Chapter Twenty-six
The other slaves didn’t know what to make of Chantelle’s presence among them.
Some were spiteful, some sympathetic, some fearful of speaking to her at all.
Apparently, a concubine from the royal harem had never before been sentenced to kitchen labor.
And from the few derogatory remarks she overheard, she knew she was singularly unique in not wanting to win the Dey’s favor.
With every other woman going out of her way to please him in any way possible, it was no wonder punishment such as she had incurred was rare.
She was considered a freak, her crime heinous.
God, what absurdity. She hadn’t done anything wrong as far as she was concerned.
Of course she hadn’t thought so two days ago, when she’d been brought to the cavernous kitchen area and turned over to the Chief Cook, who was now in charge of her.
At that time she had been so terrified, the large, overbearing woman had taken one look at her and turned away in disgust, ranting that she would never get any work out of such a pale, skinny wraith.
But Chantelle’s fear had been very real after Rahine’s parting shot.
She didn’t know why the Dey’s life should be in danger if he left the palace, but that he had, and that it was, horrified her, for she did think she was responsible, and she believed absolutely that if he didn’t come back, her life would be forfeit.
She hadn’t slept that night, for no one had bothered to let her know that Jamil had returned safely to the palace.
She’d learned of it the next day, when one of Noura’s servants, Noura being his second wife, came through the kitchens bragging to anyone who would listen that her mistress had been summoned for that night.
Chantelle had then felt such keen resentment that it surprised her.
She’d told herself it was because of her sleepless night, all for nothing, that Rahine could at least have had the decency to send word that her life was no longer in danger, even if her punishment wasn’t to be rescinded.
Her umbrage certainly wasn’t because Jamil was going to spend the night with one of his wives.
He could have a bloody orgy for all she cared, as long as she wasn’t included.
And it didn’t look like she would be, ever.
He sent her to labor as a kitchen slave and blithely went on with his customary lechery, the swine.
Rahine was probably right—she would be forgotten in this dreary, unfriendly place.
Well and good. It was what she had originally hoped for, wasn’t it, to end up anything but a concubine?
But it would have been nice if she hadn’t spent those first few days as a concubine, which accounted for the outright resentment of some of the other women who shared her new existence.
Not all, though. She had met Adamma’s mother yesterday and found her as likable as her daughter.
Fayolo was a beautiful Nigerian who seemed much too young to have a daughter Adamma’s age, but she had informed Chantelle unabashedly that she had been a ripe thirteen when she began catching the eye of the palace guards.
That the kitchen slaves had access to other parts of the palace was news that Chantelle pounced on, until the Chief Cook snapped that she wasn’t to have such freedom, by Rahine’s orders, which just added another dose of resentment to that which was already brewing.
The large chamber was to be her prison and, with a pallet on the cold floor, her bedchamber as well.
Jamil had sent her here—she didn’t doubt that.
He had obviously left the order before he’d stormed out of the palace.
If it had been left to Rahine to punish her, she would more likely have been severely beaten instead, the lady had been that angry with her.
No, Jamil had put her here, probably thinking that this would shame her more than anything else, that she would regret losing her pampered existence in the harem and wish she had been more agreeable to him.
Hah! He had done for her what she hadn’t been able to figure out how to do for herself.
He had put her out of his reach. Well, not exactly, but if enough time passed, he would forget about her.
And as she had already concluded, why would he bother with her again when he had so many women who prayed to have his notice?
She had to count her blessings. It might not be a pleasant place to work, but thanks to her stay with Aunt Ellen, a kitchen was at least familiar ground.
And they had made their own meals. The blustering cook, who was so quick with the slaps and the shouts, might not be an easy taskmaster, but Chantelle would eventually get along with the woman if it killed her.
The main thing was, here she didn’t have to worry about being summoned to share her lord’s bed.
For that relief she could put up with anything, the hostility, the ridicule, the constant work, even a slap from the Chief Cook when she did something wrong.
