by Victor Foia
With his foot, he gathered some of the loose straw carpeting the ground and kicked the pile under the brazier. Then he stepped away and didn’t turn to see the result of his action until he was about twenty feet away.
At first, nothing happened. Then there was a puff of smoke under the pan.
Omar let out a muffled cry. The next instant the bottom of the brazier lit up as flames began to spread over the scattered straw in all directions. He watched, fascinated, as within a minute one side of the stack of bales was ablaze, the flames reaching up into the attic hatch.
“Fire,” a woman’s shrill voice screamed, and the courtyard fell silent.
Like one, a dozen men dashed to the pyre, tripping over each other and shouting, “Allāh.” Omar found himself knocked to the ground, but sprang back to his feet and joined the chorus of “Allāh” while backing away from the fire.
Some of the men toppled the pyre with pitchforks, then dragged away the bales that hadn’t yet ignited. Others trampled with their boots the scattered straws burning on the ground. To Omar’s dismay, the fire exhausted itself as quickly as it had started, leaving behind only a fluffy pile of black ash and pungent smoke.
His stomach heaved and a sour taste filled his mouth. But when he raised his eyes to the sky in anger, he noticed a wisp of smoke trickling from beneath the roof tiles. Allah wasn’t going to allow this chance for revenge to be wasted.
15
SHAHADA
November 1442, Bursa, Ottoman Empire
Despite the calm front he kept up in public, Vlad’s decision to convert to Islam had torn him from his mooring and left him adrift in a sea of self-doubt. He’d hoped that moving out of the palace would give him the privacy needed to sort out his thoughts and reach a modicum of inner peace. But Mehmed, imagining his presence a source of moral support, insisted on visiting Vlad and Gruya at their lodgings. When Vlad complained that Hamza and Yunus were a big distraction, Mehmed ordered them to stay home.
“I’ll disguise myself as a kitchen slave,” he said, “then I don’t need bodyguards.”
Mehmed brought a Qur’an to the tenement, mindful of his agreement with Mullah Gürani. While Vlad and Gruya received religious instruction from an imam, Mehmed worked on memorizing his daily quota of ayat. Then in the evenings Vlad had to judge the recitation of the sixty-six verses Mehmed had mastered that day.
As the time to make his profession of faith approached, inner peace continued to elude Vlad. He was no closer to being reconciled to the betrayal of his faith than the moment he’d declared his intention to convert to Islam. Mehmed seemed aware of Vlad’s turmoil and avoided any discussion on the subject.
On the day set for the ceremony, Mehmed arrived early and brought a barber with him. The sight of the man’s implements recalled for Vlad the last time he lost his hair. On his twelfth anniversary he was suspected of a grievous prank, in reality perpetrated by his brother. When he chose to accept the blame, King Dracul ordered his head shaved. Though his hair grew back quickly, the humiliation felt that day lingered and was still alive now.
After today it would be a long time before he again felt his locks brush his shoulders.
He passed his fingers through his hair and imagined Marcus laughing at him, the way he’d laughed when Vlad chose punishment over betraying him. You just had to go see the fucking Turks up-close, didn’t you?
The barber dragged a stool to the center of the room. “Who wants be the first?”
Vlad stepped back involuntarily and bumped into Gruya who’d taken cover behind him.
“I’ve seen plenty of converts weep when I shaved their heads,” the barber said with a smirk. “They say infidel men are as vain about their hair as Italian courtesans about their tits.”
Vlad felt the urge to crush the man’s head.
He sat on the stool and shut his eyes. The barber sheared Vlad’s hair with lazy, indifferent moves, preserving only an inch-thick tuft around his cowlick. When the job was done Vlad felt his head lighter, as if disconnected from his neck. Next, the barber lathered the stubble on his scalp and shaved it with a straight blade. Now Vlad’s head felt cold as well.
Mehmed rubbed Vlad’s shiny skull. “How smooth.”
Gruya chuckled. “A baby’s ass couldn’t be smoother.” He put on a brave face, but the way he was tugging at his tresses in nervous farewell belied his calm. Just as he took his turn under the barber’s scissors, the imam arrived carrying an armful of white cotton shawls and two red fezzes.
