Bosphorus Rose

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Bosphorus Rose

Chapter 9

That morning, Iskender had woken up when he fell off the edge of his bed. Sprawled on the floor, he groaned as he pressed his fingers to his temple. His head was pounding. He didn't know whether it was from the previous night's alcohol or from his head hitting the floorboards.

He was still in his crumpled shirt and pants, held up by his braces. He barely remembered himself stumbling back home from the dancehall, and locking the door behind him. The housekeeper and valet had helped him out of his jacket and brought him to the bed. Iskender sometimes felt bad that they had to deal with his antics, but he made sure they were well-paid. He may be self-important and prideful, but sometimes he was able to surprisingly show some trace of self-awareness.

He headed downstairs, where Cemile, his housekeeper and his footman, Enver were at the kitchen table drinking tea. On seeing him, they both resumed their duties – Enver quickly headed off to the bathroom to get the bathwater hot and ready, while Cemile prepared breakfast. It didn't take long before a spread of pickled olives, cheese and simit was in front of him. The middle-aged housekeeper who doubled as his cook in the townhouse was quick on her feet, which Iskender appreciated. He started with the simit first, tearing bite sized pieces of the twisted sesame-covered pastry and popping them into his mouth. One thing he liked about living in Constantinople was the convenience – the variety of goods, foods and services were always within reach. Back in his country estate at Nicomedia, they had to make arrangements weekly for foodstuff to be delivered to the estate, keeping in mind that the nearest village was quite a while away by horse. It was private and secluded, to Iskender's liking, but of course it came at an inconvenience. If he needed something, he couldn't just head out and get it himself

But here, in the dense streets of Constantinople, nothing seemed too faraway. It was Enver's job every morning to head out early in the morning to buy whatever Cemile asked him to. Iskender had only mentioned a craving for simit in passing the day before, but his staff was quick to deliver.

Finally, Cemile brought him his tea. Apple, just as he liked it. Sipping from his glass, he took in his surroundings. Once again he found himself on his dining table – the fine craftsmanship from France- alone. Enver and Cemile ate in the kitchen, leaving him there alone to wallow by himself. Sometimes he wished he had someone to wake up with in his bed that wasn't just there for one night, someone he could sit down with at his breakfast table and look forward to spending time with. Today was one of those days.

Iskender wasn't always like this of course. There was once when he would eat with his own family – his father, his mother, and Muhsine. Back when they were still on speaking terms. Back when everything was alright.

Cemile and Enver knew better than to talk about their employer's past, not in front of him at the very least.

For beneath the flamboyant, carefree exterior was still a very much sentimental man. He could never much forget about her. Everything about her lingered like the scent of sandalwood in a forgotten room. Everything about her, from her bright green eyes to her fair golden hair he remembered every single detail of it. She was bright, intelligent, with a sparkle in her eyes whenever she talked. Her voice was sweet and gentle like soft cashmere.

He remembered how he first met her – at the French ambassador's ball. It was one of the first exclusive events he was ever invited to, thanks to his friendship with the esteemed Monsieur Cambon, the ambassador himself.

It was held at the ambassador's residence in the heart of Beyoglu, a grand building befitting of European luxury. He arrived in his finest suit, making sure that his beard was well-groomed and neat. At the door he took off his coat and fez, revealing his hair that he had meticulously combed to the side, held in place with scented pomade.