The Architect's Apprentice

by Elif Shafak

She was his apprentice. She was his concubine. She was his slave. And she was no older than his daughter. Yet Yusuf Nergiz Sancha Garcia de Herrera, a soul who carried too many names in her slender body, was in love with Master Sinan.

  They never found another chance for a talk as intimate and honest as this one. The same day a new accident occurred. A stone block slipped off the pier abutting the prayer hall and fell to the ground, wounding two galley slaves and killing Sinan’s dedicated foreman, Snowy Gabriel.

  The accidents were sporadic enough to be attributed to fate, but they were also strangely similar, strangely persistent.

  If not put to use, iron rusts, woodwork crumbles, man errs, Sinan said. Work we must.

  Following in his footsteps, the four apprentices toiled as though tomorrow were the Day of Judgement and they must finish before everything turned to dust. They constructed Friday mosques, masjids, madrasas, Qur’an schools, bridges, baths, hospitals, lazarettos, alms houses, granaries and caravanserais for travellers from far and wide. Most of these were ordered by the Sultan; others, by his mother, wives, daughters and succeeding viziers.

  Not everything Sinan built was commissioned by the wealthy and the mighty, however. The shrines, to begin with. These, too, the apprentices put up in earnest. Many a time their master paid for these himself. And the sole reason they kept erecting them year in, year out, was because someone somewhere had seen them in a dream. Sinan, in his capacity as the Master of the Royal Architects, not only felt responsible for raising structures and surveying towns; he also oversaw holy dreams.

  Anybody could come with such a demand – a soldier, an innkeeper, a scullion, even a mendicant. They knocked on Sinan’s door, respectful but resolute, and secretly proud, as though they had been entrusted with an important letter from the skies. Then they related their dreams. More often than not, these were about saints and sages who were terribly upset that their graves had gone to rack and ruin. Or martyrs who, showing where their remains lay, asked for a proper funeral. Or mystics executed for heresy and buried furtively, if at all.

  The dead in the visions were impatient, their behests urgent. So were the dream-petitioners – as Jahan called them. They expected the architect and the apprentices to stop doing whatever they were doing – such as building a Friday mosque – and follow them. Some even made threats. ‘It’s a powerful saint, this one. If you don’t do as he says, he’ll put a curse on you.’

  Every week one of the apprentices was put in charge of the dream-suitors. His impossible task was to listen to every one and weed out those who were honest from the crooks. This is how many a Thursday afternoon Jahan found himself perched on a stool facing strangers. There would be a scribe by his side, bent over the table, scratching his pen without a break. No matter how full of gibberish or trivia, every appeal had to be written down. Sinan would greet the petitioners cordially. He would announce that his wise apprentice was here to hear what they had to share. Flicking a sideways glance in Jahan’s direction, he would leave with an impish smile at the edge of his lips. Under the scrutiny of dozens of eyes, studying his every move, Jahan often broke into a sweat. The room felt small, stuffy. Suddenly there was not enough space for these people and their vast expectations.

  They came from everywhere. Bustling ports and forsaken hamlets. And they implored the apprentices to go and build everywhere – a town, a farmstead or a property home only to snakes. Most of the dream-petitioners were men of varying ages. There were schoolboys accompanied by their fathers. Occasionally, there would be a woman. She would wait outside while her husband or brother passed on her dreams.

  Once some peasants requested that a Byzantine fountain, which supplied water to a village, be restored. Although they had applied to the kadi, their efforts had so far been in vain. Then a tinker had a holy dream. A forceful and furious saint confided in him that beneath the fountain lay the remnants of a Sufi dergah. As long as the water kept flowing the souls of the dervishes rested in peace. Now that the water had run dry, they were disturbed. Therefore the fountain had to be repaired – without delay.

  When Jahan offered his master an account of his interviews, Sinan singled out this story as one to which they should give serious attention.

  ‘But, master, do you believe they are telling the truth?’ Jahan objected.

  ‘They need water; it doesn’t matter what I believe.’

  They rebuilt the fountain, cleaning the ditches that brought water from the mountains. The villagers were pleased; so was Sinan.

