Dancing with Kings

She lowers her eyes, as if she were ashamed of her own beauty, and her aunt claps her hands and laughs. ‘Perhaps, I don’t need to teach you that much after all,’ she says.

From the big mahogany chest of drawers, Aunt Helena takes out her best cashmere shawl, the one on which there is a flower on a stem, its roots dangling in the air. Long tendrils, clean of soil, no longer hidden in the earth. Such is the taste of the true ladies, her aunt says. They like botanicals. Botanicals, the word itself sounds different, more worldly than mere plants or flowers.

Soft and silky to the touch, the shawl envelops her with misty warmth, a promise of a caress.

‘For a woman, nothing, my little Dou-Dou, works better than a bit of mystery.’

A length of gauze replaces the cashmere shawl. Her aunt drapes it over her hair, around her waist. There is something flowery about the girl in the mirror now. A promise of lightness and fragrance of petals.

Sophie laughs. She preens and coos, and kneels in front of the mirror. She bows her head in a sweet gesture of submission her eyes deny. For the girl in the mirror is no longer a girl; she is a young, beautiful woman. A woman who likes her own boldness. A woman who likes the brightness of her own eyes; the flash of her beautiful white teeth; the dimple in her cheeks, and the pink nipple peeking from underneath the white gauze.

‘I’ll teach you to dance,’ her aunt whispers into her ear. ‘The Oriental dance.’

Thomas

Right after his arrival in Berlin, Thomas took a brisk walk, past an old church with twin spires and a red roof. Rosenstrasse was a narrow street, lit only by the light coming through the windows. A night watchman with a horn under his belt gave him a quick, cautious look, his sabre catching the reflection of the light. The insides of the houses were hidden behind curtains, lace, muslin, silk screens that kept secrets well. Sometimes Thomas could get a glimpse of someone moving inside, like a figure in a shadow play or magic lantern.

In his letter Ignacy had mentioned the patient was a rich Polish countess who had just arrived from St Petersburg. Countess Potocka, once the most beautiful belle of Europe, in search of a healer. She is unable to travel to Paris, so Paris will have to come to her. After all, my friend, you too will profit from a change of place and a good dose of forgetting.

‘Please, the best of friends,’ Thomas muttered in response. ‘Don’t.’

In spite of his fur-lined cape and high boots, the leather soles squeaking as he walked, he could not warm up. The air was clammy. The whiff of the sewers made him cringe. As he almost stepped onto gobbets of horses’ dung, he heard a woman and a man quarrelling behind one of the impenetrable windows. The woman’s voice was whiny, drowning the man’s complaints in a barrage of reproaches. Then the doors of the house opened and the man stepped out. Tall, lanky, tattered leather jacket on his back. The door slammed. ‘Du blöde Hure,’ the man yelled at the closed windows and walked away.

Thomas followed the man from a distance, hoping he would lead him to a neighbourhood tavern where he could have a beer and drown the constant stutter of the carriage wheels in his head, but when the man walked into a dim alley Thomas decided to turn back. This time he took a different direction and in one of the windows, its curtains parted to allow for a glimpse inside, he saw the glow of red and blue lanterns, golden tassels, scarlet ottomans. Two young women in low-cut gowns sat at a small table staring at cards, laid out in a cross. Beside them stood two glasses of clear yellow liqueur.

Sex was the need of a body. A fundamental need, Thomas stressed when he lectured to his students at Val de Grâce, that kept the disintegration of life at bay. He was not entirely convinced by Dr Brown’s theory that the flow of life needed to be controlled, boosted or dampened according to need. ‘The word need,’ he liked to warn his students, ‘is the problem. How would one know one’s true needs?’ Such doubts, of course, did not trouble Dr Brown. In London he was known to lecture with a glass of whisky in one hand and a bottle of laudanum in another, taking sips from one or the other.

For Thomas, the sight of the corpse stretched on the metal table was enough to renounce vain discussions and hypotheses. Life and death, he told his students, should be observed and examined without preconceived notions. Ars medica tota in observationibus, as Laennec had repeated ad nauseam. There was always something theatrical about that first incision. A moment pregnant with revelation, best approached in expectant silence. ‘Gentlemen, watch and take note. Refraining, if you can, from idle speculations.’ Ignoring the flicker of impatience in some of the eyes set on him, Thomas would perform his magic. His arm slightly raised, aware of the glitter of steel, he would wordlessly bend over the corpse and cut the skin without further declarations, defeated by the eagerness of youth.

One of the women in the window must have noticed him, for her hand slid down her neck in a well rehearsed gesture, inside her frilled décolletage, revealing full breasts. It was only then that Thomas realised with embarrassment that he was staring at her, the mute cause of her performance to which a smile was now added, tongue lingering over the bottom lip. Quickly he wrapped his cloak around him and turned away, walking down the dark alley as if pursued, though he could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heels on the pavement.

