Burning Woman and the Ghost Lance
Chapter 4

Statement of the prisoner, Dr. Tlatlasihuatl. January 17, 1993 CY

We docked at a confusing chaos of a Mediterranean port city on the French Riviera. Formerly known as Marseilles, now called Marsilya in the Turkish language. Though the former nation of France was under Ottoman rule, the Côte d’Azur appeared to retain much of its unique cultural identity.

Yes, I suppose there were worse places to live in exile.

One of the cultural traditions introduced by the Turks was not to my liking, however. They had no actual dentists in their society. What they had were barbers, which at least was a profession open to women. The people who cut hair and trimmed beards were the same ones that cleaned and fixed teeth. When I gave the matter some thought, I realized that there were many similarities, not the least of which was the classic barber’s chair, which was equally suitable for dentistry.

I tried to think of some other way to earn a living other than becoming a barber. Unlike dentistry, this was not a respected profession among my people. At least, that was true at the time when I left. We tended to wear our hair long, and the men were expected to be clean-shaven by their own efforts. Many considered the cutting of one’s hair the equivalent of cutting off one’s fingers.

Alas, but there seemed no alternative short of becoming a prostitute, given my resources. Yes, I considered that as well. Becoming a barber was only slightly less insulting to my self-respect than selling my body, as far as I was concerned.

Therefore, the next morning I used what little gold I had brought with me to purchase a stall in the Western Quarter bazaar from an old barber who was retiring. After thoroughly cleaning my tools and adjusting the antique, but still serviceable, chair to my height, I stood in front of the stall and informed passers-by that, for a few coins, I would cut their hair, trim their beards, or fix their teeth, as necessary.

It took many years, but the whole thing went much better than I had the right to expect. When people learned my technique as a dentist was better than my ability to cut hair, my business improved. Since dentistry was a secondary profession for most Marsilya barbers, the people had lower expectations than I would have supposed, and were quite happy with my skills.

Customers often asked my advice about medical conditions, as well. While I am not a physician, I do know a great deal about chemicals and drugs. Most of the time that was sufficient, and if someone needed surgery I would refer him to a barber with more skill in that area than I. This made the other barbers happy, since I had been taking over much of their business up to that point.

Soon I had my own booth in the Grand Bazaar, located in the Old Port quarter - the busiest and most profitable marketplace in the busiest port on the Western Mediterranean. Many journalists at that time were calling Marsilya the Western capital of the Ottoman Empire, and it was not an exaggeration. The density of mercantile traffic that was enjoyed by the city was second only to Istanbul itself, and far greater than any I had seen in the lands of the Obsidian Jaguar.

The Ottomans ruled with a loose hand, and city seemed to be equally divided between the churches of the Christians, the temples of the Jews, and the mosques of the Muslims. I would never have been able to tell them apart, but for their distinctive architecture. As a woman of Science, I had little interest in such matters.

I had heard that the city was also known to some, for reasons not clear to me at the time, as the City of Thieves. This made no sense, since I had never been robbed. But, then, it was the practice for businesswomen in the city to hire bodyguards as soon as she could afford such luxuries. A single woman always traveled with a male escort. I did so out of respect for local customs, and gave no further thought to it. I also bought nice clothes and jewelry befitting a respected businesswoman in the style of the locals, which included a colorful headscarf and veil. It was expected. I needed to look the part, though I was not tempted to convert to all the local customs.

Those were good years, if I may be frank. I had proper tools for dentistry and a supply of chemicals and equipment to manufacture my own drugs, instead of referring people to the local apothecary. I had an apartment in a nice building in the Panier district that was free of vermin. I even had an ice box.

Best of all, I was able to purchase tchocolatl, which in that barbaric land was an imported luxury item, and something few of the locals even knew existed. Ah, a cup of warm tchocolatl with breakfast, with a pinch of crushed vanilla beans and hot peppers, and a dollop of wild honey – this was all a woman needed to feel civilized.

The closest equivalent the locals had was an odorous beverage they called café. I had tried it once and immediately spit it out. The man that had offered me the foul drink as a gesture of hospitality was highly offended, but I was able to make amends by offering to pull his wives’ teeth for no charge. It turned out that he had seven wives, and they all had bad teeth.

Overall, my life as a barber during this time was beyond luxurious. However, as it had happened so often in the past, my inventive mind began to think of ways to improve things. The little sister of fire called to me, and I turned my thoughts to her once again.

The streets of Marsilya were dark at night, with gas-lit lamps few and far between in most quarters, and bands of thieves roaming the streets at will. Cautious citizens stayed indoors after nightfall, and those who sought the night air were sure to be well armed.

I knew the answer to the problem, but the details took time to resolve. I spent five years working on the matter and I drew up plans as completely as possible before showing them to anyone.

Once I felt ready, it took time to get an audience. Being a woman, regardless of how much wealth and respect I had earned, proved to be a problem when trying to speak with public officials. However, when I presented my plans to the city magistrate, he seemed genuinely impressed. He called in the city engineer, who in turn called in the city controller, who then called in the city administrator, who brought with him the Beylerbey of the French Riviera and the Great Kadi of Marsilya. They all gathered around the table to examine my plans and studied them for a very long time without speaking.

