a sign of dilated aorta. This, however, was not what was killing her.
‘The pain,’ the countess repeated.
It was this pain that had made the journey impossible to continue and had forced them to stop here, in this Berlin palace so kindly offered by an old family friend. This pain took up all her thoughts, made travelling impossible.
‘It’s in my bones, Doctor. It is in my womb. I cannot move without crying.’
Carefully he disassembled his stethoscope, and put it back inside its leather case. He wished Ignacy had not been ordered out of the room with the others, leaving him alone to pronounce his diagnosis. The nurse, no matter how capable, would not be of much help at the moment of truth. He expected a fainting spell, a fit of screaming. This was the time to talk of God, of afterlife, of grace and repentance. Of fate and resignation. Not his kind of talk.
‘Please, Doctor,’ the countess said. ‘I want to know.’
Ignacy would not agree with me, Thomas thought. What right do we have to take hope away, he would ask. Why cut off the flow of the vital force? Deprive the body of its only defence. But hope, as far as Thomas was concerned, was a fickle notion. He had come to value facts over feelings and so far, he had had little reason to doubt the wisdom of such an approach.
‘I cannot offer you any hope, Madame la Comtesse,’ he said, finally, defying Ignacy’s voice in his head. ‘The tumour emerges out of the womb. It feeds on your body. It is fixed. I cannot operate.’
She was silent. Her eyes followed the movement of his lips. The nurse, he had noticed, grasped the countess’s hand in hers. Two hands, one strong and smooth, the other like a claw of some starving bird.
‘Cancer is like an invasion,’ he went on. ‘Your body has fought bravely, but the battle has been lost.’ Encouraged by her calmness he told her that before death came she could expect a few better days. She would have more energy, not enough to walk, but clearly enough to take an account of her life and prepare herself for the end. He did not avoid her eyes as he said all this. Their beauty urged him on.
‘Thank you, Doctor Lafleur,’ she said when he put the rest of his instruments back into his leather coffer. ‘For telling me the truth.’
‘I’m truly sorry. All I can do is to try to diminish the pain.’
The countess closed her eyes.
‘I want to be alone now,’ she said.
Sophie
She is standing behind Mana, waiting for Monsieur Charles Boscamp, the internuncio of the Polish mission in Istanbul. The study in the mission building is a big, bright room with an enormous gilded desk in the centre. The portrait of the Polish King hangs above it. In it, the King is holding a map and is looking at an hourglass. As if he didn’t have time for all he wanted to do, for his face is sad and withdrawn. There are wrinkles of sorrow on his forehead. In his eyes she sees an uncertainty that makes her wonder what has he seen in his life to doubt like that.
Don’t touch anything, Carlo has warned her. It is for him that Mana reddens her lips with carmine, and makes them shiny with walnut leaves. It is hard to tell if he is a guard, a valet, or a butler in this house, for he is vague describing his duties; but sometimes he makes it sound as if the internuncio could not take a step without consulting him. For weeks Carlo has been a frequent visitor to their house, growing more and more alarmed by Sophie’s presence. The Sultana has been making inquiries, sending her spies to find out where her little ungrateful wisdom lived. No house in Istanbul would be safe for long.
‘Don’t show your face to anyone,’ Carlo has warned her every time, bringing his gifts of food and wine. Right from my master’s pantry, he always says, drawing their attention to the internuncio’s fine tastes. What he doesn’t see, he doesn’t miss, he also says. It is this master who will be Sophie’s salvation, her escape. Carlo has told him a story of a beautiful girl from Phanar who has to be saved from the ardour of a young, penniless pasha. It is Aunt Helena who lives in Phanar not them, but a little stretching of the truth never hurt anyone. A daughter of a friend of his, an honest Greek widow who wishes only for her daughter’s well-being. ‘A girl,’ he said, ‘worthy of a king’s bed.’
The internuncio is still not ready to see them, even if it is long past midday. The annual mission party to celebrate the King’s name day ended at dawn. Everyone had been there. The Russians, the French, the English. Diplomats and men of stature and importance. The whole house still smells of roasted meat and melted wax. Over a hundred candles, Carlo has said, all burnt to the very end.
Mana has placed a shawl over Sophie’s head. ‘We won’t let him see you right away,’ she whispers in her daughter’s ears. ‘Stand straight, but don’t look at him. Keep your eyes down.’
But Sophie cannot stop herself from looking. After the Harem, this is the most beautiful room she has ever seen. The walls are painted the blue of the sea and have its luminous shine. The glass in the window sparkles. On the shelves, there are rows of books bound in leather. Has the internuncio read them all? What sort of things are in them? Tales of other worlds, of ships sailing through seas and oceans? The maps on the desk are spread wide, their ends kept from rolling up by two white rocks, studded with white crystals.
She doesn’t even know the names of the lands drawn so beautifully on these maps. Her own ignorance angers her, for she can imagine another woman, a woman who can walk through such rooms with ease, who can talk about the books she has read and journeys she has taken.
‘Look down,’ Mana whispers, pinching her elbow.
The internuncio is not as she imagined him. She thought he would be big, with strong hands, ramrod straight. Instead he is small and sinewy with rouged, wrinkled cheeks. Like an apple stored for the winter. She doesn’t like his stained and crooked teeth either.
His name may be Charles Boscamp, but, even in her mind, she cannot bring herself to call him anything but the internuncio.
‘Better be right,’ the internuncio says to Carlo who towers over his master. There is no anger in this voice though. No tension. No, he is not quite as she imagined him, but his clothes are rich. A green velvet dressing-gown embroidered with gold, white stockings and silver clasps on his shoes. The powder from the wig has spilled over on his vest. His valet should be told to be more careful. She is trying to keep her eyes down, the way her mother told her to, but cannot stop watching him.
There is an air of importance around the internuncio, in the force of his steps, the upward curve of his spine. In the way he wrings his hands, which are the white perfumed hands of a noble. She can imagine him riding, his legs spurring a horse on to greater effort. She can imagine him touching her.
She likes that thought.
Mana is talking fast, assuring the internuncio of her beloved daughter’s meek nature and good humour. Dou-Dou will not be a burden to a gentleman. There is not a trace of moodiness in her, or anger. She is sweetness itself. She is love and devotion and purity, so unlike these French ladies she hears so much about, brought up to speak their minds and put their wants ahead of anyone else’s. Dou-Dou’s heart is filled with nothing but the desire to please. She knows how to be grateful.
‘She is my daughter,’ Mana says. ‘My beloved Sophie. You will not be sorry.’
The
