanting to talk about my time in the mosque. “I followed Jemal all the way to the Blue Mosque.” I briefed him on the situation.

“Another bowstring?”

“I don’t believe it’s the same one.”

“Why would he show it to Benjamin?” Colin asked.

“I don’t know. He looked angry, but I couldn’t hear what he said.”

“Bezime believes hers came from Yıldız, correct?” I nodded as he continued. “What if it’s from Çırağan?”

“And Bezime and Jemal are connected with Murat’s advisers?” I asked.

“It didn’t take long to finish up at the embassy—there wasn’t anything else to learn. So while you were following your man, I finished the interviews I needed to conduct at Çırağan. There was a suicide shortly after Ceyden’s death—a servant who’d worked for Murat’s vizier.”

“Is there a connection?”

“Tenuous at best. But his wife insists that he’d been making frequent trips to Topkapı before he died. Said he’d been delivering letters and that Bezime gave him some concoction that was supposed to help their baby sleep. Apparently it cries ceaselessly—”

“Colic,” I said.

“And you claim to have no maternal instinct.”

“Hardly relevant at the moment,” I said. “I shall ask Bezime about him as soon as possible. At the moment, though, I’m going to finish with Ceyden’s notes.”

I dashed inside to grab the volume of Rumi’s poetry, my heart pounding. It infuriated me that the mere mention of a baby could send me into such a panic, and the state of my emotions being so wholly beyond control made me worry all the more about my condition or lack thereof. Gripping the book, I returned to the patio and forced myself to focus on the task of transcribing Ceyden’s marginalia.

Colin watched me, paying better attention to my facial expressions than his chessboard.

“Emily—”

“Mmmm?” I didn’t look up, afraid to meet his eyes.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Of course not.”

“You seem distracted.”

“It’s only worry about Ivy,” I said, reaching for his hand and continuing my transcription. He sat quietly, still not touching his chess pieces, for some time before speaking again.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Distract me.”

“Finish your work and I promise I’ll drive every bad thought out of your head.”

I returned to Ceyden’s notes and he to his chess, solving no fewer than four problems when at last I found what we needed.

“I think I’ve finally stumbled upon something of use.” I read aloud to him. “ ‘It was he there who saved all of us when the boat turned. Must not forget that, nor what he gave thereafter.’ ” I nearly tipped over my chair hopping out of it and shoved my transcription of the sentences into Colin’s face, taking out half the chess pieces on the board in front of him.

“Your enthusiasm is admirable,” he said. “But I’m at a loss to understand the meaning.”

“Where would she have been in a boat that capsized?” I asked. “The Bosphorus, of course. We have to find out who rescued them.”

“How do you know that she was in the boat? We’ve no idea—”

“Yes, you’re quite right, I’m sure.” I smiled. “Keep thinking that way. And so long as you do, you’d best give serious consideration to improving your swimming skills. I’m aeons ahead of you in figuring all this out.” I gave him a firm kiss on the mouth, then spun around to go inside.

“Dare I ask where you are going?”

“Topkapı. It’s time I get some answers from Bezime.”

I collected Margaret on my way—or rather, out of my way—to Topkapı. I’d told her, as we walked across the Galata Bridge from Pera to the palace, all the things Bezime had predicted and confided in her my fears of childbirth. She’d proven once again a sympathetic friend and did all she could to reassure me that the former valide sultan’s words did not merit serious consideration. She’d very nearly convinced me, even if only temporarily, and I much appreciated the vigor with which she argued against their truth. Bezime received us as soon as we’d arrived, meeting us in one of her pretty sitting rooms.