Tasha Alexander - Tears of Pearl

“I did. I talked to a man whose son had been hired by an elderly Englishman to shoot at a man at Cartwright’s dig but never hit him. He was emphatic about it, apparently—said if Benjamin was hurt, there’d be no pay.”

“Did he give you any further description?”

“Only that he was tall.”

“Like Sir Richard,” I said with a sigh. “This is not moving in the direction I hoped it would.”

The next morning, my husband set off for the embassy and I for the St. Clares’ house in Pera, where I planned to speak with Benjamin. I knew all too well the pressures that could be exerted by parents with strong opinions and hoped that I might be able to get him to open up to me. Colin and I crossed the Bosphorus together, sitting side by side in our small boat, the European shore opening up in front of us.

“You’re turning green,” he said. “I’d no idea you were so prone to seasickness.”

“It comes as a complete surprise to me as well.”

“I wonder—” He stopped.

“What?”

“No, it’s silly.”

“I don’t know that I like you stopping and starting with me,” I said. “We’ve always spoken freely to each other, have we not?”

“Forgive me. Yes, of course we have. But there are some subjects best left alone by...” He laughed, shook his head. “I’m a man, after all, and that guarantees there will be certain topics with which I will never be entirely comfortable.”

I knew, of course, with absolute precision to what he was referring, and I cursed my nausea, feeling ambivalent about the entire situation. I stared into his eyes, debating confessing to him my fears, my suspicions. Something dark tugged inside me, reminding me of what I stood to lose by telling him too soon. Not only my independence and his support of my work, but I would also risk disappointing him. Regardless of Bezime’s ridiculous insistence of her certainty on the matter, I did not know if I was with child. Part of me longed to share with him my thoughts, but while he would be excited—that was clear by the way he was looking at me, eyes bright as he shot me a crooked smile—my own reaction would not be so simple. And that was bound to disappoint him.

“Heavens! I shall do all I can to avoid the topic for as long as possible,” I said, removing my gaze from his and focusing on the horizon. “Did you ever think I would so easily fall prey to something as diabolically simple as seasickness?”

“I confess I didn’t.”

“Nor did I. I’ve decided it’s a punishment for past hubris. I’ve been too confident in my abilities, physical and otherwise.”

“So you’re quite sure it’s seasickness?”

I gave him my brightest smile, my heart breaking just a little at the deception. “Unless the cook has been poisoning my food,” I said. “How are you feeling? Dizzy? Hint of queasiness hitting you?”

“I’ve never been better.” He was watching me with an intensity that all but made me squirm.

“The food must be safe, then. And you are the picture of health, as always,” I said. “Since you’re so smug and superior, why don’t you take a practice swim right now? We’re halfway to the European shore. It would be good training for your inevitable fate.”

He smiled. “You’re glowing beneath the green, do you know that?”

Benjamin greeted me with warmth, and when I’d explained what I wished to discuss with him, he begged to leave the house, not trusting his father’s servants to resist the temptation of eavesdropping on the prodigal son. Delighted at the prospect of seeing another part of the city, I agreed at once, asking only that we go on foot—the day was a glorious one, the air full of the green, floral scent of spring but not having lost entirely the final hint of winter’s crispness. We made our way to the Golden Horn, crossed the Galata Bridge, and proceeded to the Spice Bazaar.

Fashioned from long, tan bricks and with three moderate-size domes on the roof, the bazaar was located across the street from the bridge, next to a mosque. The plaza in front of the holy building was so full of pigeons, I thought for a moment I was back in London at St. Paul’s, at least until I began to listen to the voices around me. I’d been in the city long enough to distinguish Turkish from Arabic and heard two women speaking French as they passed me. What was most amazing, however, was the number of languages I could not recognize, and I wanted them to be all things exotic: Berber dialects, Farsi, or some ancient, nearly dead tongue.

We’d entered the bazaar through the front, central arch and then, ducking between stalls brimming with brightly colored spices—scarlet peppers, purple sumac, golden curry—Benjamin guided me through mazes of covered streets until we’d come out a side exit, climbed a stone staircase, and reached a small restaurant, where the owner stepped forward at once to greet us.

“Mr. St. Clare,” he said, pulling out a seat for me at a tiny table tucked into the corner of his room. “You have been away too long.”

Benjamin murmured something in reply, speaking Turkish and drawing a sigh from the other man, who shook his head and replied in kind before disappearing into the kitchen.

“Ali is an old friend upon whose sympathetic ear I have relied too many times,” Benjamin said. “He did not know about Ceyden.”

“I’m sorry. I know well how grief creeps up everywhere when you’ve lost someone you love.”

“My father tells me you were widowed.”

“Yes, only a few months after my first marriage.”

“I offer all my condolences,” he said. “Though they’re far too belated to be either meaningful or welcome. I must confess that losing Ceyden again has torn me up in ways I wouldn’t have dreamed possible.”

“Were you close as children?”

“All we had was each other. We traveled so much, we never had time to make other friends, but didn’t feel the need for them. We were perfectly suited playmates. Of course, as young as she was, she’d go along with nearly any game I invented.”

“What happened after the attack?”

“I was shipped back to England, where I stayed with a less than congenial aunt. My father had lost his own parents years before, and there wasn’t anyone else to care for me. I understand why he did it—it was crucial that he try to find Ceyden, and he insisted I be packed off to somewhere safe. But even after five years, when it was clear there was no hope, he didn’t come for me. I went to school, and then to Cambridge, and by the time I was done found I had little use for him.”