  It was around this time that a miller arrived. He said that while grinding grain he had heard a woman singing – sweet and captivating. Fearing it must be a djinn, he had headed for the hills. The next day the voice awaited him, although he had thrown salt over his left shoulder and spat three times on fire. The village elder advised him to read the Qur’an before going to sleep. This he did. That same night a woman appeared in his dream. Her face shone as if there were a lantern under her skin. Her lustrous, blonde hair spilled on to her shoulders. She explained that she had been strangled upon the orders of the Mother Sultana, though she did not give her name. Since then her soul had been roaming the earth, searching for her body, which was deep under the sea. Recently a fisherman had pulled up the tortoiseshell comb that had been on her head and come loose when she was thrust into the sea with a rock tied to her feet. Not knowing what to do with it, the fisherman had put it in a box. She wanted the miller to find the comb and bury it as though it were her flesh and bone. In this way, she would have a tomb and find some peace.

  ‘Why didn’t she reveal herself to the fisherman?’ Jahan asked incredulously.

  ‘He’s trouble,’ the miller said. ‘He lives a stone’s throw away from Rumelian Castle. There’s a cottage, blue like a robin’s egg.’

  ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘Of course not, effendi. She told me all that. I’m a poor man, my wife’s ailing, I’ve got no sons to lend me a hand. I can’t ride that far.’

  Jahan understood what was being asked of him. ‘I can’t go either. I’m needed here.’

  The disappointment in the man’s eyes went through Jahan like a flamed arrow. Still, his biggest surprise came when Sinan, once he told him the story, urged Jahan to go to nose around. So, the next day, the elephant and the mahout were on their way.

  Finding the fisherman was easy; speaking to him, impossible. With eyes dark with bitterness and a mouth that clearly hadn’t smiled in ages, he was a callous soul. One look at him and Jahan knew there was no way he would let him rummage through his belongings. Jahan made another plan. As soon as they were behind the hills, he halted the elephant and jumped down. After tying Chota to a willow, which the animal could have pulled up without much effort, he said, ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

  Quiet as an owl, Jahan retraced his path. He tiptoed around the garth and into the shed, which stank of fish. He found a few boxes but none of them had a comb inside. He was about to leave when he caught sight of a basket on the floor. His hands shaking, he peered into it. The comb was there. Mottled brown and amber, cracked at the edges. He pocketed it and took to his heels.

  Thankfully Sinan didn’t inquire how the article had been acquired. Instead he said, ‘We need to lay her to rest. She needs a tombstone.’

  ‘But … can we bury a comb in place of a body?’ asked Jahan.

  ‘If it’s the only thing left from a person, I don’t see why not.’

  By a mulberry tree, Sinan and the apprentices dug deep. They placed the comb inside. As they threw earth on the grave, they prayed. In the end, the woman in the miller’s dream, whether real or not, had a headstone. One that said:

  Pray for the soul of one whose name was not discovered

  Loved by the Almighty, He hath known her always.

  In the spring of 1575 the astronomer Takiyuddin began to visit Sinan more often. The two of them would retreat to the library, talking for hours. There was something new and big in the air; Jahan could sniff it out like freshly
baked bread – something that excited these elderly men as though they were boys again.

  The Chief Royal Astronomer and the Chief Royal Architect had always respected each other. Time and again, Takiyuddin had been present at the inauguration ceremony of a mosque, helping with the measurements. Likewise, he consulted Sinan about the laws of arithmetic, on which both were experts. The two men read effortlessly in several languages – Turkish, Arabic, Persian, Latin and a bit of Italian. Over the years they had exchanged a multitude of books and ideas and, Jahan suspected, quite a few secrets. If their fondness for numbers was one thing they had in common, another was their diligence. Both believed that the only way to thank Allah for the skills He had given them was to labour hard.

