The Architect's Apprentice

by Elif Shafak

  A shadow crossed Jahan’s face. ‘But why? What has changed?’

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ said Balaban, throwing up his hands in exasperation. ‘Fall on your knees and thank Allah. Why are you always asking questions? When you are drowning, you grab on to a snake. You don’t say, Are you a good snake or a bad one, let me take a look at you first.’

  Shortly before dawn, Jahan heard footsteps; then the key turned in the lock to his cell. Two guards entered. They took off his chains, helped him to his feet. Despite what he had heard from Balaban, the first and only thing that came to his mind was that they were going to execute him. Seeing his reluctance, they pushed him, though more gently than they had on other days. Their compassion confirmed his fear.

  ‘Are you going to hang me?’

  ‘Nay, imbecile. You’re free to leave.’

  In disbelief Jahan walked towards Balaban’s cell. The Gypsies were asleep. It upset him to go without saying goodbye; he took off the handkerchief the chieftain had wrapped round his head and tied it to the iron bars. He glanced at Kaymak, who just then muttered something inaudible. Lying nearby, Abdullah was sleeping peacefully, seemingly incapable of the violence that was within him.

  They strode along the corridors, up the stairs. As they ascended the floors, all Jahan could think about was who had saved him and why. Outside there was a carriage waiting for him.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked the coachman.

  ‘I’ve been ordered to take you to My Lady Mihrimah.’

  Thus he discovered who had rescued him. From the coach window he stared at the haze over the sea, the dark green of the pine trees, the kites with their forked tails soaring high on a breeze. Everything was as he had left it. At the same time nothing was the same. When one underwent a sudden change, one expected the world, too, to somehow have become different.

  Poking out his head, he called to the coachman, ‘I can’t go in this state. I beg you, take me to a hamam.’

  ‘No, I’ve got orders to take you to my Sultana straight away.’

  ‘Effendi, have mercy. How can I let her see me like this?’

  The coachman shrugged. He didn’t care. ‘You should have thought of that earlier,’ he said harshly.

  At these words Jahan was incensed. He no longer had any patience for heartless people. ‘Now you listen to me. I have just walked out of a dungeon. If need be, I’ll walk back into it. But before that I’ll kill you!’

  The coachman grumbled. Even so, fearing an ex-convict, he stopped the carriage at the next square and swerved into a side street, looking for the nearest hamam.

  The hamam owner did not want to let Jahan in and did so only after being bribed by the coachman. The moment the hot water touched his skin, Jahan winced with pain. The warmth of the marble against his toes felt like walking on clouds. He shaved for the first time in six weeks. The tellak, a hulky Kurd, was either irate at an injustice he had suffered just that morning or had consumed too much spice, for he scrubbed too hard – his fingers working swiftly, scarlet rings forming around his wrists from the exertion. When he was done, Jahan’s skin was as red as poppies. The odour and filth of the dungeon seeped out of his skin in black specks. Dizzy, he stood up and tottered through the mist towards the dais outside. It felt cool and fresh after the steaming hot inner chamber.

  They offered him wild strawberry sherbet. While sipping his drink, for want of anything better to do, he glanced around. There was a stout man with a ruddy complexion, a merchant probably, half asleep. Another man with darting eyes and a scar that ran down his cheekbone was sitting on the edge, dangling his legs, which were covered, for the most part, with a peshtamal. The Kazakh next to him scrutinized Jahan and, not finding him of interest, turned his back.

  In a while two boys appeared – their faces devoid of hair, their eyes big and bright. It was the stocky man who had summoned them. Jahan knew what was going on. In the private rooms boys performed services for chosen customers. Jahan thought of Kaymak and Abdullah. His back tightened, his mouth twisted into a grimace.

  A voice muttered in his ear, ‘You don’t like boys.’

  A man had plumped himself down on the marble beside Jahan. His chest, arms, legs, even his shoulders were covered by dark tufts of hair.

  ‘I don’t like what’s happening,’ Jahan said.

  Though he nodded as if in agreement, the man responded with a grin. ‘You know what they say: “Boys in the summer, wives in the winter to keep you warm.” ’

  ‘I’d rather get a thin blanket in the summer and a quilt in the winter.’