Also, she would have a much better chance of escaping from the kitchens than the harem, whose every door was guarded.
But that was for later, when she was acclimated and no longer under curious observation from nearly everyone.
Yesterday had been a normal workday, yet even with so many slaves on hand, Chantelle had still been kept busy, for this kitchen fed all the concubines and favorites of the Dey.
Fayolo informed her that only the eunuchs’ kitchen, one building over, was as busy, since there were three times as many eunuchs, but that the ideal kitchen to work in was Lalla Rahine’s, which served only her.
“But what of the palace guards and the slaves?” Chantelle had wondered aloud. “Isn’t their number even greater?”
“Much greater,” Fayolo told her. “But their food is simple fare, requiring much less actual preparation.”
Today Chantelle found out just how much preparation could go into one meal, and this for only ten people.
She was awakened before dawn to help Fayolo get a young sheep ready for roasting.
Mechoui, the dish was called, and Chantelle, so used to bringing home already butchered meat from the market, lost the leftover pastry she had quickly downed as her breakfast when she watched Fayolo plunge a knife into the carotid and blood spurt out.
She had time to recover, however, since they had to wait until all the blood was drained, but then a hole was made with the knife point above the knee joint on one back leg and the skin loosened there.
With nausea fast returning, she had to take turns with Fayolo blowing through this hole until the air reached the forelegs so the sheep could swell and stiffen.
Fayolo took pity on her and did the skinning, but the Chief Cook insisted Chantelle participate in scraping and rinsing the tripe, as well as singeing and cleaning the head and trotters.
She was twice sick again before they finished, over which the cook and half the women there laughed heartily, but finally the sheep was impaled from tail to throat for slow roasting and basted in olive oil.
It would take five hours for the skin to become crackly and the flesh juicy, but Chantelle was not given a respite.
She also had to help cut up camel meat for the tajin, a stew that was so thick it was eaten with the fingers, while Fayolo made the couscous, a delicious-smelling dish of semolina with chicken and two sauces, one to moisten the semolina and one to spice the dish, with vegetables cooked down to a paste.
But the most arduous time was spent helping the Chief Cook with the bstila to round out this feast for ten.
Never had Chantelle seen such a complicated dish for so few in number.
Three actual pounds of butter were needed, thirty eggs, four pounds of flour, six pigeons, twelve ounces of sugar, a pound of almonds, and then the exact measurement of cinnamon, ginger, pimentos, onions, saffron, and coriander.
What it turned into in the end was an enormous stuffed flaky pastry with one hundred and four thin individual layers of crust.
The bstila took all day to make, but Chantelle only had to help with the crusts in the afternoon, after the previous helper had fainted from the heat.
During the few hours that she was under the cook’s watchful eye, she received two separate slaps when she broke two of the thin crusts when setting them aside.
Fayolo tried to change places with her, for she was the one basting the sheep, a much easier job, but she got a slap for the offer.
Chantelle thought the cook was just being spiteful, until she heard one of the other women giggle that Noura had specifically requested that she have a hand in each preparation.
And then she learned that this feast was Noura’s idea, a surprise for the Dey, to be attended only by his wives and favorites.
For a split second, she wished she could get her hands on some poison.
But by the time this magnificent feast was carried out, she wished only for her pallet.
She was wilted, her hair and clothes damp with the sweat that had run off her all day, and so tired she could barely keep her eyes open.
She was certainly too tired to eat her own dinner, which wouldn’t be served for several hours yet, since the kitchen slaves didn’t rest until the last concubine had been fed.
Fortunately, the cook must have found an ounce of pity in her large frame, because she sent Chantelle to bed, rather than ordering her to another table where food was still being prepared for the other ladies of the harem.
Or maybe she just realized that Chantelle simply couldn’t do any more today without dropping.
The reason didn’t matter. Chantelle was asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, her last thought of Jamil’s second wife and how she would have liked to see her roasted instead of that poor young sheep, which she hoped they all choked on, especially Jamil.