Nightingale (28 page)

‘Do you as a woman ever feel bitter that sons are revered while daughters have far less status?'

Her companion cast a shrewd smile. ‘That's only on the outside, Claire. Women have plenty of power; they just have to be clever about where and when it is at its height, and how best to wield that power. A man is a simple creature – she must rely on her subtlety to get the most out of her life and her man.'

Claire sighed. ‘You are so knowledgeable.'

‘I grew up among a harem of many women and female servants so I had to learn fast how to get what I want. Now I have daughters and so I must teach them how to achieve their desires in the home and how to retain their power.' She gestured with her chin. ‘You see that girl over there?'

Claire followed Kashifa's line of sight. ‘Yes.' The youngster looked well developed; she guessed maybe fifteen, even sixteen.

‘That conversation between her mother and the other woman will undoubtedly result in marriage. The girl is thirteen and she is mature in body and undeniably beautiful so she has her own special form of currency that her mother can wield.'

‘Married,' Claire repeated, incredulous. ‘At thirteen?'

‘Oh, yes. Perfect age. She can start bearing children from fourteen summers and keep bearing them for years if they choose.'

‘How old is the boy?'

‘Fifteen, I think.'

Claire made a soft whistling sound.

‘Rifki was married at fifteen, his bride fourteen. I married my lovely husband at that age and he had just turned sixteen. It's our way. It was your way too once.'

Claire was shown towards the small marble cubicles where she followed suit, lay her pestemal down and let warm water flow over her from the spout, as hot as she could bear, as bid by Kashifa. It felt deliciously indulgent and she was reminded of how precious water had been during the war at Gallipoli, how parched the men had been. She banished these unhelpful memories and let her mind wander into a blank space where there were only the soft murmurings of others, the scent of rose, jasmine and perfumed oils of sandalwood, rosemary and agar, and the refreshing sound of water. The truth is that Claire had never felt more alive. The afternoon's soft light filtered through the intriguing circular holes punched into the domed ceiling and it felt to her as though heaven was leaking into this place where cleanliness was being worshipped.

Her host returned. ‘Come, Claire; now it's time.'

‘For what?' Claire reached for the corner of her thin towel to dab her perspiring face.

Kashifa gave another low gust of amusement. ‘Your bath. You are our special guest. Your natir awaits.' She gestured to an older, paunchy woman dressed only in a pestemal around her waist, who bowed once. ‘She is your bathing attendant.'

Claire followed them into another room, much hotter and more humid, where she copied Rifki's sister in lying down on a large, raised marble slab which was punctured with small holes that warm water bubbled through freely.

‘You'll feel like you can't breathe once your natir starts pouring water over you.'

The water pouring began.

‘I can't,' she spluttered.

Kashifa laughed. ‘Just relax and let your body get used to it.' She spoke in rapid Turkish to the two female attendants. ‘I asked your natir to go gently on you. Very rich women bring their own slaves to wash and massage them. But I have hired this woman for you and I know her to be very good.'

A moment later the natir began oiling Claire. It was deep – painful at times – but she trusted Kashifa, who whispered encouraging words.

‘You will feel loose and like you are walking on air later,' she chuckled. ‘You'll thank me for it.'

At this moment, however, it felt as though the natir's fingers were claws with a pincer-like action that could get into any muscle she pleased with shocking accuracy. Claire groaned a complaint and at the sound of women's laughter she realised she had an audience and decided it was simply easier to close her eyes and bear up as her patients so often had. Later she was led to a more private nook in the chamber where a sharp blade appeared in the hand of the attendant and Claire, feeling stultified momentarily, allowed her hands to be raised and for the razor to glide swiftly and expertly over her underarms, then legs. The woman gestured between her legs and Claire, her eyes widening in fright, shook her head. The woman bowed again and gestured back to the central marble slab.

‘Claire?'

‘Yes,' she answered, relieved to hear Kashifa's call.

‘You'll enjoy the rest.'

At first her limbs were stiff with inner tension and her self-consciousness of being soaped up by her attendant. But she gave herself over to the experience and soon became lost in the rhythmic washing and the intriguing way that the woman was able to manipulate her over the marble, spinning her without using much strength, but instead the slipperiness of the suds and the water bubbling from beneath. The soap was perfumed with a heady mix of floral and woody bouquets while the mint content added a refreshing note and felt as though it cooled her in this suddenly intense heat.

Her arms were tapped gently and she was encouraged to raise them above her head again as gritty soap was applied to cleanse; then she received another tap to signify she was to roll over or move a limb. She got used to it, began to anticipate what the washing woman required of her before a rough cloth was rubbed all over to smooth her skin until it tingled in response. She could imagine her body shining from being polished so expertly.

