by Elif Shafak
Around them darkness gathered as Sinan asked the boy about his life. Jahan told him about his sisters, his stepfather and his mother’s death. For the first time since he came to this city he told his true story, without lies and fabrications. There was no mention of Hindustan.
‘Will you go back?’ asked Sinan.
‘I shall when I’m wealthy and strong. I need to hurry up, as I want to confront my stepfather before he gets too old.’
‘So you want to return to revenge your mother?’
‘That’s right. I swear I will as God is my witness.’
Sinan lapsed into thought. ‘That sketch you sent me – whose mansion is that?’
‘Oh, it is the Grand Mufti’s. I was there the day he tried the heretic. But I made a few changes to the house.’
‘Why?’
‘I noticed it’s quite windy up there, effendi. The windows were made small for that reason, but they don’t let enough light through. I thought if there was a gallery upstairs, covered with latticework, there’d be more light and the women could watch the sea without being seen.’
Sinan raised an eyebrow. ‘I see … I thought the drawing was good.’
‘Really?’ Jahan asked incredulously.
‘You’d better learn algebra and measurement. You ought to gain an understanding of numbers. I watched you while we were building that bridge. You are smart, curious, and you learn fast. You can become a builder. You have it in you.’
Pleased to hear this, Jahan said, ‘I liked helping with the bridge … Chota was happy, too. He doesn’t like to be kept in the barn all the time.’
‘You are a bright boy, mahout. I want to help you. But there are many bright boys around.’ Sinan paused, as if waiting for his words to sink in. ‘If you wish to excel at your craft, you have to convince the universe why it should be you rather than someone else.’
What a bizarre thing to say! Jahan blinked, hoping for an explanation, but there was none. Silence poured into the space between them until Sinan spoke again. ‘Take a look around. Every man you see here is the son of an Adam. Neither noble nor rich by birth. It doesn’t matter who your father is or where you come from. All you need to do to climb up is to work hard. This is the way in the Ottoman palace.’
Jahan lowered his head.
‘You are talented, but you ought to be tutored. You must learn languages. If you promise to put your heart into this, I’ll help you get lessons at the palace school. Men in the highest positions have been educated there. You have to strive as hard as they did. Year after year.’
‘I am not afraid of work, effendi,’ said Jahan.
‘I know but you must let go of the past,’ said Sinan as he stood up. ‘Resentment is a cage, talent is a captured bird. Break the cage, let the bird take off and soar high. Architecture is a mirror that reflects the harmony and balance present in the universe. If you do not foster these qualities in your heart, you cannot build.’
His cheeks burning, Jahan said, ‘I don’t understand … Why do you help me?’
‘When I was about your age, I was fortunate enough to have a good master. He is long dead, may God have mercy on his soul. The only way I can pay him back is by helping others,’ Sinan said. ‘Besides, something tells me you are not who you seem to be. You and the elephant are like brothers. But you are no mahout, my son. There is more to you, I believe. You have not told me the entire truth.’
‘The elephant is my family now,’ said Jahan, without quite meeting the architect’s eye.
Sinan let out his breath slowly. ‘Get some rest; we shall talk again.’
As the master left the barn, a tear rolled down Jahan’s face and dropped on to his hand. He looked at it in confusion. He had a wounded shoulder and aching limbs, yet he couldn’t tell where his pain came from.
Housed in the third courtyard, the palace school had 342 youths. The brightest devshirme* boys attended the classes. They mastered Islamic law, hadith, philosophy, history of the prophets and the Qur’an. They studied mathematics, geometry, geography, astronomy, logic and oration, and learned enough languages to wend their way through the Tower of Babel. Depending on their abilities, they excelled in poetry, music, calligraphy, tiling, pottery, marquetry, ivory carving, metalwork and weaponry. Upon graduation some went into high-ranking posts in the government and military. Others became architects and scientists.
All of the tutors were male, some eunuchs. They carried long sticks, which they did not hesitate to employ to punish the slightest disobedience. The halls were silent, the rules strict. The children of Albanians, Greeks, Bulgarians, Serbs, Bosnians, Georgians and Armenians were taken into the levy of boys, but not the children of Turks, Kurds, Iranians and Gypsies.
