Bosphorus Rose
Chapter 7
Try as he might, Murad couldn't forget Iskender's fingers brushing against his cheek. He couldn't understand what was going on. His heart raced thinking about it.
That night, after the signing of the marriage contract officially making them husband and wife, the bride and groom were led to the nuptial chamber by older female relatives, before the door was shut behind them. They were finally all alone.
Murad was nervous. His heart was pounding. His veiled wife was waiting for him to do something – anything. He could barely see her face beneath the white fabric.
He tried to remember what Iskender had told him, but he couldn't focus. He took a deep breath, and tried to go ahead with his duties. With trembling hands, he finally lifted his wife's veil, revealing her face to him for the first time.
Fatima was right, she really was beautiful.
Her skin was pale like porcelain while her hair was a deep black. Her pink lips were plump, and her eyes were greyish-green. Those eyes were looking directly at him.
Murad didn't know what to do. Muhsine could probably sense how nervous he was.
"Let's start with dinner first," she said, rather calmly.
Right. Dinner. While the room was prepared earlier, the table had been laid and the dishes arranged. It was to be the couple's first meal together. Of course, Murad chided himself. There was to be dinner first. How could he forget something like that? He surely must've embarrassed himself in front of his new wife.
The two of them sat down around the circular table on the smooth carpet – Muhsine sitting directly opposite him. Murad had no choice but to face her, when all he wanted to do at that moment was to slink away and hide. He was much too embarrassed thinking about what was to come afterwards.
Usually Murad would at least try to engage in polite conversation, it was how he was used to at social events. But this was different, and with only the two of them there Murad's heart thumped in his chest.
Muhsine only sat there, gracefully as ever, eating only a little. She seemed to be waiting for Murad to do something - anything.
But Murad only froze, and precious time was slipping away from his fingers.
Soon, it was time for bed and the couple had barely spoken a word to each other. Murad was still nervously trying to find the courage to start something, but at the same time he found it strange Muhsine was so calm. Wasn't she nervous?
She had gone behind the wooden screen to give herself a bit of privacy. Murad could hear the heavy bridal dress fall to the ground as she shed it off her slender body. She had put on a western-styled nightdress, made of a soft white silk and trimmed with delicate lace.
Murad's heart thumped in his chest. They exchanged glances, and obligingly, Murad shrank away behind the screen as well. He slipped out of his jacket, hanging it over the wooden screen, next to his wife's dress. One of the servants had already placed his kaftan, neatly folded above the armoire. Everything was already set, Murad sighed to himself as he put the light cotton garment on.
He couldn't help but feel like the entire affair was a rehearsed performance, with the denouement of the play to be held in the nuptial chamber. Murad couldn't help but feel his movements being controlled by invisible strings. Everyone had played their part. It was now up to him.
Murad stared at his reflection in the wash basin. He was a man now. He really was a man now.
But he wasn't sure if he was ready. Not tonight, not ever.
"Is everything alright, dear husband?" Murad heard Muhsine call out to him, accompanied by her light footsteps.
"I'm fine," he replied as he stepped out from behind the screen.
He nearly bumped into her, but managed to stop himself short of accidentally doing so. He was scared of touching her – she looked so delicate and pure and he didn't want to taint her. Muhsine tilted her head, and looked longingly at her husband. Murad couldn't really decipher her greenish eyes. On one hand they seemed so loving and longing, but at the same time they felt blank.
Could she too, be feeling the same way, a powerless actor in the neverending play of circumstance?
He finally reached out and brushed his fingers against her cheek. He could feel her soft, delicate skin against his.
She took a step back, almost instinctively. Murad was surprised, and quickly pulled his hand back, but Muhsine seemed to be equally shocked at her own reaction.
"Would you come lay with me?" Muhsine said as she recovered.
But Murad could sense that the girl wasn't saying it out of her own volition. Rather, it was out of duty. At the very least, they had that in common.
Murad didn't sleep with her that night. Instead, he opted to lie down on the divan at the side of the room while his wife had the bed all to herself.