“Learning to tie the turban is a new believer’s first obligation,” the imam proclaimed. “The Prophet, may Allah increase his rank, said this garment is the wall between faith and unbelief.”
Lala Gunther had taught Vlad the art of tying a turban years ago. And Vlad wore the turban whenever he listened to Gunther’s stories, or when he studied under him the oriental languages and customs. “The more you become like the infidels,” Gunther had told him, “the more you’ll understand them. That knowledge will help you defeat them one day.”
If Gunther were watching now from his perch in Heaven he’d be stunned at the transformation Vlad was about to undergo.
The imam placed one of the fezzes on Vlad’s head. “Kneel,” he said then began to wrap a shawl several yards long around Vlad’s head, from right to left. “When the Prophet ascended the sky he observed that most of the angels were wearing turbans.”
Mehmed took over from the imam and finished winding the shawl. He left two tails hanging down to the small of Vlad’s back and gained the imam’s grave approval for his skill.
“Tie the turban in this precise manner,” the imam told Vlad, “for it resembles the crown of angels.” He untied the turban and handed Vlad the shawl.
Vlad wound his turban with ease, and the imam showed his delight in a toothy smile, proud of his lesson’s effectiveness.
“Tomorrow’s the first day you’ll be entering a mosque,” the imam said. “Remember, a single prayer said with the turban on is worth seventy prayers said bareheaded.”
Things went different with Gruya. His first three attempts at tying his turban resulted in the shawl becoming hopelessly tangled. On the fourth try, the shawl sagged around Gruya’s ears like a hastily tied loincloth.
The imam raised his eyes to the sky and shook his head. “That’s good enough,” he said then turned to Vlad. “Emirzade, the time’s come for you to recite Shahada, the profession of faith.”
Vlad felt an emptiness in the pit of his stomach. This is the point of no return. He had to swallow hard before he could recite. Yet, doing it under his new name gave him a hint of solace, as if the act of conversion were performed by someone else. He stood and spoke in a hollow tone. ‘“Lā ’ilāha ’illā-llāh, muhammadun rasūlu-llāh, there is no god but God, Muhammad is the messenger of God.’”
He repeated the creed three times while Mehmed and the imam nodded in acknowledgment, fulfilling their role of witnesses. With each repetition, the words that put distance between Vlad and Mother Church blazed in his mind like a stroke of lightning. He didn’t have trouble with the first part of the creed; God was God, no matter how one spelled His name. But the second part denied Christ’s attribute as the unique voice of God. ‘“No man cometh unto the Father but by me,’” the Bible taught.
Vlad ached to believe his conversion had a higher justification than the preservation of his friend’s life.
God wanted me to save Gruya even at the price of apostasy, he assured himself. No doubt He found Gruya essential to the fulfilling of my prophesy. And if He let me do it, He’ll forgive my sin.
He felt better for an instant. But immediately doubt assailed him again.
What if man was born with free will to choose between right and wrong, as some believed, and God didn’t interfere with his decisions? In that case, Vlad couldn’t escape culpability for making the wrong choice.
The imam seemed to have read Vlad’s thoughts.
“Allah gives men the ability to follow His gu
idance, or go astray,” he said. “Today you’ve chosen to recite the Shahada and become Allah’s slave. The capacity to choose between faith and unbelief is the free will Allah seeded in you at birth.”
So much for blaming God for my betrayal of the true faith.
Gruya did his best to mangle the words Vlad fed him in Arabic.
“It occurs to me that if no one understands what I’m saying,” he whispered, “my soul should be safe from perdition.” Not convinced that was enough he added, in a whining tone, “Tell the old man I didn’t mean a word of your ‘formula.’”
“My friend regrets not having converted sooner,” Vlad translated.
The imam flashed Gruya a pleasant smile. “You may tell Abdullah bin Novak that as of this moment all his sins have been erased. He must now avoid new ones.”
Vlad translated faithfully.
“I’m leaving here and going straight to the Christian Quarter to whore,” Gruya replied. “But first, I’ll fill my belly with pork and my head with wine.”