Jahan found the classes too hard to follow. He expected to be thrown out at any moment. Yet weeks passed by. Ramadan fell during midsummer. Suddenly days were heavier, nights bursting with smells and sounds. Shops were open longer, funfairs teeming with people went on until late in the evening. The Janissaries, the scholars, the artisans, the beggars, even the addicts – many of whom bolted down on the sly a reddish-brown paste that slowly, very slowly, dissolved in their bellies, helping them to cope with abstinence – were fasting. Even as Eid came and went, no one inquired about him and Chota. It was as if they all had forgotten there was an elephant in the menagerie. Jahan sank into gloom. He suspected the Grand Vizier of being behind this. Clearly, the man had not forgiven Chota for what had happened at the Hippodrome and was biding his time to skin them alive. Little did he know that the dreaded Lutfi Pasha – the second most powerful man in the empire, the royal groom who had married Sultan Suleiman’s sister – was in deep trouble.
It all began when, in a house of ill-repute near the Galata Tower, a whore by the name of Kaymak,* due to the lightness of her skin, refused to sleep with a customer – a brute with money but no mercy. The man beat her. Not satisfied, he took out the scourge that he carried with him and flogged her. Now that – according to the unwritten and unspoken rules of the bagnios of Constantinopolis – was beyond the pale. Ill-treating a whore was understandable; horsewhipping her, nowhere in the book. Everyone in the brothel ran to the woman’s rescue, pelting the client with dung. But the man was not one to concede defeat. Foaming at the mouth, he complained to the kadi, who, fearing reprisal from the pimps, sought a middle ground. In the meantime the incident had reached the ears of Lutfi Pasha.
For quite some time the Grand Vizier had resolved to purge the streets of debauchery. Bent on shutting down the bawdy houses, he aimed to banish their fallen inhabitants to places that were so far away they would never be able to return. In the person of the flogged whore, he found the opportunity he had been waiting for. By punishing one he would teach a lesson to all loose women, of which there were too many in Istanbul. Casting aside the kadi’s verdict, Lutfi Pasha proclaimed it was the whore who was in the wrong and her genitals should be cut off. She would then be made to sit backwards on a donkey and taken around so that everyone could see what awaited the likes of her.
A punishment of this sort had never been heard of before. When Shah Sultan, Sultan Suleiman’s sister, learned about the sentence her husband deemed fit for an ill-starred woman, she was appalled. She – used to having her every whim obeyed – confronted the Grand Vizier, hoping to persuade him to change his mind. She waited till after he had been served with a mouth-watering supper – soup of intestines, pheasant stew with onions, Ozbek pilaf with raisins and baklava, Lutfi Pasha’s favourite – thinking that if she soothed his stomach, she could soothe his temperament as well.
No sooner had the servants removed the low table, washed the couple’s hands with rosewater, poured their coffees and disappeared down the corridors of the house than Shah Sultan murmured, as if to herself, ‘Everybody is raving about this prostitute.’
The Grand Vizier said nothing. An orange streak of light seeped in through the window, giving everything an eerie glow.
‘Is it true she’ll be punished in such
an awful way?’ asked Shah Sultan sweetly.
‘We reap what we sow,’ said Lutfi Pasha.
‘But is it not too harsh?’
‘Harsh? Nay, only befitting.’
‘Have you no mercy, husband?’ she asked, her voice tinged with contempt.
‘Mercy is for those who deserve it.’
Trembling, Shah Sultan rose to her feet and said the words only she could dare. ‘Do not come to my bed tonight. Nor tomorrow night nor the ones after.’
Lutfi Pasha paled. His royal bride was surely the bane of his life. People who envied him for having her were fools! Marrying the Sultan’s sister or daughter was a curse one could wish only on one’s enemy. In order to wed her, he had had to divorce his helpmate – the mother of his four children – of many years, for a Sultan’s sister would never be the second wife. In return, had she shown him any gratitude? To the contrary. She carried not a drop of compliance in her blood. Frowning on everything he did, she poured scorn on him day and night, even when the servants were around. Hence, when the Grand Vizier opened his mouth, it was his frustration that spoke. He said, ‘Never been keen on your bed anyhow.’
