CHAPTER 41
An Embarrassing Question
“You’re so lazy,” said Rustem Bey, leaning over her where she reclined on the divan in the haremlik, “you just lie around all day doing nothing, only getting up to be fed.”
She blinked up at him with an expression that seemed to proclaim that he was completely mad, and he touched a finger to her cheek. “And what’s more, everywhere that you’ve been sleeping you leave patches of hair and grit. So much grit! Where does it come from? Why don’t you wash? Have you no self-respect?”
“She doesn’t care about how much grit there is,” said Leyla Hanim, who was reclining equally lazily upon the bed, “as long as someone comes and sweeps it away.” She popped a piece of pink lokum into her mouth, and continued, “When I remember how much you didn’t want to bring the cat along when you took me from Istanbul, it makes me laugh. I remember your face. You said, ‘I reckoned on no cat!’ ” Leyla giggled at the memory, the end of her nose wrinkling up with mirth, in the manner that he had always found very fetching.
“Pamuk and I are good friends now,” said Rustem Bey. “She hasn’t eaten my partridge, and she is very good to talk with.”
“You love her more than you love me,” replied Leyla, pouting and rolling over on to her stomach. She kicked her heels in the air, and smiled coquettishly at Rustem, licking the sugar off her fingers.
“There’s nothing to choose between you,” observed Rustem. “You’re both completely idle and you’re both getting plump.”
“She’s not completely idle! She goes out at night and has fights, and yeowls along with the best of them. I’m much lazier than she is.”
“You say that with pride, it seems.”
“I’ve worked very hard to get as lazy as this. At night I can’t go out and fight and yeowl because my master wants to lie with me, and besides, I’m tired from all the lying about I have to do. Anyway, don’t you like me plump? You don’t think I eat like this just to please myself?”
“Well, of course you do. But I like you plump anyway.”
“More to enjoy?” suggested Leyla salaciously.
“More to enjoy.” Rustem stroked his moustache, and asked, “Why do you think Pamuk has never had kittens?”
“God decreed otherwise,” said Leyla. “I’ve never got pregnant myself, and I wonder why. If we were married I would be afraid that you’d divorce me.”
“Has Philothei gone home?” asked Rustem Bey, and when she nodded he sat beside her on the bed and stroked her face in much the same way as he had been stroking the cheek of the cat. “I want to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“It’s been intriguing me for a long time, but I never got round to asking.”
“Yes?”
“When we are together … at night …” he smiled shyly, “you say things, you know, when we are …”
“Together?”
“Yes. When we are in pleasure together.”
“What things?”
“You say things that sound like ‘s’agapo’ and ‘agapi mou.’ ”
“Do I?”
“Yes. What do they mean?”
“Mean? They mean nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“They are little words I like to say … endearments … to show my pleasure.” Leyla was by now feeling very embarrassed and awkward. She could feel her cheeks begin to flush, and that knowledge made them flush even more. Her brain whirled as she tried to think of an explanation.
“What language are they?” demanded Rustem Bey.
“What language?”
“Yes.” And then Rustem saved her unintentionally by saying, “I always supposed that they’re Circassian.”
Much relieved, Leyla said, “Yes, they’re Circassian. Of course.” She held out her arms and summoned him by beckoning with all of her fingers at once, her painted nails glowing in the light of the brazier. “Come, my eagle,” she said, “Philothei’s gone home and so has her sweet but ugly little friend. I’m suddenly not feeling quite so lazy.”
Rustem Bey hesitated, but then he acquiesced.