The Architect's Apprentice

by Elif Shafak

  Having heard of this name from his master, Jahan was quiet.

  ‘Sultan Bayezid had sought his help. Leonardo sent him his drawings. Not a humble letter, in my opinion. He said he could make the bridge. Not only that, he’d make lots of other things in our city. A movable bridge across the Bosphorus.’

  Simeon opened another chest. Inside were sketches that he said were by Michelangelo, most of them of domes – belonging to the Pantheon, Florence’s cathedral and the Hagia Sophia. ‘Michelangelo was bent on coming here. Said so in his letters.’

  ‘You corresponded with him?’

  ‘Long time ago. He was a young man. So was I. He wanted to work in the Levant. I encouraged him. The Sultan was open to it. I was their dragoman. Me and the Franciscan friars. But not sure they helped; they don’t like the Turks.’ Simeon lapsed into thought. ‘He was going to build a bridge across the Golden Horn. It would have had an observatory inside. And a library. I’d have been in charge of that.’

  Jahan heard the disappointment in his voice. ‘What happened?’

  ‘They convinced him not to. They said it was better that he should die at the hands of the Pope than be rewarded by the Sultan. That was the end of it. Rome is Rome. Istanbul is Istanbul. Nobody is talking about bringing the two cities closer any more.’ Simeon sighed wearily. ‘But they are always watching.’

  ‘Who, effendi?’

  ‘The eyes of Rome. Watching your master.’

  Jahan felt uncomfortable. He thought about the falling scaffolding and the cut ropes; he thought about the marble that was never delivered … Behind all these accidents and misfortunes, could there be a hidden force? The eyes of Rome. He composed himself. His mind had run wild again.

  Meanwhile the man had already walked over to a shelf and pulled out a tome with woodcut illustrations.

  ‘This is yours. Tell your master this is the book that I chose for you.’

  Without so much as a glance at the cover Jahan opened his pouch but the bookseller refused. ‘Keep your coins, young man. Learn Italian. If you are a man of bridges, you ought to be able to speak sundry languages.’

  Tucking the book under his arm, lost for words, Jahan walked out. The horse was waiting. Only when he arrived at Sinan’s house did it occur to him to examine the gift. It was La Divina Commedia by a gentleman called Dante.

  When Jahan showed the book to Sinan, his face broke into a smile. He said, ‘Simeon seems to have liked you. He gave you his favourite book.’

  ‘He said I ought to learn Italian.’

  ‘Well … he’s right.’

  ‘But who is going to teach me?’

  ‘Why, Simeon himself of course. He also taught Davud, Nikola and Yusuf.’

  Jahan felt a twist of jealousy. Until then he had believed that the old bookseller had liked him more than the others. Sinan said, ‘When you master a language, you are given the key to a castle. What you’ll find inside depends on you.’

  Liking the imagery of entering a castle to collect the riches within, Jahan beamed. ‘Yes, master.’

  That was how the novice came to spend many hours of his youth in the bookseller’s shop, which would, by and by, become a haven, a home. He was no outsider inside those walls. Lost among books, he found himself. As his knowledge of Italian grew, he began to dabble in Latin and French; and, as his knowledge of drawing grew, he inched his way up from novice to apprentice, and at last found himself welcome in Sinan’s own library. There was another collection at the headquarters of the royal architects in Vefa. Over the years Jahan would visit it on many occasions, but nothing would give him such pleasure as being in Simeon’s house, surrounded by the smells of ink, leather and baking bread.

  Trumpeting, rumbling, Chota paced up and down. He had been in a similar state twice before, but each time the craze had come and gone. Only now it was not going anywhere. Unruly and ill-tempered, he had so scared the servants the other day that Jahan had to have him chained. In the morning, the beast broke his chains and charged into a tree. The glands on the sides of his head dripped a smelly, oily substance, which, Jahan knew, could mean only one thing: the elephant was in heat.

  Trying to find a lady friend for Chota in Istanbul was like wishing for snow in August. Jahan searched high and low. It all came to naught. Wherever the mahout went, doors were closed in his face, but not before someone had a good laugh at his expense. Even Olev the lion-tamer did not know what to do, for once.

