The Architect's Apprentice

by Elif Shafak

  The Sultan would be eating alone, as was the palace custom. Jahan thought about the Frankish kings and queens who always dined amid their retinue. He wondered which was better, their way or the Ottomans’? Who would want to watch the monarch chewing on a chicken leg or chomping and belching like a mere mortal? Not seeing the Sultan at table only added to his respectability. Yet, at the same time, it made him more unreachable and, eventually, harder to understand. It was easier to love someone you shared bread with.

  Meanwhile the rest of the guests, including Jahan, were led into smaller rooms. About fifty boys, of similar height and size, dressed in green shalwar, began to serve. Deft and fast, they brought large, round trays and set them on wooden legs. Upon these they placed spoons and olives, pickles and spices in bowls so small no one would dare dip in a finger for fear of breaking them. Next they carried basins and silver pitchers for everyone to wash their hands. Finally they distributed towels and peskirs for the guests to put on their laps and use to wipe their fingers.

  Knowing how important manners were, Jahan glanced left and right, observing what the others did. The worst sin you could commit at a banquet was gluttony. Even if it were your favourite dish, you had to eat slowly, showing no sign of greed. Jahan was careful to use the three fingers of his right hand, without dripping oil. Mercifully there were others like him checking out what everyone else was doing. A few times their stares crossed and they nodded politely.

  They were served wheat soup with a hunk of dark bread, which was so filling Jahan could have stopped eating there and then. But as soon as the crocks were taken away they were brought vine leaves stuffed with meat, rice with pine nuts, chicken kebab, chicken with mushrooms, buttered lamb, fried pigeons, roasted partridges, lamb’s feet, goose stuffed with apples, brined anchovies, a huge red fish from icy waters up north, borek with shredded meat, egg with onions. They were served hoshaf in bowls and lemonade in pitchers. His appetite now piqued by the delicious smells, Jahan tasted every dish. As they kept eating, the cesnici and kilerci walked around, making sure everything ran in perfect order. Then came the desserts: almond baklava, pear baked with ambergris, cherry pudding, ice-crushed sweetened wild strawberries and heaps of honeyed figs.

  After dinner the guests collapsed outside on to the seats prepared for them. Fire-eaters pranced around in their shiny jerkins, tumblers turned backwards somersaults, sword-swallowers bolted down the sharpest blades. Three brothers appeared: a cemberbaz, who played with hoops; a shishebaz, who played with bottles; and a canbaz, who played with his life, doing a little caper on a cord stretched high above. When it was their turn, Chota and Jahan marched with feigned confidence. They performed, luckily without an incident, what few stunts they knew. Chota plucked the flower in Jahan’s belt and gave it to the Bailo, who accepted it with a happy laugh.

  Afterwards, the three of them – the master, the apprentice and the animal – departed from the palace, each drawing into his thoughts. There was a sense of finality in the air. The Bailo was going away, the summer was coming to an end. Sultan Selim had not emerged all evening, and there were rumours his health was deteriorating. It seemed to Jahan that, in truth, this world, too, was a spectacle. One way or another, everyone was parading. They performed their tricks, each of them, some staying longer, others shorter, but in the end they all left through the back door, similarly unfulfilled, similarly in need of applause.

  Shortly after the inauguration of the Selimiye Mosque, the Sultan was laid low by melancholia. Such was his gloom that he could not even delight in the great monument to his name. Jahan found it odd that the ordinary folks who prayed in the mosque revelled in its architecture and splendour more than the sovereign who had paid for it. It was the humours in his body that were causing him misery. He had too much black bile in his blood and, as a result, could not help feeling sad day and night. He had been duly cupped and bled, and made to take hellebore and vomit, but the sadness had not oozed away.

