The Architect's Apprentice

by Elif Shafak

  That week they delayed writing to Sinan, none of them feeling up to the task. They avoided one another, as if the more time they spent together the more they were reminded of their guilt. Then came a letter from the master.

  My diligent apprentices,

  I would have been with you had I not been given the task of finishing our Sultan’s mosque without delay. The urgency of the Selimiye Mosque compelled me to leave you on your own. I did so knowing you were more than capable of taking care of the Grand Mosque of Hagia Sophia. Nonetheless, I’m aware that this is our hardest task. In our craft we seldom see people. We befriend stone quarries, converse with tiles, listen to marble.

  This time, however, you are face to face with the people whose homes you must demolish. This is onerous. If I could, I would have moved each of those families to a safer home with plenty of land and trees. But this is beyond me. And it is beyond you.

  Only remember that cities, too, are like human beings. They are not made of stones and wood, solely. They are of flesh and bone. They bleed when they are hurt. Every unlawful construction is a nail hammered into the heart of Istanbul. Remember to pity a wounded city the way you pity a wounded person.

  May God grant you according to your desire and keep you balanced,

  Sinan, the humble and lowly pupil of Seth and Abraham, the Patron Saints of Stonemasons and Architects

  That autumn the apprentices razed the countless hovels to the ground. Fast as they worked, the newcomers were faster. Even as they pulled down structures and moved away the rubble, in other parts of the city new buildings were set up, equally unlawful, equally unsafe and ugly. The regulations that Sinan developed regarding the width of the streets and the height of the houses were once again disregarded. Jahan was dismayed. Never before had he thought that among an architect’s tasks would be the protection of the city from its inhabitants and the protection of the past from the future.

  The dome – that was what everyone raved about. In his letters to his Chief Royal Architect, the Sultan demanded a dome bigger than that of the Hagia Sophia. His mosque would proclaim the triumph of Islam over Christianity and show the entire world who were the favourites in the eyes of God. All this talk made Jahan nervous. Much like their ruler, the people goaded the architects into a contest, pitting Sinan against Anthemius the mathematician and Isidorus the physicist, who had designed the infidel church in days of yore.

  ‘Is there something bothering you?’ asked Sinan. ‘You seem withdrawn.’

  A fine film of sawdust covered their shoes and a thin veil of sweat shone on their foreheads. Although they were exhausted they kept working as if each day were their last. Jahan said, ‘I can’t wait to finish and go.’

  ‘We’ll be done in four weeks, Allah willing,’ Sinan said, his voice trailing off.

  Even that was too long, yet Jahan did not object. He was ashamed of complaining when the master, over eighty years old, toiled from dawn to dusk. Despite their pleas he would not rest. Similar to a moth drawn to the fire, Sinan was attracted to the dust, dirt and drudgery of construction sites. His hands rough, his fingernails split, underneath the silk kaftans he wore for ceremonies he was a labourer to his core. It had an undeniable effect on his apprentices. The sight of him in the field, not unlike the sight of a commander at the battlefront, prompted everyone to keep working ever harder.

  ‘This mosque is wearing us out,’ Jahan said.

  Sinan grew pensive. ‘You’ve noticed it.’

  Not expecting his master to affirm his fears, Jahan stammered, ‘You know it.’

  ‘Think of a baby in the womb. She lives off her mother and tires her. While we deliver a building, we are like the mother. Once the baby is born, we shall be the happiest souls.’

  The comparison between building and giving birth made Jahan smile. Yet instantly he had another thought. ‘But I don’t understand. The Sultan doesn’t work with us. Why does it sap his strength?’

  ‘He is still attached to his mosque,’ said Sinan.

  ‘We’ve worked on other buildings. Bridges, mosques, madrasas, aqueducts … Why have I never felt this way before?’

  ‘You did, you just don’t remember. That, too, is in the nature of things. We forget how we felt the last time. Again, like a mother.’ Sinan paused, as though unsure whether to say the next thing. ‘But then some births are harder than others.’

  ‘Master … are you telling me that what we create can kill us?’

  ‘What we create can weaken us,’ said Sinan. ‘Rarely does it kill us.’

