She quickly lowered her phone again as their eyes met, a moment that triggered further confusion in the man’s face.
Ramazan’s breath caught. The man was crossing a critical threshold of consciousness. There was no time to waste. He had to try to keep him in that semi-alert state just a little bit longer to get that one last answer out of him—the most crucial one—even at the risk of the man waking up completely.
He increased the dosage again, slightly, knowing that it could very soon overwhelm his patient and send him back to sleep, all while trying to come up with a quick reply that wouldn’t raise the man’s suspicions. He studied the man’s reaction, trying to gauge the drugs’ effect. “I’m your hekimbaşı, excellency,” he told him, using the traditional word for chief physician. “You’ve got a little fever—that’s all. You were telling me all about this miraculous Palmyrene incantation you discovered. You remember it, don’t you?”
The man seemed even more glassy-eyed and disoriented. After a few seconds, he muttered, “The incantation … yes.”
Ramazan discreetly reached for a pen and for the patient’s medical chart, flipping it to the back to reach a clean sheet of paper. “So if you now wanted to go back to your time … what would you say? What is the incantation?”
And with Nisreen edging in to make sure her phone captured every sound and recorded his lips forming the mystical words, and Ramazan scribbling what he heard with rapt attention, the tattooed man closed his eyes in concentration and mouthed the incantation, slowly, hesitantly. He stopped to explain where the number of moons was to be inserted, clear-minded enough to avoid getting pulled back in time from his hospital bed inadvertently, before concluding with the rest of the spell.
The long sequence of words coming out of his mouth were strange and completely alien to them, a string of syllables in an unrecognizable, long-forgotten language, one that had fallen out of use for centuries. And yet they had a beauty to them, a lyricism, a cadence that seemed at one with their phenomenal power.
Ramazan felt an indescribable sense of awe. He turned to Nisreen, whose face was also beaming with astonishment. The small windowless room, the hospital, Paris itself—it all fell away, sights and sounds disappearing from around them as they stood there, spellbound, momentarily lost in their own flights of fancy, their minds somersaulting through the possibilities now within their grasp if this was indeed all true—a brief, magical moment of profound wonderment, but one that was also rooted in terror. It was short-lived as reality soon tore through their reverie, reminding them of where they were and of the precariousness of their situation.
Ramazan reached over and adjusted the IV feeds. “Thank you, your excellency. Now you should get some rest.”
He watched as the tattooed man’s eyelids slid down and the man’s breathing settled into a calm repose.
“You need to leave,” Ramazan told his wife.
“We need to talk.”
“I know. I know. But not now. I’ve got surgeries. I need to get ready. And you need to get out of here.”
“When then? This can’t wait until tonight. We need to talk about this. Lunchtime? Can you get out?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can take a lunch break.” She pressed.
“All right. I’ll call you as soon as I know when.” He then pointed at her phone. “Did you get it? All of it?”
“Every word.”
He nodded. “Let’s go.”
They were about to step out; she reached for his arm and stopped him.
“Be careful,” she said. “Make sure no one else finds out about this.”
Ramazan said nothing at first. Then he nodded. “I know.”
They stood there, the ramifications percolating inside them—then Ramazan opened the door, looked around, and led Nisreen out.
They were approaching the wide door of the intensive care unit when it swung open and Fonseca walked in, one of the nurses alongside him.
Ramazan reacted quickly, moving in front of Nisreen and spreading his arms welcomingly as he exclaimed, “Moshe, I was coming to find you.”
She understood just as fast. She tilted her head down and adjusted her veil, veering away from them as Fonseca replied, “We’ve got a busy morning, brother.”
Ramazan didn’t dare look back to see where Nisreen was, but he sensed her moving off. “Is there any other kind?” he asked the surgeon gleefully.
“Let’s get started then.”
As they walked back into the ward, Fonseca asked, “How’s our illustrated patient doing?”
Ramazan tried his best to keep his tone even. “I haven’t brought him out yet.”
Which surprised the surgeon. “Still not? Any complications I should know about?”
“No, not really. I just wanted to give his pain a chance to subside some more.”
“You can’t keep him asleep forever,” Fonseca said, slapping Ramazan on the back. “Let’s wake him up when we’re done. I’ve got to admit, I’m curious about the man. All those strange markings … He could have an interesting story to tell.”
“Maybe,” Ramazan replied, feeling an uncomfortable twist in his gut.
27
Nisreen drifted away from the Hurrem Sultan complex and wandered aimlessly down the narrow streets of the Île de la Cité, her mind flooded by the torrent of revelations that had begun the night before.
She soon reached the edge of the island and kept going. She crossed the crowded, built-up bridge to the right bank of the Seine. There, she meandered around the avenue that ran alongside the river, oblivious to the city that was springing to life all around her; deaf to the cacophony of clanging trams, irate car horns, and shrill bicycle bells; immune to the dogged male street vendors hawking their wares. She paused once or twice to rest and take in the views of the magnificent buildings that lined the riverbanks, a melting pot of neoclassical Greco-Roman architecture and Islamic minarets and domes—much like those in the empire’s capital city of Istanbul with its Byzantine roots, which she’d only seen in pictures—but the city quickly receded from view, a bustling metropolis turned into a muted still life, her mind still snared by a kaleidoscope of possibilities.