  The man chuckled but said no more. Before he left the hamam Jahan put on the robes the coachman had arranged. He saw the two boys outside, whispering, one of them holding an akce as though it were the key to a secret world.

  That same afternoon, as he entered Mihrimah’s mansion on the shores of the Bosphorus, he was engulfed by a nervous excitement. So it hadn’t gone numb, his heart. Taking short breaths to steady himself, he knelt before her.

  ‘Look at you!’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘You are all bones.’

  Jahan dared to glance up at her. Around her neck was a rope of pearls that caught the sun every time she moved. Her dress was of pure sarsenet, the colour of an evergreen. A married woman, she carried herself differently now. Behind her light veil she was beautiful – and sad. Never had anyone’s sorrow been so sweet. She was worried for him. Perhaps she even loved him. He felt as if his heart would break.

  Ordering dish after dish, she urged him to taste everything. Stewed mutton, stuffed vine leaves, prunes in syrup, sugared almonds of various colours. There was something on a tiny plate Jahan had never had before – caviar. Fate was odd. The day before he was drawing designs on the floor with shit. Now he was perched on silk cushions, eating caviar from the hand of his beloved. And as he closed his eyes for a moment, he could not tell which was real and which someone else’s life.

  ‘You used to tell me stories,’ Mihrimah said, in a voice that barely rose above a whisper. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘How could I forget, your Highness?’

  ‘Everything was different back then. We were only children. One needs to be a child to revel fully in a tale, don’t you think? Still, even as adults we can –’

  She was about to say more when her words were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the great staircase. Jahan’s back straightened, as it occurred to him that it could be her husband, Rustem Pasha. When he turned his head he saw Hesna Khatun with a little girl by her side. The child made a deep obeisance before her mother and fixed her large brown eyes on Jahan.

  ‘Aisha, my delight, I want you to greet our guest. He is a talented architect. He and Master Sinan made those beautiful mosques that we always talk about.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ the child said without a trace of interest.

  ‘He has also taken care of the white elephant,’ Mihrimah added.

  Aisha’s face lit up. ‘Are you the one who helped the elephant to drink his mama’s milk?’

  Jahan drew in a breath. The stories he had once told Mihrimah, she must have recounted to her daughter. The realization made him smile, as if he had penetrated the intimacy of this house and become a part of its bedtime conversations without even knowing. Over the child’s head his eyes met Mihrimah’s. An understanding passed between them, like a soft rustle of wind.

  ‘Would your Excellency like to come to see the elephant some day?’ Jahan asked the girl.

  Aisha pursed her lips, as if to say she might or she might not. Instead of looking at her mother for permission, she glanced up at Hesna Khatun, who had been in the background, silently watching them.

  Jahan’s eyes moved to the nursemaid. She had aged: her cheeks had shrivelled up like withered leaves. But even the unmistakable sternness of her gaze didn’t disrupt Jahan’s line of thinking. This was what his life could have been like if only he had been fortunate enough to be in Rustem Pasha’s shoes – this girl would be his daughter, these w
alls his shield against the world, this splendid view from the window the reality he woke up to every morning and the Princess he secretly loved his official wife. Never before, not even in his darkest hours in the dungeon, had he wished for another man’s death the way he did now.

  He caught a blur of movement. Hesna Khatun was staring at him with unblinking eyes, her lips moving fast, as if she were talking to someone. Jahan’s skin turned to gooseflesh. He knew she had read his mind, though he couldn’t explain how – and that she would find some way of using this against him.

  The day after he was released from prison, Jahan woke up with heaviness in his heart. He blinked a few times, unable to grasp where he was. The tamers were up and about, and, from behind the closed door, he could hear the growl of a leopard. Dragging himself out of the bed, he lurched into the courtyard and splashed water on his face from the fountain. A drizzle fell on the heather, pearly drops like dew. There was a fresh smell in the breeze, and the animals paced lazily in their cages. Though he had spent time with Chota the preceding evening, he was eager to see him again. Later on in the day he would visit his master. He was both exuberant and nervous. He would ask Sinan why he had not come to visit him in the dungeon, and if, for some reason, he was not able to, why had he not sent a letter.