  Three weeks later, the Sultan sent a letter informing them that he wished to come and personally supervise the final touches to his mosque. He would travel to Adrianople leading a royal cavalcade. For this he needed an elephant. Since Mahmood had fallen out of favour and not yet clambered his way back up, Chota was, once again, in demand.

  With his master’s blessing, Jahan took Chota and returned to the palace. He enjoyed seeing his old friends at the menagerie while the elephant rested in the barn. The next morning they were ready to join the procession.

  It was spectacular. The Janissaries, the elite guards and the archers – all were rigged out in bright colours. Several concubines accompanied the Sultan, seated inside heavily curtained carriages. There was excitement and pride in the wind. Underneath, however, there loomed disquiet, like dark clouds gathering in the distance on an otherwise bright and sunny day. The Christians, appalled by the loss of Cyprus and by their cathedrals being turned into mosques, had assembled a Holy League. They sought revenge. The forces of the Pope, the Spanish and the Venetians, overcoming ancient feuds, had united. As they were making ready to journey to Adrianople, a naval battle between the Ottoman and Christian forces was under way in the Gulf of Corinth near Lepanto.

  In an hour Sultan Selim strutted out, his face round and red. After saluting the soldiers he motioned towards his horse – a pure-bred black stallion. That was when the strangest thing happened. The horse, for no reason at all, lurched forward and tripped. A gasp rose from the audience. It could only be a sign – an ill omen.

  Selim, visibly upset, ordered the horse to be taken back to the stable. He was not going to ride a jinxed animal. Swiftly, a substitute was found: Chota. Since the Sultan was bent on leaving the capital with grandeur and reaching Adrianople in much the same way, what better than an elephant to carry him? Jahan was ordered to prepare the howdah and the shiny, jingling headdress, which Chota disliked immensely.

  The Sultan held on to the dangling ladder and, with difficulty, managed to ascend. He was about to sit inside the howdah when Chota, either because the headdress had made him itchy or some demon had poked him in the eye, swayed his body with such force that the sovereign lost his balance. His turban, that huge mound with plumes, slipped off and plummeted, landing right in front of Jahan down below. Grabbing it, the mahout scrambled up the ladder.

  For the first time they were eye to eye: Jahan on the ladder, the Sultan inside the howdah. Jahan lowered his head. Still, for one fleeting instant, their gazes crossed.

  ‘My Lord,’ Jahan said, as he held on to the rope with one hand and offered the turban with the other.

  ‘Give it here,’ Selim said, his voice tinged with irritation.

  The turban slipped from the Sultan’s hand, toppling over yet again. Below on the ground the servants scurried to pick it up. They handed it to Jahan and he to the Sultan. This time Selim took it carefully, wordlessly, his face as pale as a cadaver’s. He said, ‘You may go, mahout.’

  Jahan hurried down the ladder, tapped Chota’s trunk. The animal hoisted him to his usual place on his neck. With prayers and praises they set forward. The people lined up on either side of the road and stared with admiration. Still, despite the splendour, discomfort had descended upon everyone. Other than the beat of hooves, the rattle of cartwheels and the jingle of the bells on Chota’s headdress, there were no sounds. Jahan had never seen so many people making so little noise.

  Their spirits lifted as the
y left Istanbul behind. But dark news welcomed them at the city gates of Adrianople. The entire Ottoman fleet had been lost in a humiliating, harrowing defeat. If kiyamet had another name it would have been Lepanto. Hundreds were drowned, killed, enslaved. People were shocked but that didn’t last. After perplexity came discontent, and after discontent, rage. Suddenly everyone was seething at the Sultan.

  For the first time in years Jahan was afraid to walk on the streets. Once when Chota and he were out walking, someone threw a stone at them. Whizzing past Chota’s head it crashed into a tree trunk. Jahan looked around, searching for the culprit. He saw a few boys playing knuckle-bones, a hawker selling offal and pedestrians strolling along. It could have been any of them. In that moment he could not help thinking they were being held in contempt, for they were the Sultan’s elephant and the Sultan’s mahout.

  The mood on the construction site, too, was sombre. What had started with hope had turned into gloom. Zeal and despair. Might and loss. Cyprus and Lepanto. The Selimiye, as though built upon an invisible pendulum, swung between opposites. And in the midst of everything was Master Sinan, unaffected, untouched, working.