Gallons of increasingly tepid water were poured over her in the process of the washing and she suffered only momentary panic – during the final dousing from a height and over her head. She gasped through it as the gush of water finally eased.

Amina arrived and Claire appreciated how her eyes peering over her veil had only hinted at how darkly pretty she was once free of that shroud. ‘Everyone is impressed – we don't see many Western women in the hammams.'

Claire smiled as she used the pestemal to again dab her face, which now felt aglow. ‘I'm not at all surprised you don't. But I've seen more naked men than you can imagine.' This began the afternoon's hilarity as Amina quickly translated and the women started to chortle and conversations branched out, which Claire assumed by the laughter concerned their men and how they looked naked. ‘We're all the same, aren't we?' she added.

Kashifa nodded, also freshly glowing. ‘That's a woman talking. We are all the same and still our men lead our nations into war and we are no better off for it . . . only worse. I wish dear Açar had never been sent.'

Claire followed her host in drying herself. ‘He volunteered, did he not?'

Kashifa shook her head and led Claire to a stone bench where she expected to feel the shock of cold as she leaned back but felt the singular pleasure of the tiles at a perfect blood-warmth temperature. ‘Ahhh,' she groaned, thinking privately
This is what so many of our recovering soldiers in England could use
.

Her host began to reminisce. ‘I can remember that terrible day – evening, actually – when Bekci Baba began calling for the men.'

‘Bekci Baba?'

‘He was the local peacekeeper and eyes and ears of the neighbourhood. He would announce government messages, patrol the streets, act as guardian, you could say. He walked the laneways, a drummer beside him tolling his mournful noise to rouse households. Bekci Baba proclaimed that wintry night in 1914 that men born between the years of 1890 and 1895 were to report to the recruitment offices or face prosecution. Just like that, men were torn from their families, their businesses, their lives, and made fodder for the German war machine.'

Claire sighed. ‘Well, my experience, and everything I've heard while at war, was that the Turkish soldiers were courageous, fearless and mightily respected by the Allies; certainly the Australian and New Zealand force rather liked the Turkish.'

Kashifa smiled sadly. ‘And still we tried to kill one another.'

Claire nodded in equal sorrow.

‘What you say is likely true, my friend, but few of those courageous men had a choice. Some were already doing their military service but those who were at home barely had a couple of days before they were pulled from their families and sent – with no uniforms, and whatever food we could push into their packs. They had to become gun-wielding killers overnight. Poor Açar, he was a poet, not a soldier.' She waved a hand in a motion of deep despair. ‘Rifki will not speak about it.'

Claire blinked. ‘I'm so sorry, I didn't realise . . .'

‘My brother now keeps it all tightly here,' Kashifa said, placing a fist at her chest. ‘Sometimes I think he will simply break in half but he has no one to blame but himself for not sharing with his son how much he loved him.'

So that explained Shahin's awkwardness. ‘Perhaps my coming back to Turkey was not a good idea.'

Kashifa raised a finger. ‘No, it will make him face it. He has never shed a tear for that boy but it is not that he doesn't weep inside for him each day. Rifki loved his son so deeply I think it terrified him.'

Claire took a deep breath of the dry, warmed air. ‘What do you mean?'

Her companion sighed, letting her head fall back against the warm tiles and closed her eyes. ‘His marriage was arranged by our parents and anyone could see it was loveless. She was a difficult child who grew into an even more difficult woman and died when Açar was nine. Rifki raised him.' Her lids opened and she regarded Claire. ‘Rifki was raised by a hard man but he had a tender mother to balance life out. Açar did not have that same . . . how you say, um . . . luxury. His mother died so young.'

‘You're saying Rifki is hard?'

‘He's hard to be with, but he is not a cold man . . . not to his sisters or nieces. He is a proud man, however, and that can be misinterpreted. He is an only son. His job was to look after all of us even though he is the youngest. He takes his role seriously. Since my husband died, Rifki takes care of me, provides money for me and my children. He will now be like a grandfather to my grandson. Rifki is a mathematician; he likes order and struggles to show the chaos of feelings that go on inside here,' she said, again touching a hand to her chest. ‘And yet once . . .'

‘Once what?'

Kashifa took a slow breath. ‘I can remember a time when Rifki was so in love it was enchanting. I don't think any of my sisters or even my married daughter are loved by their men the way he loved Sehr. Her name means sunrise, and that was what she was to my brother . . . his sunrise, his reason for waking.'