“Bin Novak vows to guard his state of purity like a virgin her chastity,” Vlad translated.
The imam nodded knowingly then left the room with a dignified gait.
A few moments later the clip-clop of horse hooves reached them from below.
“My gift to you has just arrived, Vlad,” Mehmed said and threw open the door with an exuberant gesture.
Vlad and Gruya rushed onto the landing to see a black horse prancing nervous in the center of the yard. Around it, onlookers jostled each other to pet its shiny coat. Vlad took in the horse’s graceful curves, and imagined its restrained power that needed only a good rider to unleash.
“What’s her name?” Vlad said and sniffed the mare’s pungent odor. The scent of freedom—freedom to go with the wind—wherever you want.
“Ah, and here’s your sünnetçi, circumciser,” Mehmed said and indicated an old man climbing the stairs. “He’s a famous hekim, so you’re in good hands.”
Vlad felt a twinge in his groin.
“Time for me to leave you alone,” Mehmed said. “I’ll return in a couple of hours when you’re ready for the sweets.”
When Vlad told Gruya who the new arrival was, the squire’s face turned the color of sun-bleached parchment. They returned to their room without taking leave of Mehmed.
“I’ll let you go first this time,” Vlad said.
“It’s touching to see how selfless you can be even under the direst circumstances,” Gruya said then cursed and threw himself onto his cot. “What if you told the surgeon we’ve been clipped already and sent him away?”
“This isn’t something you can lie about, like your love conquests,” Vlad said. “If we’re ever found to have shammed our circumcision they’ll cut off our dicks, before they blind and drown us.”
“Put that way, circumcision is an attractive alternative. But damn it. What if the surgeon misses and cuts more than he’s supposed to?”
The door opened to let in the hekim.
“As-salamu alaykum,” he greeted them.
The doctor was a man in his late fifties with a henna-dyed beard and a playful disposition. Vlad found him too jovial-looking for someone specialized in maiming the male’s most precious appendage.
“Good,” the doctor exclaimed in a cheerful tone. “You’re wearing robes instead of trousers. You’ll find these garments convenient for the next few days, while you’re recovering from—”
“Forgive me for being late, Şerafeddin Efendi,” a boy of about twelve said from the doorway. Then he scurried over to the doctor’s side and placed a leather case at his feet. “A dervish has delayed me with questions by the gate.”
Without looking at him, or abandoning his smile, the doctor took hold of the boy’s ear and twisted it until he yelped. “Set up my materials for the operation.”
The doctor knelt on the floor next to Gruya’s cot, then addressed Vlad over his shoulder. “Now that you’re no longer an unbeliever, you must avert your eyes from your friend’s nakedness. The Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, said, ‘Modesty and faith are related. When one of them is lost, so is the other.’”
Vlad took a step back so the hekim wouldn’t see him, but continued to watch the scene.
Şerafeddin motioned Gruya to lift his robe. Gruya cast Vlad one last imploring look, and not receiving the encouragement to disobey, lifted his robe and pulled down his drawers.
The apprentice spread a piece of white cloth on the floor at the doctor’s right and began to place on it a variety of objects he removed from the leather case. Gruya raised himself on his elbows and watched the intriguing display with bulging eyes: a ball of silk thread, a silver box, a jar containing a yellowish substance, several cotton wads, and a tiny pair of scissors.
“Your curiosity commends you as a good surgery student, Abdullah bin Novak,” Şerafeddin said to Gruya, who watched him uncomprehending.
Vlad didn’t bother to translate.
“Most young men I circumcise are too afraid to look at my setup, preferring instead to close their eyes. Grown men are even worse. Many of them faint before I touch them, even though they might have seen death a dozen times.”
Şerafeddin chuckled. Then assuming a professorial air, he cut a ten-inch length of thread and held it up to Gruya. “I’ve come up with two inventions to make the surgery safe and almost painless.”
With thin, animated fingers, Şerafeddin fashioned a tiny noose and slipped it over the tip of Gruya’s penis.