  They carried on. The minarets were slender, graceful and taller than any other they had seen or heard of. Four tiers of windows on three galleries brought in ample light, reflecting off the tile panels, rendering the mosque bright and cheerful despite the workers’ disposition. The sandstone facades were the colour of honey, warm and inviting. The space inside was massive, uninterrupted. Wherever one knelt one could see the mihrab, where the imam sat and led the prayer. Everyone was equally close to God.

  Greek painters were brought from the island of Chios to help with the decoration. There was a Mohammedan artist, too, a dreamy man by the name of Nakkash Ahmed Chelebi. Such was his regard for the mosque that he would come at different times of the day just to see, to admire. While out in the open sea, islands were captured, fleets were sunk, Muslims killed Christians and Christians killed Muslims, in Sinan’s cocoon-like universe they worked side by side.

  Supported by eight piers of marble and granite, displaying eight sides, the dome rested atop a square with semi-domes on each corner. As enchanting as it was, inside and outside, it was its size that everyone was curious about. Masters in the science of geometry joined forces with Takiyuddin, the Chief Royal Astronomer, and meticulously took measurements. They all wanted to know the answer: had their deep blue dome of heaven surpassed that of the Hagia Sophia?

  It had. If one were to measure from the level of the dome’s base to the top, it was higher. The Selimiye Mosque’s round dome, with its higher apex, had outdone the flat dome of Justinian’s church. Yet it hadn’t. If one were to calculate the distance from floor level to the top, theirs was lower and the Hagia Sophia’s higher.

  Higher and lower simultaneously. And Jahan wondered, though he never could bring himself to ask, if, amid the flurry of excitement and anticipation, that was exactly what Master Sinan had intended.

  Marcantonio, the time-serving Bailo, was leaving Istanbul. He had spent six years under the Ottoman skies, and, unlike many a traveller into this land, had become, if only in a small way, an Istanbulite. Being a cordial person he had friends galore, two of whom he held in high esteem: the Grand Vizier Sokollu and Sinan.

  For he was a man-of-letters, familiar with sculpture and architecture, this zesty emissary from Venice. Time and again he went to see Sinan, whose work he declared, with a snap of his fingers and a hearty laugh, fabuloso. Sinan, too, visited him, despite those who frowned upon him for befriending an infidel.

  There was one more soul in this city of whom the ambassador had grown fond: Chota. Every time Marcantonio ran into Jahan he asked about the animal’s health, bringing treats. Imbued with a spirit of inquiry, he interrogated Jahan about elephants – not as to what they ate nor how much they weighed nor how long they lived. Jahan was used to being asked such things. Marcantonio’s questions were different. Was it true that elephants, like women, were prone to weeping when heartbroken? When the beast went to sleep, what, in Jahan’s humble opinion, did he dream? Did he have a notion of an Elephant-Self or did he only grasp the world external to him? Unable to answer these questions, several times Jahan had let Marcantonio feed and ride Chota in the hopes that he might find the answers himself.

  On a fine day in spring Marcantonio appeared in the menagerie with two servants walking behind him and carrying a huge frame.

  ‘A farewell gift for the Grand Vizier,’ the Bailo said with a roguish smile.

  ‘May I take a peek?’ Jahan asked.

  When they pulled down the cloth Jahan was surprised to see it was a painting of the Italian envoy clad in a turban and a kaftan. He sat on a sofa – not crossing one leg over the other like the Franks but one leg folded backward and the other bent at the knee like the Ottomans. Through the open window in the background one could view Istanbul – lush green hills, fluffy clouds, the bluest sea dotted with caïques.

  At first sight the portrait did not resemble the Bailo. Marcantonio had sallow, porous skin, whereas his painted image glowed with youth and health. The crook in his nose, the hair in his nostrils, the mole on his cheek that he powdered every day with care, had all been erased. It was as if by wearing the Ottoman garb and agreeing to pose for the painter he had slipped into another realm where everything was softer, brighter. At the bottom of the frame there was a dedication: Domino Mahomet Pacha Musulmanorum Visiario amico optimo.

  The longer Jahan stared at the portrait the more he felt it was alive. Slowly, the caïques began to glide into the sea, their oars splashing water, the clouds on the horizon turning a fiery red. Then, gingerly, the man in the portrait rolled his eyes towards the Bailo, as if to assess how much they were alike. With a shudder Jahan pulled down the cover. He was certain there was a spirit hiding in the frame, though he couldn’t tell whether it was good or evil.