‘Why couldn't —'

‘Her parents didn't believe him suitable. They wanted their daughter to marry a doctor or a lawyer . . . someone professional. Rifki was considered too much of a, how you say, dreamer.'

‘Your brother . . . a dreamer?'

‘In his youth he was a deeply romantic soul. He wrote poetry. I don't know if Açar knew that. My parents insisted he marry very young, produce a boy. He did both because he is dutiful but their choice of his wife and the responsibility of a child crushed the sun from his days.' She smiled sadly. ‘Oh, how he loved Sehr and she him. They both had to marry who their parents chose, though, and so my brother changed and began dreaming a different way.'

‘In what way?'

Her companion shrugged. ‘He became determined, passionate . . .'

‘What was suddenly driving him?'

‘He was driven by revenge, I think, to show Sehr's family that they made a wrong decision. Rifki was a father by sixteen, but he studied at night and worked in our family's business by day. He was good at numbers and now as well as growing the family's enterprise successfully, he is at university teaching others.'

‘And would Sehr's parents think him good enough now?'

‘Oh, yes. Professors are highly regarded and of course Rifki manages his business and his money with cunning, so he is wealthy and continues to be so.'

‘Did Sehr marry?'

Kashifa frowned. ‘Yes, no children, though. I'm sure I heard somewhere that her husband died in the early days of the war.'

‘How sad for both Rifki and Sehr.'

A fresh linen towel was wrapped around her and she was led to yet another chamber; this one was full of steam and Claire couldn't imagine she would last more than a minute or two in this one. Women sat around chatting animatedly as the steam billowed around them.

Later in the cooling chamber Claire found a quiet spot where her attendant left her and she closed her eyes and forgot about the former oppressive heat, and even the sounds of women as they now feasted on stuffed vine leaves or rich, sticky pastries.

And whether it was the ache from the massage or the sensual relaxation that was overtaking her, she convinced herself the tears that swelled and dropped down her cheeks were perspiration and not at all connected with missing Jamie and wishing her mission to Turkey had brought peace to Rifki Shahin.

Later, in a tall wooden house not far from the hammam where Kashifa lived with her unmarried daughter and another sister and her family, the celebrations began. It didn't matter that the women had enjoyed a splendid array of sweet treats and drinks at the bathhouse; now it seemed the real feasting began and Claire was astonished to see the amount of colourful food on offer. None of it looked familiar but it was plentiful and the spicy smells of stews and freshly baked bread were irresistible.

Claire enjoyed helping out in the back of the house, which the women referred to as the harem.

‘Do you feel imprisoned?' she finally asked.

Kashifa laughed. ‘No! Claire, my girl, I imagine you have many freedoms we Turkish women do not but you should never believe we are prisoners or slaves. This house runs to
my
rules. I am the eldest sister, the head woman. My brother may own it, my brother-in-law may sit at its front and welcome his friends and be served by his wife and daughters, but no man dares tell any woman how to run this house.' She waved a hand. ‘Outside is their domain. In here, they answer to me.'

Claire laughed. ‘All powerful?' she added.

Kashifa tilted her head back and tasted some of the meat she had been shaving off a haunch of roasted goat. ‘This is true. In my domain, I am all powerful.'

Lanterns were lit, music struck up and dancing began in the courtyard that was overlooked by a magnificent and huge mulberry tree. After what she considered a polite period Claire decided it must be time to leave the family to their celebration and hoped someone would guide her back to the hospital before night fell. She went looking for Kashifa upstairs, but found Rifki staring out of the window of one of the rooms.

‘Oh, forgive me,' she said, stepping back into the narrow hall.

He swung around and she saw sorrow etched on his face.

‘Ah, Miss Claire. Did you enjoy your bathing rituals?'

She floundered momentarily. ‘Yes, indeed. It was enlightening . . .' She moved her shoulders. ‘Mostly painful.'

In the lowering light she caught a soft smile, its amusement dancing in his eyes.

‘I . . . I didn't see you,' she continued. ‘I didn't think you had come to the gathering.'

‘I was with the men next door while the women bathed, but I took my time returning to the house and entered via a side entrance. I'm not much fun at parties.'

‘Really? Just parties?' The question had slipped out before she could censor herself.

Rifki let out a sigh of a laugh and shrugged. ‘As you may say in Britain, fun is not my middle name.'

She grinned and looked around. ‘I'm sorry, are we allowed to talk . . . ?'

‘It is permitted,' he murmured, although Claire wondered if this were true and whether he was being polite and she was trespassing.

‘I really like seeing you in your traditional dress,' she said to fill the pause. The dove-grey caftan seemed to lighten the colour of his eyes today and its length made him seem more slender, even taller.