  By midday he reached his master’s house. His melancholy oozed away as soon as he saw Sinan and the affection in his gaze. He wondered if the father he had lost had ever regarded him like that. He stooped to kiss his master’s hand, but Sinan pulled him towards himself and held him in his arms. His voice breaking, he said, ‘Let me look at you. You are so thin, son.’

  In a little while the blind kahya entered the room. Her son was now being taught all of his mother’s duties, and Jahan knew that one day very soon the man would be called upon to take her place. The apprentice felt a harrowing sadness, and hoped he would be able to say farewell to the old servant when the time came and ask for her blessing.

  ‘He needs to eat,’ Sinan said from his seat to the kahya.

  ‘The poor boy,’ the old woman exclaimed and, moving as quickly as she could, went to give orders for the meal.

  The servants bustled in, carrying a low table, towels and wooden spoons. They placed in front of him bowls of honey, butter, cream, flattened bread, sour-grape molasses, halvah and a jar of yoghurt drink with mint and raisins.

  ‘Eat! Drink!’ Sinan ordered.

  Jahan complied, though he felt no hunger. When he could not take another bite, Sinan, who had been watching him, said quietly, ‘They punished you in order to get at me. Everybody knows that.’

  Jahan was lost for words. Unaware of the bitterness fermenting in his apprentice’s heart, Sinan carried on. ‘His Majesty wishes to reconsider the water design. I’d like you to come with me to the palace. We need to clear your name.’

  ‘I don’t even know what I’ve been accused of,’ said Jahan.

  A pause. ‘Treachery.’

  It wasn’t horror Jahan felt in that moment, only a deep sadness. ‘Will Rustem Pasha be there?’ he asked. Seeing the Grand Vizier’s ugly face was the last thing he wanted.

  ‘No doubt. You’ll have to kiss his hand, ask his forgiveness. Can you do that?’

  Jahan could not answer. Instead he inquired, ‘I don’t understand this sudden clemency. What has changed?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been wondering myself. There must be a reason, but I can’t fathom it. All I know is that our Sultan has expressed his wish to see me.’

  Jahan remained silent. It must have been Mihrimah. She must have talked to her husband and pleaded with her father, begging him to listen to the architects one last time. Hints delicate as tufts of dandelions in the wind. Everything suggested that she cared for him. Jahan lowered his head for fear his master could read his thoughts.

  On the day of their visit Jahan put on new robes – light cotton shalwar, linen shirt, leather shoes, pointed at the toes. His master had bought them to help him look his best. Sinan, too, had carefully dressed in a russet kaftan and bulbous turban. The kahya muttered the prayers she had learned from her mother almost a century ago and sprinkled rosewater blessed by seven imams on their heads.

  They had been sent a royal carriage – a propitious sign, no doubt, indicating that the Sultan had some regard for them. Inside they sat, the master and the apprentice, scrolls in between them. Their stomachs tied in knots, they found it hard to talk. It was in this mood that Sinan and Jahan entered the palace.

  Sultan Suleiman welcomed them. On one side of him stood the hefty figure of the Grand Vizier. On the other, the Shayh al-Islam and the Chief Janissary Agha. Their hands tightly clasped, they eyed them with a coldness they felt no need to mask.

  The Sultan said, ‘Chief Royal Architect. Each of these honourable men has questions for you. Are you willing to answer?’

  Sinan bowed. ‘I’m honoured, your Felicitous Majesty.’

  The Shayh al-Islam, Ebussuud Efendi, his face as unreadable as a faded manuscript, spoke first. ‘In our glorious city there are bridges from the time of the infidels that have not survived. They collapsed because they were built without true faith. Do you agree?’

  Sinan took a breath. ‘God gave us a mind and told us to use it well. Many ancient bridges are in ruins because they were not built upon firm ground. When we raise a bridge we make sure the water is shallow, the earth is solid, the tides favourable. Bridges are built with faith, true. But also with knowledge.’

  Sultan Suleiman made a gesture to his left, the signal for the Chief Janissary Agha to speak. ‘Majesty, your vassal Sinan seems to think he can predict how much water there is seven layers under the ground. How is that possible? We thought he was an architect, not a necromancer. Does he also profess mastery of the occult?’