  On Wednesday, while the apprentices were busy working on a sketch, another gift arrived from Marcantonio, this one for Master Sinan. A box of carved rosewood encrusted with the golden initials MB. Inside was a leather-bound tome, Ten Books on Architecture, by Vitruvius. It was translated, with a commentary added, by none other than Marcantonio’s brother.

  Even though he had studied the treatise before, Sinan was delighted to get this new edition in Italian. Clasping the box to his chest, he retreated to the library. But first he called for Jahan. ‘Come help me to read this.’

  That, however, was not easy. Written in a refined, courtly Italian, Jahan found the text hard to interpret. Every sentence was a strain. Bit by bit, he was able to wade through the pages. Sinan listened carefully, his eyes narrowed in contemplation.

  Architecture was a science, the book said. It was based on three qualities: forza, strength; utilità, which Jahan translated as use; and bellezza, beauty.

  ‘Tell me, which of these three would you sacrifice if you had to sacrifice one?’

  ‘Bellezza,’ Jahan replied assuredly. ‘We can’t compromise on strength or purpose. We could do without beauty, if need be.’

  Sinan’s face said otherwise. ‘We can’t give up beauty.’

  ‘Then which one should we sacrifice?’

  ‘None,’ Sinan said with a tender smile. ‘If you give up one, you will end up losing all three.’

  Just then the kahya’s son rushed in, carrying a letter, which he said had been sent from the palace. Sinan broke the seal and read it, his eyes glittering with amber flecks. He said Sultan Selim was throwing a banquet for Marcantonio. A huge honour, no doubt, and one that showed the sovereign had been fond of the Bailo.

  ‘How generous of our Sultan,’ Jahan commented.

  ‘Well, it looks like you’ll be there, too.’

  ‘Me?’ Jahan could not believe that his name was in a royal letter.

  Not quite, as it turned out. First, the letter was from Grand Vizier Sokollu. Second, it was not the mahout’s name but the elephant’s that was mentioned. Knowing how fond the Bailo
was of the creature, Sokollu required Chota to entertain the audience on that evening. Jahan’s heart sank.

  ‘You’re upset,’ said Sinan.

  ‘I’m the apprentice to the Chief Royal Architect, but the Vizier sees me as a mahout.’

  ‘Cheer up,’ Sinan said. ‘I’d like you to accompany me to the banquet. Once you’ve eaten, you can perform.’

  Jahan gaped at him, barely containing his excitement. This meant he was to sup not with the tamers in the menagerie, waiting for his turn, but in the grand hall with the guests. Yet, instead of thanking him, he heard himself say, ‘Chota doesn’t know any stunts.’

  ‘He doesn’t need to. Parade the animal. A simple trick will be enough. They want to see what God has created more than what you can make the elephant do.’

  Even so, Jahan was distressed. Despite the passage of time, the catastrophe in the days of Hurrem Sultana was still fresh in his memory. Resentful though he was, he began to practise tricks with Chota. For the occasion the elephant had been given a new yellow mantle, and when he donned it, from a distance, he looked like a globe of fire. On his feet he wore anklets – silver circlets with a hundred tiny bells. As soon as Jahan put them on Chota, the animal was perplexed. Taking a few awkward steps, he halted, walked again, stopped again, unable to fathom where the noise was coming from.

  The afternoon of the big day, Jahan washed, brushed and oiled Chota tusk to tail. Then he put the mantle and the anklets on him.

  ‘So handsome,’ Jahan cooed. ‘If I were a lady elephant I’d fall for you.’

  For a split second Chota’s eyes, too small for his head, crinkled with mirth. In this state they passed through the gates into the inner courtyards.

  The evening started with a gift-giving ceremony. The Bailo was given shawls, shoes, bejewelled belts, nightingales in gilded cages and a fat pouch, which contained ten thousand akces. A murmur of appreciation rose as everyone commended Sultan Selim’s generosity, even though he was yet to appear. The ambassador was ushered to the dining place. Inside a high-ceilinged chamber, four tables had been prepared for the most notable guests. Marcantonio and the Grand Vizier and Master Sinan would be at the same table.