He looked down at himself. ‘It is a traditional day for our family.'

‘Well.' She smiled awkwardly. ‘It was certainly a marvellous day of celebration. Thank you again. I was looking for Kashifa to say farewell as I was just leaving.'

‘So soon?'

‘I'm on shift early tomorrow morning.'

He nodded and she felt an even more uncomfortable pause arrive.

‘You never did tell me about the damage to the book.'

‘You're right,' she admitted, glad to have something to fill the blank yet tense space that stretched between them. ‘Let me tell you now. Where should we —?'

He gestured to a small balcony and Claire moved onto it and looked down into the courtyard where the rest of the revellers enjoyed the celebrations, including Kashifa, she noted. She realised he was ensuring they were seen.

‘Do you all live on this side of the Golden Horn?'

He sighed. ‘Our grand family home was once not far from the Blue Mosque, near the water, with beautiful gardens and sprawling fig trees for shade. But when war threatened I suggested we move to Beyoğlu as a precaution. It seemed to me that the Europeans – whether they were our German allies or our British and French enemies – would want to overrun the old city. I think every Turk in Istanbul privately agreed that his family would be safer on this side. Most fled Beyazit and surrounds – it's a pity, for we lived in style. I don't even know where all our faithful old servants are.'

Claire sensed his sorrows crowding in as much as his physical presence. ‘Well, where to begin?' she said, feeling conscious of his height as much as his attractive manner within the confined space. She was suddenly acutely aware of not permitting his charisma to crowd out Jamie. This whole trip was about Jamie, she reminded herself, as she dipped into her pocket and gratefully pulled out her talisman, the bullet shell she still habitually carried. ‘This is what fits into the hole of Açar's prayer book. The book saved the life of the man I love because it took the force of this bullet and stopped it embedding itself in his heart.' She felt her inner tension subsiding at the relief of being able to explain to Rifki slowly and quietly about Jamie: how they'd met and fallen in love within the most chaotic and fearful situations. She went over again how Jamie and Açar had come to know each other – avoiding mentioning his son's death – but explaining how Jamie had been badly wounded that same day when the armistice ended, the rush to Egypt, the rash pledge made to each other. To Claire it was cathartic to relive that time, to speak it aloud and remind herself this is why she got up each morning and continued to breathe, why she forced herself to go through the motions of the day.

‘Because each night I mentally tick off another day closer to April the first,' she finished.

________

The pitch of her voice soothed him. He wondered if her hospital training had taught her how to use it to make men feel safe. Again he watched the bow-shape of her lips move, sometimes anxiously when she referred to the man she was smitten with, more easily when she spoke of his son. He sensed she chose her words with care around Açar and as she moved her neat hands, unadorned by jewellery, the air became scented by the oil of roses that she had bathed with.

He was finding it intoxicating; the helpless desire he had begun feeling for this Western woman the week before had now escalated and intensified, knowing how much her heart ached for another man. He couldn't explain it to himself why that added the extra dimension but he wanted to understand, accepting that mathematicians needed their problems to add up and present neat answers. But there was no solution for him, other than doubt and despair after all these years of withdrawing deeper into himself, that a woman – not even one from his own culture – might unlock a formerly closed door.

‘If not for your son, I would now have no hope,' she finished.

He blinked as she stopped talking, flustered by his increasing sense of weakness. When he said nothing, she looked uneasy and clearly felt required to fill the blankness between them.

‘Er . . . Kashifa told me about your wife.'

‘Kash talks too much,' he said, not wishing his dead wife's presence to intrude. He shrugged. ‘I should never have taught her English.'

He saw she liked his soft jest and watched her smile broaden and lighten her expression.

‘And will you ever allow another man into your heart, Miss Claire?'

‘I'm like you. There is only one person for me.'

‘Ah, but I'm sure my sister's busy mouth told you I did not love my wife. She never was the one. She was only ever Açar's mother and she had my respect and my care because of it.'

She nodded, holding his gaze seriously. ‘You were dutiful,' she said.

‘Duty is important.'

‘Important enough to lose your son for it?' Her words wounded him and she knew it. Suddenly she reached for him, laid her hand on his sleeve. ‘Oh, Rifki, I am so sorry. I have no right to —' He felt her grip of apology like a burn and he flinched. She immediately pulled her hand away, looking horrified for the second time in as many heartbeats for her actions. ‘Forgive me . . .'

If only she knew how he truly felt – he had not experienced this sense of being out of control since his early teens but his voice did not betray him. ‘Please, Claire. There is nothing to feel such despair over. What you say is true. I have asked myself this question over and again. Many fathers probably feel the same on both sides of the war. We must live with that knowledge and die with its despair in our hearts.'