  In the company of his master, fellow apprentices and Chota, Jahan returned to Istanbul. With the white elephant he settled back in the menagerie. It was there, one afternoon in December, that the Sultan showed up. He brought with him a Sufi.*

  Jahan was in the barn, checking the elephant’s fodder. Lately a series of younger tamers had been appointed to take care of Chota, one after the other, but Jahan still saw to the animal’s needs, making sure he was looked after. So it was there, as he was checking the standards of care, that he heard the Sultan and the Sufi wending their way through the rose gardens. He climbed up to the hayloft. Through a crack in the wooden planks he spied on them. Selim’s withered face had a sickly yellow hue, his beard was ragged, and he had put on more weight. His eyes were swollen. He must have been drinking again. Or else, Jahan realized with horror, crying.

  The Sultan and the Sufi sat on a stone bench near the cages of the wild cats. Jahan could not believe that the Commander of the Faithful and the Successor of the Prophet of the Lord of the Universe had dropped himself down on that cold, grubby seat. Their voices were like the susurration of a river, and most of what they said he could not catch. Then he heard, spilling from the lips of Selim, ‘Is it true that Allah loveth the purifiers?’

  It was the Surah of Repentance, Jahan knew. The Sultan was so fond of the prayer that he had had it written in thuluth on the wall of a mosque he had commissioned in Konya. Jahan felt an immense sadness, which made him bolder than he normally would have dared. Leaving his hiding place, he went outside to welcome them.

  ‘How is the beast doing?’ Selim asked, having never learned Jahan’s name.

  ‘He is fine, my Lord. Would your Highness like to ride his elephant?’

  ‘Another day, mahout,’ said Selim distractedly.

  There would be no other day. The same week, Selim fell down in the hamam and hit his head. They said he was drunk when he died. Others argued he was sober but so absent he hadn’t seen where he was going. The son of a man too dominant, the ruler of an empire too vast, the bearer of a soul too tender, the dreamer of poems too delicate, Selim the Sot, Selim the Blond, Selim the Forlorn, left this world when he was fifty years of age. Nurbanu packed his body in ice, keeping his death a secret until her favourite son, Murad, arrived from his post in Anatolia.

  Sultan Murad ascended to the throne. He first had his brothers executed and then buried his father. Even though he loved an imposing mosque as much as every other ruler, he valued neither majesty like his grandfather Suleiman nor beauty like his father Selim. Neither forza nor bellezza. What mattered now was utilità. Function over grandiosity. Function over beauty. From this day forth, nothing would be the same for Sinan and his four apprentices.

  One night in the menagerie they awoke to an awful din. A jumble of neighing, barking, grunting, bellowing and groaning rent the air. Throwing his blanket aside, Jahan sprang to his feet. The other tamers were also stirring. Taras the Siberian, at ease in every calamity, was the first to walk out while the rest fumbled for their garments and boots. Groping like a blind man in the dark, Jahan stepped into the garden, where a wedge of moonlight glimmered shyly. There was a torrent of light pouring from above – a cascade in every shade of red. It took him a heartbeat to recognize what it was.

  ‘Fire!’ someone shouted.

  Jahan was witnessing yet another blaze in the heart of the palace. The gardens, pavilions and passages, always so quiet you could hear the swish of your hair as you strode along, now pulsed with cries of help. The silence code dating back to the days of Sultan Suleiman had gone up in smoke.

  The calamity had broken out on the other side of the inner walls, along the eastern edge of the second courtyard. Jahan knew what was located there: the royal kitchens. The pantry, larder, butlery and cookhouse were smouldering. Just recently the master and the apprentices had repaired those buildings. Now they were burning. The flames had jumped westward, slowly but steadily engulfing the aviary. Jahan wondered if anyone had set the birds free. The thought of hundreds of pairs of wings f
lapping in horror, unable to take flight, pierced him to the quick.

  The first courtyard where they currently were was still untouched by the fire. Even so, the wind was strong, fickle. It blew in their direction every so often, bringing thick, grey ashes like dead butterflies. The smoke pricked their eyes, filled their lungs. The monkeys, seized by a fright larger than their reason – teeth bared, eyes glazed – were banging on the iron bars. The tamers had to move the menagerie to a place of safety.