  Despite everything they shared, they could not have been more different. Takiyuddin was a man of passion. His face was an open book that revealed every emotion crossing his heart. When joyful, his eyes lit up; when thoughtful, he fingered his rosary so hard that the string would almost snap. In his obsession with learning he was rumoured to have hired grave-robbers to bring him corpses to study. Should anyone ask why a stargazer might show interest in the human body, he would say God had designed the small cosmos and the big cosmos in parallel. He often complained about the arrogance of the ulema and the ignorance of the people. With so much fire in his spirit it caused his friends no small amount of worry that he might burn himself. Fervent and animated, he stood in contrast with Sinan, who rarely showed his fervour and had, overall, a placid demeanour.

  Except now Sinan, too, seemed excited, if not apprehensive. He spent his days reading and drawing, which was normal, but he also looked out of the window in a distant and distracted way, which was not. A couple of times Jahan heard him ask the servants whether anyone had brought him a message.

  One Wednesday, as the apprentices were working in the master’s house, the awaited courier arrived with a scroll. Under prying eyes, Sinan broke the seal, read the letter. His face, stiff with suspended eagerness, softened into a smile of relief.

  ‘We are building an observatory!’ he announced.

  A house to study the dark expanse above their heads. It would be bigger than any that had been erected before, East and West. Astronomers from all over the world would come here to hone their skills. Sultan Murad had promised to support Takiyuddin in his wish to discover the invisible dome.

  ‘This will alter our grasp of the universe,’ Sinan remarked.

  ‘Why would it concern us?’ asked Davud.

  In response Sinan said that knowledge, ilm, was a carriage pulled by many horses. If one of the steeds began to gallop faster, the other horses, too, would speed up and the traveller in the carriage, the alim, would benefit from it. Improvement in one field backed improvements in other fields. Architecture had to be friends with astronomy; astronomy with arithmetic; arithmetic with philosophy; and so on.

  ‘One more thing,’ Sinan said. ‘You are going to build the observatory. I shall look after you but it will be your achievement.’

  The apprentices gaped at him in disbelief. They had worked upon many buildings but had never created one on their own.

  Nikola said, ‘Master, we are indebted. You have honoured us.’

  ‘May God light your path,’ said Sinan.

  In the weeks ahead the apprentices presented their designs to the master. Having been given a site on a hill in Tophane, they checked the soil, measured the moisture. Even though still vying with one another to be the master’s favourite, they joined forces. The excitement of building together outweighed any jealousies.

  Takiyuddin, in the meantime, was the happiest soul in the empire and the most restless. Hovering about the site, asking questions that made no sense to anyone, he could barely wait to see the completion of his beloved observatory. Weeks into the construction, he was seized by a fear of death. Morbidly fascinated with accidents and diseases, he was afraid of departing this life before the edifice was finished. Never before had Jahan seen an intelligent man drive himself so mad with worry.

  Instruments were brought from near and far. Books and celestial maps were gathered for the collection to be housed inside the observatory. Round and spacious, flooded with light pouring through high windows, with a staircase that spiralled down into a basement chamber, the library was a place Jahan was fond of and he was proud of having contributed to its design.

  As the construction progressed, Jahan was able to learn more about Takiyuddin. Born in Damascus, schooled in Nablus and Cairo, he had then settled in Istanbul, trusting it to be the right city for his skills. Here he had thrived, climbing all the way up to the rank of Chief Royal Astronomer. Jahan would later learn that it was he who had instigated this whole venture, convincing the Sultan of the necessity for a royal observatory. That, however, did not mean he had persuaded everyone in the court. Hugely respected by some, loathed by others, of friends and foes Takiyuddin had plenty.

  Benefiting from the findings of the mathematician Jamshid al-Kashi and the tools perfected by Nasir al-Din al-Tusi, Takiyuddin was keen on furthering the achievements of the Samarkand Observatory, built by Ulugh Bey – an astronomer, a mathematician and a Sultan. Almost two hundred years ago, he said, the finest scholars had unravelled many secrets of the universe. Their accomplishments, rather than being refined, had been forsaken and forgotten. Precious knowledge had been lost for future generations. There were gems of wisdom, far and wide, waiting to be found, like caskets of treasure deep under the ground. Learning, therefore, was a matter less of discovering than of remembering.

