Sofia
Sofia clung to every stammered gasp.“Good day. I am—”
Distress overwhelmed the woman once again as she couldn’t remember the name that went along with the language . A Christian name—the groping for it tortured her already tortured face. But there was no hope for it. The name was too far gone.
“I am Faridah,” she finally settled for, “and this is the Quince. She is our woman—our woman with the babies.” She struggled for meaning, the precise term beyond her. But Sofia had already guessed “midwife.”
“A pleasure. I’m Sofia.”
Sofia didn’t want to delay the communication any longer than the agony of the present pace. Hoping to push things along with the immediacy of a hug, she got to her feet—and uncovered the large red stain on the blue-and-white ticking of the mattress beneath her.
XXV
After the mortification, the tears, and the apologies, the Quince took matters firmly in hand. She enlisted the charwoman’s strong arms, but Sofia had to bear her end of the bloody clothes and bedding, too.
In this way, the harem’s newest slave was introduced to the laundry, where teams of two dozen women steamed and sweated at once. She learned her way to the fresh bedding stocked along the walls in every room where sleeping was done, the wardrobe where linen, cotton, and woolen garments were issued, more mundane than brocade and cloth -of-gold, but clean and eminently serviceable.
“Until you get clothes of your own,” the Quince explained tantalizingly.
The Quince showed her the latrines, one large room containing five separate closets and space for ablutions. A flush of cleansing water harnessed on its wash from mountains to sea perpetually sounded in the bottom of the dark holes.
Hard by, in a little cubicle, a girl of eight or ten was occupied full time cleaning and carding the soft absorbent wool required by over five hundred women. Concealment of the offending fluids of one’s body would not be possible here. In fact, Sofia mused, the entire palace probably knows a woman is pregnant before she knows herself. But then, she carried the thought further, perhaps it was only trying to shuffle their lives into life paced by men that made women’s concealment necessary.
“But don’t toss all of it with the wool down the latrine hole,” the Quince said, handing her a palm-sized earthenware pot with a rough cork stopper.
It took Sofia some time to understand what the midwife was asking her to do with this pot because she could not believe that what the charwoman translated could possibly be true. But eventually, by question and gesture, she confirmed the sense.
“As long as you remain a maid, save as much of your flow as you can. I can get a good price for it. Why, don’t you know? The monthly blood of a virgin, either taken internally or used as an ointment, is the best cure known for the scourge of leprosy.”
Sofia was so impressed by this value placed on what she was accustomed to considering the vilest of things that she didn’t think to ask if she could profit herself from the project until it was too late to do so with any tact. They left the little jar on a shelf in the latrine until her next visit and went on.
After that, the Quince introduced her to the kitchens. Her time of month, it seemed, was Sofia’s introduction to the whole complex, as if the buildings were actually clustered according to her need. Her condition was the key to their layout, not whatever it was that dictated dwellings where men were lords.
The three women could actually only peer at the kitchens—ten double domes all smoking at once—across a broad courtyard. Every one of the cooks, not even considering the hewers of wood and drawers of water needed for such a vast operation, were men.
“Usually food is brought over at mealtime by the halberdiers,” the Quince explained. “Such a man you see across the courtyard now. When he comes here to the harem, he will drop the two long side tresses of his wig-hat down before his face so he can look neither to the right nor to the left and thus invade our privacy. Periodically, the halberdiers also bring us a supply of wood for our braziers.
“At mealtime, a bell will ring, and you must make yourself scarce from this entry hall until the halberdiers have set the platters down, exited, and the eunuch rings the bell a second time. Then you know it is safe to come into the hall and—if it is your duty—retrieve the platters from these banks of marble. You see the counters are so contrived that hot dishes remain hot and cold dishes cold. The accepted order among us is to serve and enjoy one dish at a time, and that is how they must be served. You will eat with the rest of the girls in your mess. I will introduce you to one or two of them shortly and they’ll help you find your way.
“As you’ve already missed your breakfast today, I will have a eunuch run across the way and bring you something. Something special for your time of month. Yes, special orders are always possible. Salt and pickles are not good. Nor meat, not during your menses. But we will send for hot water for some tea. I will provide my usual preparation for this time of the month from my dispensary: angelica with a touch of myrrh and lots of cream and honey. Yogurt is good. Parsley, chickpeas, pomegranate, if we haven’t seen the last of them this year. A cucumber, but, alas, they’re out of season. Some fresh hot bread and—”
“And taratir at-turkman?” Sofia asked.
The Quince smiled at something that needed no translation. “Yes, one or two of those won’t hurt. The cook in the Crown Prince’s kitchen makes the best pastries. I will be certain you get some of his.”
The warm tea and good food amazed Sofia with its ability to perceptibly ease the tension in the heart