She took the stairs down to the river’s edge. Despite the crush of barges that were churning up the murky water and the chaotic, crowded quays lining its banks, she managed to find a quiet spot where she could listen to the recording she’d made of the tattooed man’s tale. Holding the phone close to her ear, making sure no one was around to overhear the slightest word, she replayed it over and over, dissecting every sentence, every syllable.
Shortly before ten, and with the sun’s potent blaze already making itself felt, reality charged back in with a phone call from her assistant, reminding her about a meeting at her office that morning. She dipped into a small café that had a family section at the back, downed a quick coffee and a spinach-filled pastry, and remembered to call Sumayya to make sure everything was fine. Sumayya assured Nisreen it had all gone smoothly and asked if she should meet Tarek and Noor after school. Nisreen thought about it quickly; told her that there was no need, thinking she would be able to do it; thanked her; and hung up. Then she hurried back into the street. She scoured the passing cars, looking for a female taxi, the black ones with darkly tinted windows and, crucially, a woman driver. She couldn’t find one. Instead, she walked two blocks to a major cross-street and grabbed a tram, settling into its female compartment for the short ride.
Her law practice occupied half a floor of an old building in the Marais district, squatting in the shadows of the glamorous squares of hôtels particuliers, the large mansions that the French nobility had built in the seventeenth century before the invasion. They were now mostly occupied by senior members of the ruling askeri elite, some of whom were converts from Catholicism, members of the nobility who had long forgotten their French roots and fully embraced their new identity. The practice was almost entirely staffed by women, apart from one male lawyer, whose name was al
ongside Nisreen’s on the placard, and two junior clerks who worked with him. Nisreen had met him through Halil Azmi, the law professor who had just been beheaded. They were both mourning his loss.
Nisreen felt comfortable enough among her staff to be more relaxed than was customary, and once inside she took off her veil, her headdress, and her light coat, even though there were men present who were not her immediate relatives. She sat through her meeting without really engaging the others and wound it up as quickly as she could, then sequestered herself in her office, unable to focus on even the most mundane task.
For the rest of the morning, she avoided her colleagues and let incoming phone calls go to voice mail. Before long, she began to flag. The surge of adrenaline that had kept her on her feet after a sleepless night began to ebb, so she got two more cups of thick coffee and some honey-and-pistachio baklava to give herself a boost. She couldn’t allow fatigue to take over. There was too much to consider, too much to discuss with Ramazan.
She found herself pulling up articles on Ottoman history from the internet and reading about the empire’s evolution since its glorious conquest of Vienna in 1094.* It had been a long time since she’d studied the subject, and there was a lot she wanted—more than wanted, needed—to read about. With the tattooed man’s words still echoing in her mind, she moved on to refresh her memory of the histories of ancient Rome and Greece and their doomed politics, stopping to skim curiously through Plato’s and Socrates’s theories on democracy, which she had last encountered during her law studies. She then remembered another side of the story and flicked across to articles about Palmyra, perusing a brief overview of the city’s history before staring at images of magnificent Greco-Roman ruins like the Temple of Bel and the Tetrapylon, all ever-popular tourist attractions, her mind drifting off to imagine what it must have been like for the man who discovered the mystical carvings in some long-lost corner of that ancient metropolis—a discovery that ended up costing him his life.
She then pulled up a detailed biography of Ayman Rasheed, her pulse racing as she stared at the image of his portrait and read about the philosopher-sage’s key role in the battle of Vienna. Everything matched what the tattooed man had told Ramazan: that he was responsible for the tactics of that infamous day, the day that had changed history.
She managed to tear herself away from his biography and looked up the Palmyrene language. Palmyra was pagan for thousands of years before the Romans converted to Christianity and spread it among the locals, which survived until Islam came about in the seventh century and swept up the entire region. Nisreen scoured random translations of texts, looking for words that sounded familiar from the tattooed man’s incantation. She pulled out a notebook from her handbag and began to take notes, first jotting down the long incantation itself, then plugging in Palmyrene words that seemed to fit into it. She felt a buzz of excitement as more and more words started to fall into place, but an uncomfortable feeling arose deep inside her, something begging for her attention. Before she could put a finger on it, an incoming call roused her phone.
Caller ID told her it was the playwright’s wife, and Nisreen felt instantly guilty about not being on the case. She took the call and informed the woman that there was no news. She told her she would keep pressing the authorities on it and did her best to calm her down and reassure her. Then, gently, she ended the call.
She mopped her face with her hands and ran her fingers through her hair. She needed to get a grip and calm down. For better or worse, the secret—if it was real, which she was now inclined to believe—was in her and Ramazan’s hands. Nothing could change that. They now needed to figure out what to do with it—and make sure it didn’t end up bringing devastation to their lives.
For the next couple of hours, her thoughts cartwheeled all over the place. The puzzle of translating the incantation was too compelling, and there was too much to read, too much to think about, which was proving to be a frustrating struggle since she was too tired to dig deep. It would have to wait. And by the time she found herself sitting at a quiet corner table deep inside the family section of a kahvehane by the Sultan Majid Imperial Library, which was roughly halfway between her office and the hospital, she was exhausted and weary.