  Takiyuddin often alluded to Tycho Brahe – a star-gazer in Frangistan. By coincidence, at the time the apprentices were laying the foundation stone of their observatory, Brahe’s was being erected in far-off Uraniborg. The two men, instead of locking horns with each other, had been exchanging letters of mutual esteem and admiration.

  ‘We love the same woman,’ Takiyuddin said.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Jahan faltered.

  ‘The sky, we are both besotted with her. Sadly, we are mortal. After we are gone, others will love her.’

  Once the celestial instruments had been placed in their respective spots, on heavy cast-iron stands, Takiyuddin showed Sinan’s apprentices around. Everywhere he turned Jahan saw astronomical clocks with three dials, exquisitely crafted and precise. In a chamber towards the back they noticed water pumps of different sizes, which Takiyuddin said had nothing to do with the azure but were simply another passion of his. Upstairs there was a massive astrolabe with six rings – dhat al-halaq. This was used to assess the latitudes and longitudes, so they were told. Another device, libna, mounted on the wall, consisted of two large brass quadrants and helped to calculate the declinations of the stars and the sun. Lengthy pieces of wood, which by their humble appearance seemed meaningless, turned out to measure the parallax of the moon. An implement with a copper ring assessed the azimuths of the stars; the one next to that determined the equinoxes. Jahan’s favourite was a sextant that measured the distances between the celestial bodies.

  In each room they entered they found a device that unravelled yet another secret of the blue firmament. The court astronomer explained that with heavenly bodies, as with so many things in life, one had to find the right guide. Rather than taking the moon as his reference point, he studied two wandering stars: one was called Venus, the other Aldebaran – a name Jahan liked so much he kept repeating it to himself, as though it were poetry.

  Unlike the instruments, which were new, the books and manuscripts in the library were ages old. It was here that Takiyuddin kept his treatises on geometry, algebra and the forces of motion. He was particularly pleased that in a recent decree, addressed to the kadis of Istanbul, the Sultan had ordered the people who possessed valuable collections to hand these over to the royal observatory. When you receive this order, find those books based on astronomy and geometry, and give them to my honourable astronomer, Takiyuddin, so that he may continue his excellent work, under my protection.


  With an endorsement so strong they thought nothing could go wrong. Immaculate inside, immaculate outside, the observatory, their observatory, with its windows iridescent in the evening sun, shone atop a hill in Tophane.

  The opening ceremony was glorious. Above their heads the sun hovered bright and generous, the sky a seamless blue. Regardless, the air felt crisp and chilly, as though both the winter and the summer had wanted to be present on such a day. Seagulls swooped far ahead, not shrieking for once; swallows dipped and drank water from the marble fountain in the courtyard. The smell of myrrh on their robes and beards mingled with the sweet fragrance of the halvah Takiyuddin had ordered to be doled out to the workers, who had toiled hard to finish on time.

  Sinan was present, clad in a cinnamon kaftan and a bulbous turban, the fingers of his right hand moving around an imaginary rosary. The apprentices stood some steps behind him, trying hard to conceal their pride. For, although it was Sultan Murad’s health and triumph and the Chief Royal Astronomer’s success that they were here to pray for, the students of Sinan had contributed much to this observatory. They could not help but be pleased with the two buildings they had designed, constructed and made ready for use – under the auspices of the master but still theirs alone. This was their creation, may the Creator forgive the word, which belonged only to Him.

  Beyond the observatory grounds was an expanse of onlookers and well-wishers, their voices carrying in the wind. Foreign envoys observing the happenings, merchants calculating what this could bring to them, pilgrims murmuring prayers, beggars seeking alms, thieves searching for prey, and children perching on their fathers’ shoulders to get a glimpse of the place where you could watch the sun and the moon, and even learn where the shooting stars went when they tumbled down.

  Takiyuddin, tall and erect, stood at the centre, wearing a flowing garb white as alabaster. Forty sheep and forty cows had been sacrificed early on, their meat distributed to the poorest of the poor. Now a drop of their blood shone on his forehead, between his eyes. To his left and to his right twenty-four astronomers had lined up, their faces shining with delight.