  When Mihrimah appeared in the garden with her nursemaid and asked to see the elephant, Jahan broke into a sweat. The shame of explaining to her why she could not see Chota in this state was so heavy he almost choked.

  She laughed at his panic, but when she spoke there was a trace of sadness in her voice. ‘Well, the elephant has grown up. No longer that cute calf. The innocence of childhood leaves all of us eventually.’

  Jahan was dumbstruck with worry. He could only muster a meek protest. ‘Your Highness, this season will come and go. Chota is the same as always. You should not stop visiting him, I beg.’

  She turned her head, unwilling to look at him, facing the sun. ‘Can you catch the wind, mahout? Can you bring down the moon? There are things we cannot change. I have accepted this truth, and, one day, so will you.’

  As if he had heard the exchange and wished to interject, Chota began to bellow. He made so much noise, yanking at his chains, that Jahan had no time to take in Mihrimah’s words.

  After the Princess and the nursemaid left, Jahan had an idea. He remembered the Gypsies who had saved them from the ice. Had they not said they had an elephant? When he shared his hope with the other tamers, they shook their heads. ‘The Gypsies wander round all year. How are you going to track them down?’

  In the end it was Master Sinan who helped him. The architect not only gave his apprentice time off from work but also provided him with a carriage and a silver coin, and said, with a smile, ‘Go and find the beast a pretty wife and make him happy. Only God is alone.’

  They rode in silence through the Gate of the Spring, the coachman and Jahan, watching the clouds turn light pink far ahead. It took hours to find the Romanies. Finally they saw wagons in the distance, bedrolls and clothes strewn on the hedges, punctuating the dull landscape with their brash colours. The coachman refused to go near. He had heard too many stories about these roamers, and had no wish to meet any of them.

  ‘Be careful,’ he said to Jahan. ‘If they offer you a drink, refuse. Not a sip from their hands. Remember, Satan, djinn and Gypsies, they will all steal your soul.’

  Waving at him, Jahan left the carriage and quickly set off towards the camp, fearful that if he dithered he would lose courage. His boots crunched on the path as he approached a bevy of children, their noses snotty, their feet bare. One woman was suckling her twins, a baby latched on to each teat. Catching him staring at her bosom, she glared at him. Ashamed, Jahan averted his gaze.

  He approached one of the boys. ‘Is your chief here?’ The child stood so still that Jahan doubted he had heard him.

  ‘What do you want?’ A husky voice came from behind so suddenly that Jahan almost jumped out of his skin. Upon turning round, he saw two men scowling at him.

  ‘I need to see your leader … Balaban,’ Jahan said.

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He … he saved me once,’ was all that Jahan could come up with.

  He was taken to a tent in a shade of indigo so bold that even the blue jay in the aviary would envy it. On the walls were carpets with pictures of animals and flowers, and one with Abraham catching a ram to sacrifice in place of his son. In one corner, sitting by a stove, was a group of men and in their midst was none other than Balaban.

  ‘Look who’s here!’ Balaban said. ‘Why have you come, tell.’

  ‘I need help. My elephant’s lost his mind. He’s in rut. I remember you said you had a female –’

  Before he could finish his sentence Balaban grabbed him by the robe, pulled out a dagger and held it against his jaw. �
��Rascal! Scamp! You’ve got the guts to ask me to be your pimp! D’you want me to spill your blood here or shall we go outside?’

  ‘No, effendi. I intend well. It’s for the animals’ benefit,’ Jahan said in a grovelling voice.

  Balaban pushed him away. ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘If your elephant gets pregnant, you will have two animals,’ Jahan said. ‘You could make use of them both.’

  Balaban weighed this up, unimpressed. ‘What else?’

  Jahan showed him the coin Sinan had given him, but Balaban again said, ‘What else?’

  Deciding to take another path, Jahan said, ‘This elephant belongs to the palace. If you don’t help me, the Sultan will be furious.’

  ‘The Sultan, you said?’

  Jahan nodded vigorously, confident that he had him now.