“Other surgeons just cut the foreskin without any preparation.” He tugged hard at the noose with his left hand, while pinching and pulling the foreskin with his right hand. Then he tied the loose ends of the string to keep the hold of the noose tight.
Beads of sweat sprouted on Gruya’s forehead.
“My first invention is the use of ligatures.” Şerafeddin cut a second length of string, looped it as well into a noose and fastened it onto Gruya’s foreskin, just ahead of the first one. Then he sniffed the air. “You should have your chimney swept. The smoke’s backing up into the room.”
Vlad became aware his eyes were smarting and an acrid smell had entered the room. “We haven’t yet used the fireplace here. The smoke must be coming from a kitchen below.”
The doctor returned to his work. He placed a cotton pad over Gruya’s scrotum, then, holding on to the second noose tugged at his penis. “Looks good.”
Şerafeddin had the tone of a fisherman admiring a satisfying catch.
“The first ligature numbs the foreskin, while the second one helps me stretch out the skin so I might do the cut at the right place.” He held out his right hand to the apprentice. The boy fished into the case and came out with a huge pair of scissors whose curved blades reminded Vlad of a raven’s beak.
“Whoa, doctor,” Gruya cried out, making a terrified face, “how much are you planning to cut with those monstrous clippers?”
Vlad would’ve laughed at his friend, if he weren’t himself taken aback by the size of the instrument, so out of proportion with its intended purpose.
Şerafeddin chuckled and glanced over his shoulder at Vlad. “I love this moment in the procedure. Now tell your friend to close his eyes, count to twenty, then take a deep breath and hold it until I tell him to let it out.”
Vlad translated, voice raspy.
Gruya let himself drop back onto the mattress, covered his face with both hands, and began to count. “ Unu, one.” He paused a few seconds, then reluctantly said, “Doi, two.” He paused again, much longer this time. Then instead of saying, “Trei, three,” he let out a howl.
Şerafeddin held up a bloody patch of skin dangling from his second noose. “Surprise—is my—second—invention,” he said between peals of laughter. Then he coughed. “You must complain to your landlord about this smoke problem.”
Gruya lifted his head to inspect the damage inflicted by the scissors, and seeing the tip of his penis covered in blood, launched into a string of Hungarian curses.
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“It’s a lot less dramatic than it looks,” Şerafeddin said and opened the silver box. “This dried gourd ash will staunch your bleeding.” He sprinkled a fistful of ash over Gruya’s injury. “And this ointment will help you heal. My own recipe of egg yolk, honey, and mushrooms cooked in vinegar. The compound is strained then mixed with attar of roses. I’ll leave it with you to apply daily for two weeks.”
An uproar rose from the courtyard, punctuated by shrill, unintelligible cries. The smoke in the room had now become a bluish haze.
“Let’s finish this so I can get back to fresh air,” Şerafeddin said.
Gruya dragged himself off the cot and Vlad took his place. The hekim executed his two ligatures in silence, face solemn. He only resumed his joviality when he took hold of the large scissors.
“Regretfully, there is no way to surprise the second patient,” he said and waved the instrument over Vlad’s groin.
Heavy steps stampeded along the landing, and a woman screamed, “Fire, fire.”
The apprentice rushed to the door and when he opened it smoke billowed into the room like a wind-filled sheet. Şerafeddin dropped the scissors on Vlad’s chest and jumped to his feet with surprising agility. The next instant he was on the landing. Just then a cascade of beams and clay tiles tumbled down from the roof all around him and broke through the planks of the landing. Miraculously, Şerafeddin appeared unharmed. But the plank he stood on gave in with a loud snap and he disappeared, arms thrashing, into the void below. A new downpour of tiles and burning lumber followed him.
“Master, master,” the apprentice screamed from the doorway, hands clutching his head.
Gruya, grimacing with pain, dashed over to the boy.
“Get away,” Gruya shouted then he grabbed the boy from under his armpits and tossed him onto the unbroken landing on the side of the stairs.
“Save the doctor,” Vlad called to Gruya, aware there was little hope for the old man.
Gruya used what was left of the landing in front of the door for purchase and dropped to the ground after Şerafeddin.