The Beylerbey finally asked a question, which he directed at the city administrator, who then asked the city controller, who asked the city engineer, who, finally, asked me: “What would all of this cost?”

I replied, “The financial appendix contains the complete cost analysis. See? But, let me ask you this, how much is it worth to your citizens to set foot from their homes after dark in safety?”

The Beylerbey looked to the Kadi, who looked to the city administrator, the city controller, the city engineer, and the city magistrate before nodding his head. Then all the men began to nod their heads.

The Beylerbey turned to the city magistrate and said, “Let it be done.”

Then the magistrate turned to me and said: “We will need more time to study these plans, but I believe this is a good thing for our city and I can assure you that it will be done. What is your fee? How do you wish to be paid?”

This is where I believe I made my fatal mistake. I said, with uncharacteristic humility, “I seek no gain, other than the safety of the good people of this city, which is my home as well.”

The men all smiled and nodded some more.

After that, my life changed considerably.

I was moderately well known by that time as a good barber and businesswoman. Thereafter, I became known as the woman who had brought streetlights to the City of Thieves.

My advice was sought on every phase of the project, of course. I assisted the engineers with the design of the earthen dam on the Rhône River that was needed to generate the electricity – then assisted with the installation of the generators myself. I oversaw the manufacturing of arc lamps, with carbon rods that did not need adjusting (my own design, an improvement over the existing standard, in my opinion). I was present at the stringing of the wires on the poles, which would also support the lamps themselves. I was there, in my finest silk gown and scarf, five years later, when the switch was thrown for the first time and the streets of the city struck back the night with the radiance of the sun at mid-day. There was cheering, and I humbly curtsied in the European fashion, content in the knowledge that I had given something back to the city that had given me so much. More than that, I felt that I had finally redeemed myself by putting the sister of fire to safe, practical use.

My face had become a familiar one – the great foreign lady inventor who gave the city the gift of light, and took no reward for herself. I was famous, in Marsilya if not the whole French Riviera.

As it turns out, not everyone was happy about my contribution.

I did not suspect that anyone in the city wished me harm, until the night I found a cobra in my bed. It hissed angrily and raised its head in a striking pose, the distinctive hood spread as a warning display. As I backed away, trying to remember where I had left my dagger, I noticed a message scratched into the plaster wall above the bed.

I had become proficient in reading Occitan, the common tongue in this corner of Europe. The message read, “Die, foreign bitch!”

In my nightgown, I ran to replace my bodyguard, but he had disappeared. I ran out into the street to replace a night watchman. Strangely, there was none to be found on my block.

What I ran into instead was a gang of well-armed rogues. Apparently, they had been awaiting my arrival and arranged a reception.

They repeated the message: “Die, foreign bitch!”

Where was my fame now? I ran through the well-lit streets of the city with a gang of thugs hot on my heels, and not one good citizen gave a hand to help me.

I tried to dive into the canal, but the tide was out. The water barely covered my ankles. I managed to splash my way through the stinking mud to the waterfront and dove into the Mediterranean Sea.

I was able to hide under the docks to escape my would-be assassins. As I shivered in the shadows, I heard them calling my name and laughing.

With the breaking of the dawn, I made my way back to my apartment. It was ransacked. Little of value remained, but I was able to replace my father’s gold watch and my journal, which I always kept hidden. I found what little clothing which was not torn to shreds and made my way to my booth at the Grand Bazaar. It had been burned to the ground.

I looked about me. The marketplace was as crowded as it always was in the morning, but not one person would look me in the eye. It was as though I had become a spirit, a non-person. I was a thing that was not to be looked upon.

I knew many faces after spending ten years living in their city. I recognized patients I had cured of disease. Men whose teeth I had replaced with gold, or whose hair I had trimmed.

I was like nothing to them.

I felt as though my sins had finally caught up with me, and I dropped to my knees and wept. The frightened slave. The dental patient. I was as one with them now. A ghost that could not be seen.

Then a woman stepped forward. Her face was wrapped in a head-scarf, but I knew her – a rival barber, but one to whom I would send patients in need of surgery.

She helped me to my feet and slipped a leather pouch into my hands, and felt the weight of at least a dozen silver coins.

“There is a ship leaving with the tide in one hour,” she said softly. “For the love of the Prophet be on it.”

I wanted to thank her, but she quickly turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd. They all turned their backs.

After ten years living in Marsilya, I finally realized why it was called the City of Thieves. I had stolen the night from them, and that made me their enemy. I had stood up to them without realizing it, and no one else dared to stand with me.

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I regained my feet and walked down to the docks. The ship was the Yellow Pearl, and the captain told me through his solitary tooth that she was bound for the Far East, via the Suez Canal.

“I care not where you sail,” I said. “Just take me away from this place.”

Captain’s log. January 16, 1993 CY

If we have any spies in the Mediterranean, they might be able to corroborate the prisoner’s story regarding the establishment of electric lights in Marsilya. If true, it may be used as evidence that she has assisted the enemy.