‘How dare you?’ Shah Sultan said. ‘You who are a servant of my brother!’
Lutfi Pasha pulled at his beard, plucking a few strands of hair.
‘If I ever hear you’ve gone ahead with your awful punishment and made this poor woman suffer, be assured that you are no longer any husband of mine!’ She strode out of the chamber, leaving him boiling in his anger.
The truth was that Shah Sultan, like many others, had expected the Grand Vizier to spare the prisoner at the eleventh hour. This would be killing two birds with one stone. He would send fear to the hearts of all who sinned and gather respect by showing clemency. Thus Shah Sultan was greatly dismayed when one crisp morning, the sentence was announced by town-criers and carried out. That same day, when Lutfi Pasha came home, he found his wife waiting, fuming.
‘Shame on you,’ she said, despite knowing that the servants were eavesdropping. ‘You are a stone-hearted man!’
‘Watch your tongue, wife. That’s no way to speak to your husband.’
‘You call yourself a husband? You who can only beat hapless women.’
Beside himself with rage, Lutfi Pasha pushed his wife against the tiled wall, and slapped her.
‘I will not stay married to a demon like you,’ she said, crying, calling him names so contemptible even the gossipers would not repeat them the following day.
Lutfi Pasha made a lunge for his mace. That was when a black eunuch dashed into the room, followed by the maidservants, the drudges, the scullery maids, the cook and the kitchen boys. Together they tied up his hands, gagged his mouth and, with their mistress’s blessing, knocked him around.
The next morning Sultan Suleiman heard that his Grand Vizier had attempted to mace his sister. That was the end of Lutfi Pasha. Deposed from his rank, deprived of his wealth, he was exiled to Demotika so fast he did not have time to pack up his things or to bid farewell to anyone.
Back in the menagerie, Jahan listened to all this, bewildered. How soon things changed and how low people fell and from what heights. Even those whom he thought untouchable. Or, perhaps, especially those. It was as if there were two invisible arcs: with our deeds and words we ascended; with our deeds and words we descended.
One afternoon, immersed in thought, Jahan walked back from the palace school to the menagerie. As he approached his shed, he heard a cough that froze his blood. When he entered, he found Captain Gareth waiting for him.
‘Look who’s comin’! Surprise! I’m back from the deep. I thought I’d better see how my little thief was doing. He must have missed me.’
Jahan said nothing, lest his voice betray his fright. The man had been drinking again. He could smell the rank odour of beer on his breath. His teeth were lined up in his mouth like barrel staves black with tar.
The Captain kept his gaze steadfastly on the mahout. ‘What? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I thought you were gone. It has been a long time,’ Jahan confessed.
‘My ship fell through a hole at the bottom of the sea. Lost eighteen men in the devil’s worst storm. Lucky me, I survived but fell captive. I contracted ague; they thought I was dead. I’ve been to hell and didn’t like the damn thing, so I returned. What, you’re not happy to see me?’
‘I am.’
The man flashed him a look of distrust. ‘You’ve been here long enough. What have you stolen? Show me. You must have a treasure trove by now, being the Princess’s pet.’
Jahan flinched at the mention of her name. How did he know about Mihrimah? There were spies everywhere. He said, as calmly as he could manage, ‘Effendi, it’s not easy. The doors are guarded.’
‘I said, what did you get for me?’ Captain Gareth sharpened his voice, ready to use it like a weapon. His skin got a shade darker, including the scar on his face.
Jahan had hidden the stolen things under the lilac tree. The Captain immediately confiscated the sapphire brooch, but then made a weird sound, as though he were choking on his tongue. Jahan stared at him in terror, until he realized that the man was laughing. After he’d had a good cackle, he turned sullen. ‘Is this all? What do you take me for, an idiot?’
‘I’m telling the tru—’
In one swift move the man pulled a dagger from his jacket and held it to Jahan’s throat. ‘I don’t like liars. Never did. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t skin you alive.’
The end of the blade piercing his flesh, Jahan swallowed hard. ‘I have got news. I am … working with the Chief Royal Architect.’
‘So?’