In Paris, in Rue de Clairmont, Minou expected him on Fridays. Dressed in black lace, with her smooth breasts pushed up by her corset, she smiled gently and poured a glass of red wine for him the moment he walked in. There was a pleasant smell of lavender and he liked her room, in spite of its garish combination of red and black, the lowered blinds and the smoky lamp. Minou didn’t try to talk or pretend he was anything but a paying client. She washed in front of him and made love with a pleasant efficiency that both excited and released him from desire. He paid her well, and his demands were simple. When the lovemaking was over, he liked to watch her comb her long, reddish hair. Thomas suspected she dyed it with henna. Redheads made more money, he had heard. She came from St-Malo; her father and her two brothers were sailors.

‘A sailor,’ Ignacy once said to him in response to a statement long forgotten. ‘You know what they say of sailors’ wives? Femme de marin-femme de chagrin.’

It was ten o’clock by the time Thomas returned to his lodgings. His landlady was in the living room with her embroidery hoop. In her heavy dress, plaited hair arranged into a tight bun, she looked the embodiment of domesticity. She offered him tea, but he made a lame excuse and rushed up the stairs to his rooms.

Upstairs, he poured cold water from the jug into a porcelain basin, took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He didn’t think of himself as handsome or well-built, in spite of Minou’s protestations to the contrary. She liked his ruddy skin and brown eyes, and, with an air of fake ease, swore that his nose was ‘aquiline’. Where did she get a word like this, he wondered. In the mirror he could see that his hair was thinning already. He was not as tall as Ignacy and far thinner, but his body had the sturdiness of generations of peasants, and could carry him in the saddle for hours.

He lay down on the hard, narrow bed and closed his eyes. He thought of a young woman, a girl he healed once, at la Charité. She was not older than fifteen, with red, lush curls and little freckles all over her face. She was writhing in pain, her lips livid and bleeding from the pressure of her crooked teeth biting into flesh. He had ascertained that the patient was brought by a young man who had left as soon as he could, without leaving his name or address. When he examined the girl, he found a pig’s tail pushed into her anus. The nun who had helped him undress her, averted her eyes. Someone had tried to remove it, but the hair on the tail had got stuck in her flesh. The girl was bleeding and her anus was filled with pus.

Thomas inserted a small tube around the tail and extracted it. He didn’t take the girl’s money. He didn’t warn her against continuing her trade. He didn’t tell her how often he saw women with their private parts torn, with broken glass stuck in their vaginas. He figured she knew all that. She cried and thanked him in her thick, Breton accent. He kept her at la Charité for a few days until her wound began to show the signs of healing. Then he let her go.

Sophie

The plague is stalking the streets of Istanbul, this city of golden towers, of mosques and minarets, of crescents, kiosks, palaces and bazaars. At street corners bodies of the diseased are being burnt, together with all their possessions. The smoke has already filled the air, spilled into every street, lodged deep into the fibres of everyone’s clothes. Whole sections of Istanbul have been cordoned off, though people say that well-placed bakshish can do wonders. Announcements in Turkish and in Greek forbid all contacts with foreigners, especially visits to the foreign missions. Any Greek woman caught with a foreigner would be beaten in public. Forty lashes to the heels of her feet.

Maria Glavani is carrying cloves of garlic in a sash around her neck and blue beads to ward off the evil eye. She never leaves the house without the holy picture of St Nicholas to whom she prays until her knees turn red and sore. In the mornings, when she comes back home smelling of liquor and men, she washes her hands and face with water to which she adds a few spoonfuls of vinegar.

‘You stay inside!’

Mana’s voice is harsh, impatient. The lines on her face are deepening, no matter how diligently she massages them every day. Sophie does not like these frenzied preparations, the ironing of dresses, the pinning of hair. The slaps when she is too slow or clumsy; when a hem is ripped; a pin misplaced; a line of kohl smudged. But after Mana leaves, the silence of their small house chokes Sophie. In her empty bed she hugs herself. What comes back to her is the smell of smoke and vinegar mixed with her own sweat. Everything that has happened in her life so far seems to have curled up in her, poised and waiting for release.

Death does not frighten her. In the street she does not turn her eyes away from the burning bodies. This is not the way she will die. She knows that. A fortune-teller told her once that she would die after a long life, without pain. Far away from home, but among those who loved her.

Mana’s black crêpe mourning dress is folded at the bottom of her coffer. In Bursa Maria Glavani would have been the talk of the town. Here, no one remembers Konstantin, the unlucky Greek with greying hair, or his widow. If only she knew what life had in store when she looked into his black eyes for that first time. If only she listened to her own mother who pointed out the threadbare clothes and the chaffed shoes of this man who talked incessantly of diamonds big as walnuts, of herds of cattle, of silk and gold lace. Such is the fault of love. Love that brings a woman down and leaves her at the mercy of strangers.

Mana no longer talks of Christian duties, of sin and honour and the good name. They are eating meat again, and fresh fruit Mana buys at the market herself. The days are still cool. To keep warm, they put hot ashes into the tandir and sit with their feet on it. The warmth stays in their bodies for a long time. They need to be strong and round off their hips. By the time a fat man gets thin, a thin man dies.

‘I want the best for you,’ Mana says, and Sophie believes that. Her thoughts fold and refold around the promises of the future. She knows her mother has been making enquiries. Do any of the foreign diplomats in 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.’