He didn't want to force her if she was equally as apprehensive as he was. If she had wanted it, he would've performed his duty, but he didn't want to make the girl do something she didn't necessarily want. She was a sweet girl, and he didn't want to hurt her.
He tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, but he could hardly catch a wink of rest. He was wide awake when he heard Muhsine rise. She must've thought that he had fallen asleep, unaware that he was watching her.
He closed his eyes when he noticed her walking towards him, pretending to be asleep. His heart thumped in his chest. What could she possibly be planning?
He heard the clinking of metal, and opened his eyes ever so slightly. Muhsine was looking for something amongst the cutlery. He wondered what she could be possibly looking for, so late into the night.
It was then when she picked up the hilted fruit knife.
Murad froze. He didn't know whether to get up and ask her what she was going to do with that, or to just continue feigning sleep. He was scared that she might do something dangerous. As she walked away from the small table, Murad mustered the courage to speak out.
"Muhsine," he called out as he sat up, once she was a safe distance away. "What are you doing?"
She immediately spun around on her heels, hiding the knife behind her.
"I had trouble sleeping," she replied, flustered. "I just decided to go out to the balcony for a little while, to get some fresh air."
"Me too," Murad said as he got up from the divan and walked towards her.
Muhsine stood still, maintaining her gaze on him.
"What have you got there?" Murad said, slowly reaching out.
Muhsine was smart enough to guess that Murad had probably seen her, and wasted no time pretending. She produced the knife, hilt first, while she carefully held it by its blade.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Murad assured her. "If you think that I'm going to force myself on you then you're mistaken. I don't want to make you do anything you don't want to."
"And I thank you for that," she replied. "But that was exactly what I was afraid of."
"What do you mean?" Murad asked, confused.
"In the morning they are going to the check the sheets, and when they see that they're clean. . ." Muhsine began, before letting her words trail off.
She didn't need to complete her sentence for Murad to know what she meant.
"Pass me the knife," Murad said.
Muhsine complied, and Murad felt the hilt of the blade in his firm grip. He had to act quickly before his wife could do anything to hurt herself. It was his fault after all, and he should be the one taking responsibility.
The boy flinched in pain as he pricked his fingertip with the sharp blade. Applying pressure onto the puncture, he let a few drops of blood fall onto the white sheets. The droplets spreading over the fabric, much like roses amongst fresh snow.
"You didn't have to do that," Muhsine said as Murad wiped the blade of the knife with his kaftan.
"I didn't want you to hurt yourself," the boy replied, putting the knife back onto the decorated tray.
There was a brief silence as Murad got back to the divan, while his wife got back on the empty bed. He noticed her yes on him, but he debated if he should actually break the silence.
"They told me that you are a good man, Murad," she finally said. "And I guess they were right. You are a good man."
Murad slept soundly that night, knowing that he did the right thing.
⚜⚜⚜
The married couple never slept on the same bed.
It wasn't like they hated each other, each respected their partner but deep in their hearts they knew this relationship was going to be something they needed time to navigate through.
The more time they spent together, the more different Murad realised they were from each other. Murad had grown up on the shores of Anatolia, while Muhsine was raised in Thrace. He was born in Plovdiv in the Rumelian countryside, while she, in Kastamonu deep in the Anatolian foothills.
He found it interesting how they were born on opposite sides of the Bosphorus, and end up being raised on the other. She had even gone to Switzerland where she studied in a French boarding school for girls.
They were vastly different. He was the East, and she, the West.
Muhsine was a girl with a pretty smile. A girl who put her family before herself. Before her own happiness, before what she wanted. She was careful not to reveal her cards to Murad, and Murad felt the same. Even after a month they felt like strangers living under the same roof. They had built invisible walls around each other, shutting the other out, and themselves in.
They were many times when Murad almost asked Muhsine about Iskender, but he stopped himself. She herself had never spoken about him, and Murad did remember that Iskender had mentioned that they weren't on speaking terms.
It wasn't until that particular morning when Murad finally decided to ask his wife about Iskender. He was organising his study after the dawn prayer and came across some rather oddly familiar-looking books on the shelf. Upon closer inspection he remembered it was the books that Iskender had dropped at his feet. There were two books: L'Argent and La Débâcle.