‘We’ll be building mosques … for the Sultan. Lots of money comes in.’
The pressure of the cold metal slackened. Captain Crazyhead took a step backwards and regarded the boy as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Talk!’
‘The Sultan sets great store by the buildings Sinan raises for him and his family. Imagine, he spends more coins on stones than on gems.’
‘Fine, then …’ the Captain said in a rasping whisper. ‘You couldn’t steal from the palace. Steal from the building works. Earn your master’s trust. Be a good lad. Get your hands on the cash. I saved your skin on that damned ship, remember? Don’t make me take the favour back.’
‘I won’t, effendi. You won’t regret waiting this long. I shall bring you riches. Soon insha’Allah,’ said Jahan, and in that moment he believed what he said.
By the end of the summer a new disease was clawing at the Ottoman land. Blisters, vomiting, fever, death. Sheitan’s spittle they called it, those reddish spots. Many perished in a matter of days. Among them was Shehzade Mehmed, only twenty-one years old, son of Suleiman and Hurrem, the apple of their eyes.
The Sultan was devastated. Clad in coarse robes, refusing to see anyone, he devoted himself to prayer. Istanbul mourned with him. Lamps were dimmed, voices hushed. Stores closed early; weddings and bar mitzvahs and circumcisions were kept in abeyance. The fishing boats circling the Serai Gate passed by soundlessly, as if grief were a sleeping baby not to be awakened. The storytellers in the bazaars, the wandering balladeers, the hawkers on the streets, even the minstrels who went to bed with songs and got up with songs – all fell silent. The only thing that disturbed the quiet was the rain. It pelted down in such abundance it was thought the sky was shedding tears for all and sundry. It was on a day such as this that Chota and Jahan were, for the first time, honoured with a visit from the Sultan.
Sunken cheeks, sallow skin, drooped shoulders. The Sultan was so unlike the man Jahan had saluted at the Hippodrome that he might not have recognized him were it not for the guards on his heels. Hastily, he bowed down.
‘I remember you and your elephant,’ said the Sultan.
Blushing, Jahan flinched from the memory of that ominous afternoon.
‘How is your shoulder?’
‘It’s fine, my Lord.’
‘The beast, what d
oes he eat? Tell me about it.’
This Jahan did. He raved about how Chota loved the mud, the water and the food, all the while sensing that Sultan Suleiman needed not so much the information as the distraction from grief. He said if you wished to hurt an elephant you ought to go for the trunk. Having no bones, only muscles, the trunk was many things at once: a nose, an upper lip, an arm, a hand. Breathing, smelling, eating, drinking, sucking up water to shower themselves, scratching their ears, rubbing sleep off their eyes – there was no end to the things elephants could achieve with their trunks. Just as human beings were left- or right-handed, so, too, were elephants left- or right-tusked. Jahan concluded Chota was left-tusked.
‘Strange that an animal so majestic has a tail this flimsy,’ said the Sultan. ‘Do you think Allah is reminding us even the strongest have their weaknesses?’
Not knowing how to answer, Jahan fumbled for words. Mercifully, the Sultan went on, ‘The Chief Royal Architect told me you and the elephant would help him.’
‘That’s right, your Highness.’
‘Then be ready. You shall put the beast to work again.’
It was only later on that Jahan would find out what the Lord of the Land and the Sea had meant. He had commissioned Sinan to build a mosque for his deceased son. In a fleeting world, where everything was here today and gone tomorrow, the endowment for the beloved Prince would be of solid marble, solid stone.
And this is how, on the seventh day of September, an auspicious time set by the Chief Royal Astronomer Takiyuddin, Jahan found himself on a construction site, watching the first spade pierce the earth. Forty sheep and forty rams were sacrificed, their blood scattered on to four corners, their meat cooked in cauldrons and distributed among the poor and the lepers. Jahan noticed Ebussuud Efendi, with his high turban and flowing robes, in the crowd. Having become the Shayh al-Islam – the Chief Religious Officer – he carried himself with imperiousness. Seeing him up close sent a shiver down Jahan’s spine. He recalled with a lingering ache the heretic Majnun Shaykh – his velvet voice, handsome face and unclouded gaze. He had not forgotten him.