  That, however, was no small feat. Under duress animals were capable of the strangest behaviour. The royal gardens, though not their native domain, was nevertheless home. Nobody could say how they would react when forced out of their cages into wooden crates. Having only a few carts at their disposal, the tamers could only proceed piecemeal, relocating a few animals at a time. Unprepared and baffled, they debated among themselves what to do. The Circassian grooms wanted to wait until they had received orders from the Chief White Eunuch. Another wave of fumes and cinders blowing in their direction was enough to silence them. There was no time to lose.

  First they moved the apes. Not because they were more valuable but because no one could stand their ruckus. Next Jahan led Chota out of the barn. Wise soul that he was, Chota did not cause any problem. If anything, he was helpful, complacent. He didn’t mind pulling the carriage on which they placed the monkeys and gorillas, many of them shrieking and jumping up and down, tottering like unruly drunkards.

  The creatures that could trot out were allowed to do so – horses, camels, zebras, giraffes, gazelles and reindeer. Fearing that a sudden noise could startle them into a stampede, the tamers were careful, alert. They tied the animals to one another by the neck, making a caravan of unlikely companions. Some mounted on horses, others on carts, the trainers followed their animals. Despite their care, no sooner were they beyond the palace walls than the zebras, as though jinxed, bolted down the hills, dragging the rest of the caravan with them. The tamers shot after them like demons. Drenched in sweat and dust and curses, they managed to rein in the zebras before they caused the entire herd to tumble over, one on top of another.

  With the help of sticks and nets, treats and threats, they loaded the royal animals on to carts. Off went the snakes, chameleons, ostriches, turtles, raccoons, weasels, peacocks and the terrified llamas. Next came the foxes, hyenas, panthers and leopards. They transported them outside the palace gates and down the slopes towards an opening by the quay, unsure how far the flames were capable of reaching.

  The elephant and the mahout made several round-trips, bringing fodder and water for the animals. When they were done, Jahan placed a basket of leaves in front of Chota, leaving him in the care of the Chinese twins, and returned to the menagerie for a last inspection. This was partly because of an old habit. True, since Captain Gareth had disappeared he had stopped stealing, but, like every thief, he knew that a fire was an unmissable opportunity to chance on unexpected riches. But this was not the only reason for his return. He was thinking about Mihrimah. For a while after the demise of her brother Selim she had not visited the palace. But tonight she, too, was in the harem. Was she frightened, Jahan wondered. He thought about her nursemaid, who must be having a terrible time breathing with her asthma. In a couple of hours, for all he knew, the flames could reach their chamber. He wanted to be sure they were fine and safe.

  The guards at the gate were too distracted to pay him any attention. By now the blaze had drawn closer, lapping over the walls towards the rose gardens, embers leaping in a sprinkle of gold. When he reached the enclosure of the wild cats, Jahan was surprised to see the lions were still locked up – two females and one male. The mighty beasts, restless and tense, paced up and down, growling at something in the distance as though faced with an enemy only they could detect.

  Outside the cage stood Olev. Perky as usual he yelled, ‘Hey, Indian. Why did you come back?’

  ‘Just wanted to see if everything was all right. You need a hand?’

  ‘My girls are scared; my boy doesn’t want to come out. I’ll have to drag them. Don’t want the poor things burned to a crisp.’

  Smiling at his own joke and without a weapon to protect him, Olev opened the iron door and entered the cage. Jahan watched him approach one of the females, talking in a calm, steady tone. The cat stood motionless, her gaze fixed on the tamer’s every gesture. Gingerly, Olev placed a hoop around her neck and carefully led her out. He ushered her up a plank and into a wooden crate placed on a cart. Next he moved the second lioness in the same way. As she walked out, the male stared from a corner, his eyes two slivers of dark citrine.

  The back of Jahan’s neck felt hot. Apprehension began to creep over him. Dawn was breaking in the distance. There was something on Olev’s face that hadn’t been there before. The slightest quiver in his nostrils, a twitch of his mouth. It was the two of them in the cage – the tamer and the lion. In his hand Olev held a rope, limp and listless, as if he didn’t know what to do with it. For the first time Jahan saw him hesitate. The lion snarled, no more than an inaudible growl, as if he, too, were caught between opposing urges. Heart racing, Jahan grabbed a club and put one foot into the cage.