She sighed and turned back to the party. ‘We're pitiful, aren't we? Both not living our lives fully.'

‘I possess a much better excuse than you,' he replied.

‘I have to believe he will come.'

‘And if he does not?'

She shrugged. ‘I don't know. I refuse to think beyond then.' She saw Kashifa glance up and notice them. Claire lifted a hand to wave. ‘Your sister is very fond of you.'

‘I love all of my sisters, but Kashifa is my favourite . . . despite her mouth.'

Claire smiled. ‘You are fortunate to have family.'

‘But I have no one to love the way you love James Wren.' He wanted someone's eyes to mist that way when they thought or spoke about him. He lied. He wanted Claire Nightingale's eyes to soften like that just for him. He cleared his throat softly as he knew he habitually did when he was self-conscious and looked away. ‘Ignore me,' he said, hating that he'd revealed such closely guarded sentiment.

‘Well . . . I must go.' She sounded shyly uncomfortable.

Had she sensed his yearning was directed at her? He prayed not, could wish, in fact, that she had never brought the prayer book to upset his neat world where he had locked his hurts away.

‘Of course you must. I've kept you long enough. Claire, it's been an honour to meet you,' he said, nodding a polite bow.

‘Thank you for today – it's an experience I shall cherish.' He heard the slight strain in her voice, was sure he wasn't imagining it. ‘Especially, I suspect, when I'm back to being naked and bathing in my freezing bathroom in England – oh!' She must have regretted referring to herself so brazenly and painting such a picture for him. Her expression was one of chagrin. ‘You must forgive my clumsiness.'

He waited until she looked him fully in the eye. ‘I forgive you everything except the pain you leave behind.'

She swallowed. ‘Pain?'

‘The memory of my son,' he quickly said, covering the treachery of that inner voice again. ‘But even as I say that I will be eternally grateful that you brought me something of him that he considered most precious. And when I touch that bullet hole, I will think of you and hope you are blissfully happy with the man whose life it saved.'

She held out her hand, clearly unsure of the protocol.

Later he would analyse his response but right now he reacted purely on instinct. It was a dangerous decision but Rifki closed his hand around hers and pulled her into the shadows where he knew they would not be seen. He kissed her cheek gently and fleetingly before twisting his head to her left side and, just for a heartbeat, lingering next to her soft skin, inhaling the soap's scent of roses and everything that was Claire Nightingale. They were apart almost as soon as he had brought her close. ‘I wish you happiness,' he murmured and stepped back fully into the darkness of the hallway.

________

Jamie Wren was resurfacing. His thoughts had felt like they were pushing through dark treacle. It was a strange sensation of limbo; he could see people but not properly work out their features; these seemed to shift and slide from their faces. He could hear them talking but their voices seemed to be coming from the bottom of the sea – distant, gulpy, words indecipherable. Smiles turned to grimaces, hands reaching out seemed to turn into rifles and bayonets.

‘Scrambled egg, James Wren,' his mother used to accuse when he was a teenager and would forget a simple instruction moments after it was given.

Yes, that's how it seemed, but he was emerging. He could feel things now. He could certainly experience pain again, which up until now had been numbed or distant. His head felt as though it was bleeding inside. Maybe it was . . .

How long had he been lost in this murky place of his mind? How long since he'd had a drink, more to the point? He was parched. He turned his head sideways and saw the beaker and jug. He thought he reached for it but his arm barely moved and the pain was like bright light in his mind even though it was dark wherever he was.

‘Ooh, wait up there,' a smiling voice said in an accent he loved. An Aussie woman, much older than him and in a nurse's uniform hovered into view with a lamp.
Claire!
Not Claire. Claire sounded English.

‘Welcome back!' the woman said, delighted. ‘I'm Jane.'

He tried to talk, but croaked. She was already reaching for the water and he swallowed greedily as she held the beaker for him. He tried again. ‘Where am I?'

She smiled beatifically. ‘You're in Dartford Hospital in England.'

‘England,' he murmured, but his spirits lifted like a spring butterfly flapping off joyfully. ‘That's good.'

‘Oh, I'm glad. Most of our lads headed the other way . . . back to Australia.'

‘I'm sorry, I feel so useless.' He tried to push the unruly hair from his eyes but nothing happened. He looked down at his arm and realised although he could feel it, his sleeve appeared empty. He regarded Nurse Jane with a comical expression. ‘Where have you put it?'

It really was a joke – he'd get it moving in a moment – but she wasn't smiling any more.

‘What's your name, Trooper?'

‘James Wren.'