  Jahan blenched at the innuendo, aware of the implications of being accused of black magic.

  Sinan replied, ‘I have no experience in divination. The amount of water under the earth can be measured through the right use of instruments.’

  ‘These instruments he mentions – do they come from Allah? Or from Sheitan?’ said the Chief Janissary Agha.

  ‘Surely from God,’ replied Sinan. ‘He wants us to expand our knowledge.’

  The Shayh al-Islam interjected: ‘Al-Khidr, may he rest in Paradise, discovered water. Do you claim to be a holy man like him?’

  ‘I’m not worthy of the fingernail of a holy man,’ Sinan said. ‘Al-Khidr travelled with the Prophet Moses and unravelled the secrets of the universe. Next to his knowledge, mine is a droplet of water. But I believe, using the right measurements, we can locate the invisible sources.’

  The Sultan turned to the Grand Vizier. ‘What do you say, Pasha?’

  Rustem gave a dry cough. ‘I’d like to learn how much the Chief Royal Architect is planning to spend. Our treasury cannot be emptied.’

  Expecting this question, Sinan said, ‘There are two choices. The spending will differ, depending on the wishes of my Sultan.’

  Suleiman was intrigued. ‘What do you mean, Architect?’

  ‘Majesty, our aim is to bring fresh water to the city. We need labourers, hundreds of them. If you prefer, we will employ galley slaves. Then you won’t have to pay them. You’ll have no end of vassals.’

  ‘What is the second way?’

  ‘We hire skilled craftsmen. They’ll be paid, according to their ability and service to his Majesty. In return they will give their sweat and their prayers.’

  ‘So he thinks he can fill the coffers with sweat and prayers?’ Rustem said.

  Ignoring the remark, the Sultan asked Sinan, ‘Which would you suggest?’

  ‘I believe we should pay them and get their blessings. The treasury might not be all that it was, but it’s better for the throne and for the people.’

  Jahan went pale, expecting the worst. At last, after a long, awkward silence, the Sultan raised his hand and said, ‘The Chief Royal Architect is right. Water is a charity and must be distributed generously. I shall giv
e water to the people and I shall pay my workers.’

  But with the next breath Suleiman said to Sinan, ‘Even so, I’m not allowing you to build a new bridge. Renovate the aqueducts – that’s enough.’

  The chamber stirred as each man reflected on who, if anyone, had won the argument. Sinan said, ‘My Lord, with your permission, my Indian apprentice will help me with the renovation.’

  The Sultan ran a finger through his beard as his eyes took in Jahan. ‘I remember him. It’s good you have such a dedicated apprentice.’ He paused. ‘What do you say, Pasha – shall we forgive him?’

  The Grand Vizier, a sparkle in his eyes, extended his arm. Sinan nodded encouragingly at Jahan. Showing more determination than he felt, Jahan took a step forward as through a mist and kissed the plump hand with rings, put it on his forehead. He would have loved to swipe one of those rings, he thought. A recompense for his sufferings.

  ‘May God bless your efforts,’ said Rustem, his icy glare at variance with the sweetness in his voice.

  On the way back they passed through marble corridors, the master and the apprentice. The elation that came over them was so intense that they found it hard to stay silent. Jahan knew that not only his heart had been pounding: his master, too, had been scared. Once again, Sinan had found himself in a tight spot when all he wanted to do was his work. Once again, as though aided by an obscure well-wisher, he had been reprieved. Perhaps he had a protector, Jahan thought, a mysterious patron who interfered on his behalf each time things got too thorny, an invisible guardian angel always by his side …

  Back in the menagerie, Jahan found the animal-tamers waiting for him with a smirk on their faces.

  ‘Come with me,’ said Olev, folding his arms over his chest.

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Jahan.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said Olev and pulled him by the elbow. ‘A man who’s just come out of prison is a man in need of joy.’

  To Jahan’s surprise, Olev led him towards the stables of the favoured horses. Here they kept the best thoroughbreds, each of which wore round its neck a blue amulet against the evil eye. Upon seeing them approach, the Chief White Eunuch’s beloved stallion, Tempest, neighed softly. Noble, majestic, alone. Olev patted the animal, speaking sweet words in his ear.