  ‘Step back,’ Olev said. ‘Go away!’

  Drawing a breath, Jahan did as he was told.

  ‘Close the door!’

  This, too, Jahan did. He felt numb, unable to think properly. Olev’s flame-coloured pony-tail came loose, spreading out on his collar. He wiped the sweat off his brow, momentarily distracted. In that instant the lion turned to him with another snarl, as though he had just noticed him, as though this wasn’t the man who had taken care of him for years, feeding him every day before he fed himself. The beast lifted his paw, his claws stretched open; he sprang on the man.

  Olev fell down. There was not a trace of pain on his face, only astonishment. The look of a father disappointed in his son. Outside the cage Jahan dashed about like a madman, waving his arms, shouting. The club still in one hand, he hit the bars of the cage in the hope of distracting the lion. It worked. Pulling back, the animal took a few steps towards Jahan.

  In the meantime, Olev stood up, unsteady. Instead of walking towards the door, he edged nearer to the cat, calling him. It happened so fast. Like a dream Jahan watched it occur, in front of his eyes. The lion, now taking his gaze off Jahan, turned back and pounced at his tamer, fastening his jaws on Olev’s neck.

  Jahan screamed, his voice that of a stranger. He smashed the club, kicked the bars, shouted at the cat. Finding a cudgel nearby, he ran back, too terrified to remember to pray. He went into the cage. There was a pool of blood where Olev lay. The lion, having lost interest in him, had returned to his corner. Slowly, not moving his gaze from the cat, though unsure what he would do should he spring, Jahan hauled the wounded man outside. Olev’s eyes were open, flicking about, his throat spurting blood. His neck had been torn open, his jugular vein ripped. As soon as he dragged him out, Jahan closed the door. He didn’t care if the flames reached the lion. He wanted him to burn.

  They buried Olev in a graveyard not that far from the seraglio. The male lion, despite Jahan’s wish, had survived. As it turned out, the flames never reached the menagerie and all their efforts had been for naught.

  The royal kitchens were reduced to ashes together with parts of the harem and the Privy Chamber. Sinan and the apprentices would have to rebuild them all over again.

  After Olev’s funeral – attended only by the animal-tamers and equerries – something came over Jahan. He was seized by a presentiment, as if, in one death, he had seen the deaths of them all. He raged deep inside, not at the lion that had killed a friend but at everyone else; at himself, for leaving Olev on his own in that cage and acting too late; at the new Sultan, for not giving a tinker’s curse about his servants perishing while serving him; at Master Sinan, who, unaffected by disasters, kept making building after building; at God, for allowing them to err and suffer so yet still expecting them to pray in gratitude. Yes, the world was beautiful �
�� a beauty that irritated him. What difference did it make whether they were hurt or happy, right or wrong, when the sun rose and the moon waned just the same, with or without them? The one creature he did not take umbrage at was Chota, and he spent as much time as possible beside him, soothed by his calmness.

  The anger was not all. Something else accompanied it – an ambition he had never known before. There was a part of him that wished to defy not only the master who had made him his apprentice, the Sultan who had made him his mahout, and the God who had made him weak, but most of all Mihrimah, who, during all these years, had made him a silent sufferer. He worked hard, spoke little. This, more or less, was his mood when Sinan and the three other apprentices arrived at the palace to, once again, repair the damage.

  ‘We’ll add new baths and pavilions by the shore,’ Sinan said. ‘The harem and the Privy Chamber need to be repaired. We shall enlarge them again. Everything we build ought to match the spirit of the building.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I want you to draw a plan. Whoever brings me the best, shall be my Chief Assistant.’

  Jahan was surprised to hear this. Until this day they had been treated as equals, even when they knew they were not. Now their master was making them compete against one another. He knew he should have been thrilled. Except his heart was not in it. Still, he worked – though not beside the other apprentices in the shade of the gardens. He went to the barn, sat next to Chota and finished his sketches there.

  A few days later Sinan wanted to talk to him – urgently. Jahan saw that he had placed the designs side by side, all four of them.