By the looks of it, Ramazan wasn’t in much better shape.
They quickly ordered some pomegranate juice along with fried lamb patties and a halawa dip and waited until the waiter was out of earshot before speaking.
“I can’t stop thinking about this,” Nisreen told Ramazan.
“Me neither.”
“I mean, it’s just … mind-boggling. You, me, the children … everything we know. We’re all here because of him. Because of what he did.”
“If what he says is true.”
She sighed, more with mental exhaustion than from the physical tiredness she was also feeling. “The big if.”
“If it is, the man’s even more of a hero than we already give him credit for.”
“‘More of a hero’?”
Ramazan looked confused. “Of course. You heard what he said.”
“Of course, but—what do you mean?”
“That world he described—his world. The world he changed. It sounded like a complete disaster.”
“Is that what you thought?”
“What else could I think? You heard him. Greed. Decadence. Moral decay. Corruption. Leaders robbing their people and getting away with it. Wars based on lies. A world falling apart.”
“I heard all that. But I also heard something else.”
“What?”
“Freedom.”
“Freedom? More like chaos, anarchy.”
“No,” she insisted. “Freedom. Didn’t you hear what he said? A world where almost anything is allowed. Where people get to choose who rules over them, where they live the way they want with whoever they like, where they wear what they want. A world where a black man was president. Where a woman can become president. Where people can openly criticize their leaders without getting jailed. Think about it.”
Nisreen’s husband frowned. “We’ve had women running the empire.”
“They were the mothers of child sultans, Ramazan. Regents, not women who ruled in their own right. Not women who were chosen by their people. He spoke about a world where a woman can reach that level of achievement,” she said wistfully, “which has to mean a world where anyone can do absolutely anything.”
“Exactly. They can do anything. Everyone can do anything. Which is what led to their collapse. They taught it to us at school, Nisreen. Surely you haven’t forgotten? Democracy inevitably degenerates into anarchy.”
“It can’t be that simple.”
“Wiser heads than ours say it is. Our empire has been around for seven centuries. Longer than any other in history. There’s a reason for that.”
“And the reason might well be your patient and what he did.”
“In which case we should be grateful to him,” Ramazan replied forcefully. “Our way of life works. It’s like he said. People need a strong guiding hand.”
“A guiding hand, not an iron fist,” she shot back pointedly. “Do you really think human nature is so vile and weak that we can’t be trusted to make our own decisions?”
“It’s what history has shown us.”
“Well, maybe history hasn’t given us enough of a chance. Maybe it’s a process that needs more time to mature. It’s a journey of discovery, and maybe it’s one that we all deserve a chance to make.”
Ramazan shrugged. “We’ve seen what happens when people have too much freedom. Just like he said.”
Nisreen was about to reply but went silent as a waiter passed behind her. Once she was sure he was out of earshot, she said, “Well, I for one would rather live in a world where we’re free to live as we like without this constant fear about what we say or think.”
Ramazan looked exhausted and exasperated in equal parts. “What difference does it make? We’re here, now. Whatever he’s talking about, it’s n
ot relevant to our world.”
She shrank back, deflated.
“Besides, we shouldn’t even be talking about this. If it’s real, it’s haram,” he said, using the word for what is forbidden by Islamic law. “It’s suhr”—magic—“isn’t it? Which makes him, what, some kind of djinn? God forbids it.”
“How can it be forbidden when it’s because of this suhr that the whole of Europe is under our flag? I mean, we’ve always been told that our great empire is the embodiment of the will of God. But it’s not, is it? It’s what it is because of what your tattooed patient did. Why would God use something that’s haram to achieve his will?”
“I don’t know, Nisreen. It’s all so crazy.” Ramazan heaved a ponderous sigh and looked away, shaking his head slowly. After a long pause, he said, “So I guess we’re saying we believe him now?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
Ramazan’s eyes flared wide. “No.”
She leaned in, her voice low but impassioned. “We have to. We have to try it.”
“Nisreen, no. I forbid it.”
“We have to,” she insisted. “I need to know if it’s true or not. It’s the only way.”
“No.”
“We’ll be careful,” she insisted.
“How can we be careful about something we don’t understand?” he blurted loudly before catching himself and visibly regretting his outburst. “All we know is it doesn’t work within our lifetime. But what does that mean exactly? And where would you want to go? To the past? Or to the future?”
And just then, a sudden realization jolted her, a horror that stung every pore of her body. She went ramrod stiff.
“Bok,” she cursed.
“What?”
Nisreen was scouring her memory, trying to remember precisely what the tattooed man had said—and hadn’t. She knew she was right, but she had to be sure. She reached into her handbag and pulled out her notebook, flipped to the pages of notes about the incantation, and scoured them intensely. Then, with jittery fingers, she grabbed her phone, turned the media volume right down to make sure no one would hear anything, and played the recording, forwarding to the part that was worrying her and holding the phone up close to her ear.
Empire of Lies Page 18
