When Peresto opened her eyes she could see nothing. Jolted, she told herself that it was as it should be, morning had not yet broken although a tiny ray of light seeped through the glitch of the damask curtains. She relaxed and closed her eyes.
Next door, servants tip-toed in silk slippers as they prepared her clothes. A parrot in the covered gilded cage sighed or shifted position in its sleep. Too soon, there would be light. Her sleep had been getting lighter and more fragmented, a gradual decline which, on days like today, made her feel swollen with fatigue. The burden of responsibility perhaps; it was safer to be the wife of an Ottoman Sultan than the step-mother of an unwanted heir. Or maybe it was just age.
The clear, melodic voice of the muezzin travelled through the air from the minaret of the Suleymavni mosque. She mumbled the prayer with him: "Allah is most great. I testify that there is no God but Allah." On impulse, she added: "Oh Allah, if you know that Hamid should live, bless this day for me. If you know that he should die, do what you must and decree for me whatever is good and make me satisfied with it."
She stared into the gloom. The Valide had not got wind of Hamid's reckless adventure or Jurad's death. She had planted her version of events and the Valide had not questioned it. Why could she not rid herself of this sense of foreboding?
An odalisque entered carrying a candle. With a burning taper she lit the gas lamps, one by one they came on with a pleasing popping sound. The strengthening light illuminated the sky-blue silk-on-silk Hereke carpet, a large single piece which covered the whole floor in the sparsely decorated room. Time to rise.
Helped by her Mistress of the Robes, Peresto slipped into a loose fitting dress. The Mother of the Maids approached and fell into a deep curtsey.
"Urgent news?"
"Mustafa brings a message, Your Highness."
Trailing a maid who was still trying to close the last few buttons of her loose fitting morning dress, Peresto entered the salon where Mustafa waited for her. With a few gestures he signalled that he brought good news. The Sultan would reinstate Midhat Pasha.
She signalled her question: "As Grand Vizier?"
Mustafa shrugged. All he knew for sure was Midhat Pasha had returned from exile at the request of the Sultan and that the appointment ceremony would start at noon in the throne room.
Extraordinary news. The Sultan had ceded to the softa' demands. He was scared; by giving in to the their demands, he hoped to nip a rebellion in the bud. The fool.
"Find out what ministerial post he gets. And if he's not made Grand Vizier, who is?"
Mustafa nodded.
Seconds passed. She did not consider how Midhat's return to power might benefit her. Instead, she wondered anxiously: had the Sultan consulted his mother on the dismissal? Not likely. For an instant, she visualised the Valide in her salon, screaming, breaking things, furious like a wounded lioness at the news of her son's public display of weakness. No, the old witch had not been consulted.
Ambassador Ignatieff, this must be his doing, the Sultan was too impotent to make such an important decision alone. Ignatieff was virtually the only person, these days, to be admitted into the presence of the Sultan. Why would Ignatieff advise the Sultan to dismiss his Grand Vizier, when the man was Ignatieff's lackey?
Brushing aside the question, she reminded herself that Midhat's return to government was a gift from heaven. Grand Vizier Nedim was gone. He was ignorant and corrupted by Ambassador Ignatieff, and he disliked her as much as she him so he was of no use to her. Midhat Pasha, on the other hand, she knew well because he had loyally served Medjid. Even if they had not always seen eye to eye on affairs of state, there was mutual respect, he was learned and capable, and, like her, he put the needs of the empire first. His wife, Surur, was a friend with whom Peresto had secretly corresponded during the family's exile.
The fog that lately covered everything in her soul, lifted as she made her way to her study. It was her habit to start the day in silence to focus her mind. Also, in the study, she had a breathtaking view of the sun rising over the Bosphorus. Outside, the blue mist of dawn lifted. She liked to sit by her desk and consider the start of every new day. Yesterday had withered away during the winter of the night; sunrise signalled triumph over darkness and the return of spring. The certainty of this cyclical pattern felt comforting.
When an hour later, she emerged from her study, she was ready to dress. It would take the odalisques over an hour to get her ready. For decades already, most of the high ranking harem women wore western clothing, but Peresto preferred traditional dress. The laborious dressing ceremony and traditional clothes anchored her to the dynastic past, reminding her throughout the day of her purpose.
An odalisque removed Peresto's morning dress. Naked on the soft carpet, she lifted her gaze. Her blond person, petite, fair-skinned and confident emanated from the full-length mirror. Her Mistress of the Robes signalled to odalisques to step forth one-by-one, a different girl for each garment.
A pair of full drawers in a dusty rose-coloured damask, brocaded with silver flowers. Over this, a smock of white silk gauze edged with embroidery, transparent which subtly revealed the shape of the bosom, with wide sleeves hanging half-way down the arm and closed at the neck with a diamond button. Then, a waistcoat fitted close to the body, with white and gold fringe and pearls for buttons. Over it, a full-length kaftan with long, straight sleeves.
With each garment, it felt as if the burden of responsibility grew heavier; it was safer to be the wife of a Sultan than the step-mother of a rebellious, unwanted heir. Medjid had never found a place for Hamid in his heart. Finally, an odalisque fastened the girdle made of precious stones around her waist, a symbol of her high status, a Sultan's widow.
"Long braids today," she instructed the Coiffeur Mistress. "Decorate with pearls."
Since the death of Medjid, she indulged in the luxury of wearing the same robe throughout the day. It was a widow's perk to no longer have to seduce. She had other perks. The sea view from her apartment, for example. Not acquired because she was Medjid's widow but because when he died, his brother, Sultan Abdulaziz, wanted her for his wife. She turned him down. That too was a perk, to turn down the proposal of a Sultan. Only a Sultan's widow could allow herself to do that.
When Medjid died, Peresto had expected to be shipped off with the rest of his discarded harem to the Palace-of-Tears, to make room for a new harem. Instead, Sultan Abdulaziz offered her this apartment with a sea view which was rivalled only by that of his mother. The Valide tolerated her son's gallant gesture because she was shrewd: keep your enemies close. Peresto lived by the same rule, as did everyone else in the Imperial harem.
A whiff of fresh rose water behind the ears, on the wrists, her skirts and slippers. The Mother of the Robes clapped her hands. The odalisques withdrew and Peresto moved into the salon.
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Author's note
The harem was a central arena of Ottoman politics, not, as is often believed in the West, through orgiastic sex, but through family politics. The Osman dynasty was hereditary, and therefore, sex was not solely a pleasurable activity, but highly political. The structure and rules of the harem were largely aimed at controlling the outcome of the Sultan's sexual relations.
Many of the women in the Imperial Harem were related in some way to the Sultan and to each other: the wives and concubines of the Sultan, the daughters, children male and female, and various unmarried female relatives, and, last but not least, female slave servants.
High ranking servants - women - had prosperous careers in the harem. They received generous stipends and were well respected. In their different administrative functions, they managed the harem, including the training of the young women who would serve the Sultan and his mother, the Valide.
Some 19th century European observers commented that the Imperial harem resembled a nunnery in its hierarchy, and in the enforced chastity of most of its members. It makes me think that the embedded Harem Scene by Eugène Guérard (19th century), might say more about the painter than about the harem it depicts.
If you want to learn more about the myths and realities of the Harem, read The Imperial Harem by Leslie P. Pierce.