Murad could understand French, but he certainly wasn't very good at it. He picked the first book up and flipped to a random page. He could roughly understand two-thirds of it, but everything else was a bit confusing to him. Nonetheless from what he gathered it was about a battle.
He found it interesting that Muhsine would be reading such books. But what he found much more interesting was the fact that those who had never been touched the flames of war seemed to be so enraptured by the idea of it. But Murad couldn't blame them. He too, was enraptured by the idea of the heroes of old and their glorious conquests.
The books never talked about the people who had to suffer.
By the time he headed downstairs, Muhsine was already at the dining table. It was a rather new addition to the house, brought into it at Muhsine's insistence. Murad was used to eating on a low table as he sat on the floor, but he had acceded to his wife's western tastes.
Breakfast was prepared by the mansion's cook, a motherly middle-aged woman named Zubeyde, who had moved in with Murad from Ismail Celebi's estate from across the Bosphorus. Murad was happy that she came along. It was nice to have a familiar face around.
The serving girl, Hatice had already brought the dishes to the table, just in time for Murad's arrival. She greeted him with a bashful smile, to which Murad reciprocated. Muhsine looked up from the magazine she was reading, greeting her husband with a cordial smile. Murad mirrored it as he sat down across from her.
It wasn't that he disliked her company, in fact the truth was contrary. But for a pair of husband and wife, they seemed to be acting like acquaintances, carefully treading around boundaries.
They had poached eggs over yoghurt and garlic, clotted cream, pickled olives and butter from Trebizond. Zubeyde insisted that the butter from her hometown was the best, and Murad certainly wouldn't disagree. It was the creamiest butter that he had ever tasted, melting on the tip of his tongue.
But the highlight of the morning meal was the coffee. It was the first thing Murad could smell every morning when he headed down from either the bedroom or the study.
He liked his coffee sweet, while Muhsine had hers bitter.
As he sipped on the thick, aromatic drink spiced with cardamom, he thought about the best way to approach the subject. Truth be told, he had been thinking about Iskender for quite a bit as of late. He was such a curious character, and Murad couldn't help but admit that deep inside he enjoyed his company, as infuriating as he could get at times.
"I looked through one of your books while I was rearranging the bookshelf," Murad began.
Muhsine barely looked up from her magazine. Her eyes were still fixated on the pages of the Women's Almanac.
"You like to read about war?" Murad asked.
"I see you've read La Débâcle," Muhsine replied, finally putting down the magazine only for her to pick up her porcelain coffee cup.
"I didn't read it," he admitted bashfully. "I just flipped through a few pages."
"Well," Muhsine said. "What did you think of it?"
"I just thought it was interesting," Murad said, trying to sound as neutral as possible. "I've read the bit of the soldiers at the battlefield."
"Oh," answered his wife.
"I didn't know you liked to read books like that," Murad remarked. "My cousins preferred romance novels or the women's almanac."
"The books you saw are part of a long series of novels," Muhsine replied. "About the rise and fall of the Second French Empire. There's a lot of interesting themes; statecraft, hubris and the suffering of the common man in war. It's a very human take on the political trajectory of France."
Murad only listened to his wife intently. It was the most animated he had ever seen her.
"But what made you read books like that?" he asked.
"I had a lot of time in the Swiss mountains," she replied. "There is only so much a girl can do locked up in her dormitory while it snows so heavily outside."
Murad almost wanted to tell her his personal experience. He knew all too well the suffering of the common man in war. But he held his tongue.
"That's very interesting," was all that he said.
He had wanted to ask about Iskender, which was why he had brought up the subject of her French novel in her first place. He thought that he could naturally weave it into the conversation, but he supposed he had to just be direct.
"I wanted to ask you about your brother," Murad finally said.
"I had a feeling you were coming to that," Muhsine replied. "But on this fine morning I do not wish to vex myself."
She resumed reading her magazine, and any hope of conversation dissipated into the air. For a brief moment, he thought that they had finally warmed up to each other.
But it seemed like the flame had been extinguished, leaving them both cold and alone in the dark.