  ‘You wretched toad!’ Balaban kicked a cushion, which went flying to the wall, where it hit Abraham’s ram and bounced back. ‘Is this the Sultan’s generosity? A chipped coin?’

  ‘I beg you. Architect Sinan needs the elephant to work.’

  The silence was unbearable. After a moment, and an exchange of glances, none of which Jahan could decipher, Balaban shrugged. ‘Gulbahar is pretty as a lotus flower. You must earn her hand.’

  ‘What do you want my elephant to do?’ Jahan asked suspiciously.

  ‘Not your elephant. You!’

  Jahan tried to maintain a brave countenance but his voice cracked. ‘Me?’

  Just then the woman who had been suckling the twins appeared, carrying a tray with drinks and fried dough covered in syrup.

  ‘First take a bite. He who shares my bread and salt is not my enemy,’ said Balaban.

  Jahan hesitated for a moment. He popped into his mouth a dough ball, savouring the sweet taste.

  ‘Now have a drink. Can’t walk straight when the road is crooked.’

  ‘May our wives die if we don’t knock these back in one go!’

  Like them, Jahan downed the mud-coloured fluid in one gulp; like them, he brought down the cup with a thud on the wooden table; like them, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Although the drink was pungent, burning all the way down to his stomach, it was surprisingly enjoyable. Then they told him, in waggish detail and with boyish mirth, what they were daring him to do.

  ‘Up to you!’ Balaban said. ‘Take it or leave.’

  Whether it was his love for Chota, or his bull-headedness, or the drink, Jahan said, after a pause, ‘Fine, I’ll do it.’

  The men walked out, leaving him with the women. Brazen, pert, they helped him to dress up as a dancer. A purple shalwar and a short embroidered vest that revealed his belly. They painted his face with a whitish powder that smelled of rice. They put kohl around his eyes, and reddened his cheeks and lips with crushed beetles, or so he was told. They reddened his fingers with henna and sprinkled rosewater down his neck. And on his pate they placed a horse’s tail, giving him the strangest hair.

  Balaban and his men came back, accompanied by musicians who, it turned out, could not play a tune without sniggering. They strummed on their instruments and blew their horns a bit, and then one of them burst out laughing, the others following gleefully. Still, Jahan danced, if his clumsy moves could be called dancing. The Romanies watched, drinking, cackling with delight. When one of the men tried to hug Jahan with no decent intentions, Balaban hit his head with a wooden spoon and shouted, ‘Behave!’

  From then on Jahan danced more willingly, trusting that if he kept his part of the deal, so would they. Hours later, when he walked out of the tent clad in his old clothes, though with henna on his hands and kohl on his eyes, the coachman was nowhere to be seen. Jahan didn’t mind. He did not have to make his way back on foot. He had a female elephant to take him.

  Four days later Jahan returned Gulbahar. It took him a whole afternoon to locate the Gypsies, as they had moved again. The old women huddled in a corner greeted him with a smirk, which Jahan pretended not to notice.

  ‘The dancer is back,’ yelled a small boy. A cackle rose from behind him. It was Balaban.

  ‘Felicitations,’ said the chieftain, ‘your elephant is no longer a virgin.’

  ‘Gulbahar made Chota the happiest elephant in the world,’ Jahan said with a bashful smile. Then, with a new realization, he added: ‘You’ve done it again, Balaban. You’ve saved my skin.’

  Every Wednesday, Master Sinan gathered his apprentices in his house and instructed them to design a building – an aqueduct, a madrasa, a bath house or a bedestan. The young men took these assignments with the utmost seriousness, seeing a chance not only to display their talents but also to outshine their rivals. Sometimes their task would be as straightforward as drawing a one-roomed hut. At other times a more demanding exercise would be set: how to reduce the number of columns in a mansion without diminishing its strength and solidity; how to make the best use of mortar, which, although it bonded well, led to nasty cracks as it dried; how to assemble a criss-cross of water channels above and beneath the ground. Such exercises they were expected to tackle on their own. It was permitted to share the finer points of technique; but under no circumstances were they to see one another’s designs.

  ‘Architecture is team work,’ said Sinan. ‘Apprenticeship is not.’