“Did he ever go to England?”

“He visited me twice. Sent letters once a week and always gave me a generous allowance. We never had any arguments up to that point, but then we didn’t have any real conversation, either.”

“And he continued in diplomatic service?”

“Yes. I’ve tried to never fault him for any of this. He lost my mother in the most brutal way possible and failed to stop Ceyden’s kidnappers. I can sympathize with his desire to keep me away from harm. But what little boy wouldn’t prefer that his father provide the protection himself?”

“He loves you very much.”

“Yes, I suppose he does in his way.” He rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling, pain etched in the clenched muscles of his jaw.

“Do you think he could have stopped the kidnappers?”

“Yes, I do. If he’d let me run for cover by myself—which I could easily have done—he would have been able to catch up to them.”

“They might have killed him,” I said.

“Or he might have been able to pull her out of her abductor’s arms.”

“Do you blame him?”

“Sometimes. It’s not reasonable, I know. But then, neither is standing over one’s mother’s brutalized body.”

“Useless words, but I’m so very sorry,” I said.

“Thank you.”

We sat in awkward silence until Ali appeared carrying a great, puffed circle of bread and three dishes, one of hummus, one of something that resembled eggplant, and one brimming with tiny chopped vegetables. “For you to start. I will bring you all the best things,” he said. Two steps behind was a boy with tall glasses filled with red liquid.

“I feel as if we shouldn’t eat given the conversation we’ve been having,” I said.

“Not at all,” he said. “These things happened so long ago, there’s no freshness to the wounds. I’ve gone over it in my head countless times and blathered on about it to anyone who would listen for far too long. I’ve made my way to the position of accepting all of it.”

“That’s no small feat.”

“I thank you.” He poked at the dishes in front of us. “Now eat.”

I spooned some from each platter onto my plate, ripped off a piece from the bread, and dipped it into the vegetable mixture. Sweet tomato and onions burst into my mouth, unable to compete with the surprising combination of mint and hot pepper. I sighed, delighted.

“You like it?” Benjamin asked.

“If you want to understate my undying love for this dish, yes,” I said, taking another bite.

“Try the aubergine. It’s spectacular.”

I scooped a bit of the eggplant concoction from my plate. “Delicious,” I said. “Not a hint of bitter.”

“Ali’s got the best food in Constantinople.”

“I don’t doubt you. Forgive me, but I must return to our previous topic.”

“I understand.”

“What was your father’s reaction when you took up the pursuit of archaeology?”

“He was angry. In that quiet and infuriating way of his. No storming about or yelling from him. Just silent disapproval, all the while making it clear he would do anything he could to convince me to stop.”

“You must have been horribly frustrated.”

“He could not understand that I was doing something different from embarking on a life like the one he’d abandoned. I’m not dragging a family around with me, not recklessly off in search of adventure.”

“You view him as reckless?”

“In hindsight, yes. And he’d be the first to agree. I understand and respect the choices he made for us all. What I can’t forgive is his inability to accept the consequences of his decisions. He knew he was taking risks, but he wasn’t prepared for them. And I’m the one still suffering for it.”

“Dr. Cartwright tells me you’ve resolved to abandon archaeology.”

“You’ve spoken to him?”

“My husband and I visited the site yesterday.”

He shifted in his seat, pushing his hands down on his chair and twisting. “It was an agonizing decision, but I’m not walking away from the work, just the location. I’m going to try to find a position on the continent. Italy, perhaps. Working with Cartwright planted in me the urge to pursue things Roman.”

“Italy? Lovely. Will you be in Rome?”

“I—I don’t have any specific plans yet.”

“What inspired this decision?”

“Nothing in particular. A touch of boredom, I suppose. The desire to travel. A wish to put some distance between myself and my father.”

“Was anyone else planning to go with you?”

“Go with me?” His mouth hung open and he stared at me, then tossed his head and bit a piece of bread slathered with hummus. “Who on earth would go with me?” I could feel him tapping his foot beneath the table.

“I wouldn’t have the slightest idea, of course. Don’t fault me, though. I’m a lady and therefore more than a little prone to leaping without thought to romantic conclusions. I’d half hoped you’d tell me a story of forbidden love and a dramatic escape and a fresh start in a new land.”

“What a ridiculous thing to say.” His voice caught in his throat as he began, but in the end was full of nails. “Why would you think that?”

“I’m a newlywed, Benjamin, and as such bent on seeing those around me as happily matched as I am myself.” I wanted to give him a chance to come clean on his own.

“An astonishing position.”

“Not really,” I said. “Particularly given your colleagues were all under the impression you were getting married.”

He waited before answering, and I could see him summoning calm—blowing out a slow breath, dropping his shoulders, closing his eyes. “I—” He sighed. “I have not had good fortune in love.”

“Does she live here?”

“More or less.”

“Were you with her the night of the murder?”

“Of course not,” he said. “I was at the dig.”

“No, you weren’t.” I stopped for a moment, giving him what I hoped was a piercing look. “I’ve been to the dig, I’ve spoken to your colleagues. You had already left.”

His body was agitated, foot tapping, his hands playing with the tines of his fork. “Yes, I had left. But I hadn’t gone far. I wanted to spend a few days alone in the wilderness.”