Sofia
indicated she would become angry if I disturbed her meditations further, she exclaimed, “By God! It is magnificent!”XV
Husayn had patience with me and was content to linger in the square just inside the seawall after we had disembarked. Here I hoped to try and catch a glimpse of Sofia and see where she might be taken. The landings of Constantinople are a hurly-burly compared to which those of Venice are as regimented as if marching in review beneath the Doge’s balcony. In Constantinople, it is as if an anthill—nay, three or four anthills each with ants of a different size and species— were all kicked together. The collisions, fights, and aimless running to and fro I witnessed were remarkable. Only as a second thought, it seemed, were goods, like bundled ant eggs, being salvaged and transported to safety. Even then, only one move out of twenty seemed to be the right bundle to the right human or animal back headed in the right direction.
It was as if the many decks of cards of all the peoples of the world were shuffled into one by a child who had no knowledge of the rules of any game, but only liked to shuffle. This led to some very curious combinations: a great black African guarding a shipment of dainty Chinese boxes rich with ivory inlay and carving; a tiny Chinaman, stripped—ribs starting—to a thin waist, strained under a heavy, vicious-looking load of elephant and rhinoceros tusks. Cool Indians, slippery like snakeskin, bargained with fat, basted-duck Italians in God-knows-what language for incense from Arabia, while the Arabians, secret, silent, ghostly men, more white robes and headdresses than flesh and blood, eyed sacks of grain as if they were filled with precious myrrh.
And everywhere were the Turks, Turks of all shapes and sizes. There were rich Turks and beggar Turks, Turkish fishermen, merchants, porters, pashas, soldiers, admirals, pickpockets, and customs officials. A Turk in a foreign land is immediately picked out for what he is, but here in their own land, one would be hard pressed to name a single trait that all of them shared. It was the Venetians that seemed more a caricature of nationality here.
I was glad to be able to step out of this melee and view it objectively. I knew from experience how easy it was to become part of such a crowd, taking communion of its madness. I knew how easily that madness could become my own catechism, and I could find myself weeping tears of faith for its litany. And besides, after more than a month at sea, every step I took jarred my frame most painfully. I was obliged to sit upon a great bale of imported woolens so all my attention could be relieved of discomfort and concentrated on my vigil.
Of all the brands of humanity present on the landing, one was conspicuously absent. That was the women, of any race or color whatsoever. Even the painted whores that flounce the 4pcks of Venice were gone. This was the topic of desperate conversation passed between two sailors who had just been released from three months at sea, but they would have to go elsewhere and be much more private to make their talk material. I was certain that Sofia Baffo would stand out here in this male crowd like a circle among squares.
It was Husayn, however, who saw her first. He had had the wisdom to look not for her tall, slender figure, or light-gold gown, but for the short, greasy slave merchant who had spent the morning haggling with Uluj Ali.
Baffo’s daughter and her maid were brought from the ship swathed in veils, looking more like passing shadows than human beings. I could only tell which one she was—even after Husayn pointed them out—by the fact that she was uncommonly tall and because she kept fidgeting with the wrap in order to get a better view of the wonders about her. The slaver tried to correct her of this fault, for, if it gave her a better view of those about her, it also gave them a view of her, his prized merchandise, which he was not prepared to put on display there on the landing like nothing better than a waterlogged bundle of silks. Fortunately, the man had a covered sedan chair waiting, into which Sofia and her maid were rapidly loaded. Heaved to the shoulders of eight monstrous porters, they were carried out of sight with giant strides. Even had the condition of my legs allowed pursuit, Husayn’s heavy hand wisely counseled against it.
Husayn took me then to his home, where I was welcomed with hospitality that could not have been greater had I been indeed his son. Having visited him once before on my last trip to Constantinople, I knew it was not actually his home, but that of his father-in-law. As a native of Antioch, Husayn had found it business-wise to contract a marriage with a young lady of Constantinople, the only child of her wealthy merchant father.
The house, though in town, was located near the Langa Bostani Park and fronted on the Sea of Marmara itself. It sat behind high walls in a small but delightful park of its own, the focal point of which was a large fig tree with the buds just swelling. A confusion of lesser oranges and lemons still in fruit were propped up by rose and mimosa bushes, which, in months to come, would fill the garden with color and scent. Jasmine, protected in a pot, was already in bloom and almost overpowered the garden from corner to corner, like the perfume of some aging courtesan.
The house was not one of those glaring things of Constantinople’s new rich but, being made mostly of wood, it had weathered into its surroundings as if the product of nature. I think it may have predated the Conquest: the pillars that framed the entrance, at least, were of Greek workmanship. Lattices had, however, tang stood guardians over the