  ‘Why don’t you want us to look at each other’s drawings?’ Jahan once asked.

  ‘Because you’ll compare. If you think you are better than the others, you’ll be poisoned by hubris. If you think another’s better, poisoned by envy. Either way, it is poison.’

  One such afternoon they had each finished drawing a dervish convent when a servant announced that the master was waiting for them in the library. Putting their pens aside, they walked out wordlessly, burning with curiosity. Upstairs they found the master with scrolls unrolled and spread open to his left and his right. In the middle of the room, upon an oak table, was a wooden model.

  ‘Come,’ Sinan said.

  Timid and awkward, the four stumbled forward.

  ‘Do you know what building this is?’ Sinan asked.

  Davud, examining the model with a frown, said, ‘It’s an infidel temple.’

  ‘The dome is admirable,’ said Nikola.

  ‘Where is this place?’ asked Jahan.

  ‘In Rome,’ Sinan replied, waving his hand as if Rome were outside the window. He said it was called San Pietro, and when finished it would possess the largest dome in all of Christendom. Several architects had worked on it, some aiming to demolish the old basilica and start anew; others to restore it. The last draughtsman, Sangallo, had passed away. The construction, at the behest of the Pope, had been assigned to Michelangelo. Recognizing the name the bookseller had mentioned, Jahan pricked up his ears.

  Sinan said that Michelangelo, who was not young any more, had two choices. He could either disregard the existing designs or build on them. The decision would demonstrate not only his talents as a craftsman but also his character. Sinan spoke with such fervour that a surge of excitement ran through his apprentices. Yet all the while a thought tugged at the back of their minds: why was the master telling them this?

  Reading their mood in one glance, Sinan said, ‘I’d like you to see San Pietro. Study its design. Compare what they’ve done over there with what we’re doing here. If you aim to excel in your craft, you ought to study the works of others.’

  It took them a moment to grasp the full weight of his statement. ‘You … want us to travel to the land of Franks?’ Davud faltered. ‘And see the churches?’

  ‘We follow our Prophet’s advice: we seek lore near and far.’ Sinan told them he had learned much from his travels in the lands of the Franks, in the Balkans, Anatolia, Syria, Egypt, Iraq and eastward into the Caucasus. ‘Stones stay still. A learner, never.’

  ‘But master, should we not teach them?’ It was Davud again. ‘They are Christians. Why should we learn from their ways?’

  ‘Every good craftsman is your teacher, no matter where he may be from. Artists
and artisans are people of the same faith.’

  And, so saying, Sinan brought out two velvet cases, one thin and long, the other plump and round. Inside the first was an oversized silver pin and in the second an inward-curved lens, the size of a ripe apple.

  ‘What is it?’ Nikola asked, dropping his voice to a whisper, as though he were staring at some dark sorcery.

  ‘It’s a prism,’ Sinan explained. ‘We use it to observe how the sun’s rays travel inside buildings. In a cathedral it would work well.’

  ‘And this?’ Jahan said, holding the pin on his palm like a baby bird.

  ‘That’s for the sound. Enter the buildings when there are few people inside. Hold the pin at the level of your head and drop it. Does the sound die off right away? Or does it reach the furthest corners? If so, ask yourself how did the architect achieve this? Can one make the sound flow like water, back and forth, in a gentle tide? In cathedrals this is done through the creation of a whispering gallery. Go and listen: you’ll hear how the smallest sound is carried.’

  Sinan spoke as fast as a pelting storm of hail. They had never seen him like this before, his eyes sparkling, his face lit up. He said there were three fountains of wisdom from which every artisan should drink abundantly: books, work and roads. Reading, practising and travelling. He went on, ‘Unfortunately, I can’t send away all of you. We’ve work to do. You need to decide among yourselves who will go. A trip for about five weeks.’

  Nikola, Davud, Yusuf and Jahan stole furtive glances at one another, shoulders stiff. The desire to impress their master with their audacity clashed in their hearts with their wish to stay where everything was familiar. It was Yusuf who came forward first, shaking his head. He didn’t want to go. Jahan was not surprised to see this. Like a small planet orbiting a bigger one, Yusuf always wished to be close to the master.