The Architect's Apprentice

by Elif Shafak

  Abruptly, all sound subsided. A ripple of excitement went through the audience. Sultan Murad was coming. Like water, his presence flowed into the courtyard, filling each empty space, long before his cavalcade was spotted in the distance. The Shadow of God on Earth was going to open the biggest observatory in the seven climes. Once the Sultan and his guards had arrived and settled, a Sufi sheikh began to pray, his voice at once loud and mellow.

  ‘May Allah afford His protection to our magnanimous Sultan!’

  They echoed in unison, savouring the word as if it were a tasty morsel. ‘Amin!’

  ‘May Allah have mercy on our glorious empire and guide us in all our deeds and help us to join those who have been through this world before and have not erred! May Allah look after this house and reveal the secrets of the heavens to those and only those who can bear them.’

  ‘Amin!’

  As Jahan listened to the Sufi’s words, his gaze strayed towards the ulema, the religious seniors, who were watching the ceremony. There had been rumours that the Shayh al-Islam, when asked to lead the communal prayer, had refused. Jahan observed the man’s face. He looked composed, his expression tranquil as a pond. Just then he pursed his lips, his mouth twisting into a scowl, as if he had tasted something bitter. Jahan didn’t think anyone had noticed, enraptured, as they were, by prayer. But he had seen it, that tiny gesture, and his chest tightened.

  For a moment that was as brief as the ascent of a soaring condor, Jahan knew in his gut, even though there was nothing obviously out of the way, that something was wrong. He had the intense feeling that Sinan was also aware of this – hence the nervous motion of his fingers. In the meantime Takiyuddin, in his exhilaration, had not suspected a thing.

  Later on Jahan would contemplate this moment at length. Sinan had not had much experience with the ulema but he could nonetheless sense their profound dislike. Takiyuddin, on the other hand, knew them far better than anyone. After all, he had served as a judge, a theologian, a muwakkit, the keeper of time, and a teacher at a madrasa. Yet he did not share the unease that the master and the apprentice had felt that day. Perhaps, Jahan would conclude, with closeness came blindness and with a certain distance, awareness.

  Takiyuddin was writing a treatise on heavenly beings, a book he called a zij. Therein he registered the positions and distances and motions of the sun and the moon and the stars and the celestial bodies. This would take him years, he explained, but when finished it would be a guide in perpetuity.

  ‘A zij is a map,’ he explained. ‘A map of the divine creation.’

  Long ago an infidel sage by the name of Aristo – a man who had taught the great Askander everything he knew – held that the earth was at the centre of the universe and that it was peacefully at rest, unlike other celestial bodies. He left it to astronomers to find the sum of the spheres that rotated around it, the cumulative number of the many domes that moved above their heads.

  ‘Have you been able to count them?’ Jahan asked when, following the inauguration, he and Davud paid him a visit.

  ‘Eight,’ Takiyuddin said decidedly.

  It was an impeccable number and for a good reason – the shape of the earth, the arrangement of the heavenly bodies, the layers of the universe, everything was put in order by God for human beings to see, study and contemplate. The more Takiyuddin talked, the more garrulous he became. He said as brilliant as Aristo had been, he had got things wrong. It was the sun that was at the heart of the universe, not the earth. The other bodies revolved round this ball of fire in perfect circles. He showed Jahan a book that, he said, proved this beyond doubt. Jahan read aloud its title, the words in Latin gliding on his tongue, smooth and round, something to do with the revolution of spheres. Koppernigk. What a strange name, he thought, yet the Chief Royal Astronomer had pronounced it with such veneration that from his mouth it sounded like an incantation.

  ‘He had a sweetheart but never married,’ said Takiyuddin, pointing at the leather-bound tome as if it were alive. ‘He raised his sister’s children and had none of his own.’

  Davud asked, ‘Why didn’t he become espoused?’

  ‘God knows. But probably for the woman’s sake. What wife can bear a husband who sees only the skies?’

  Davud and Jahan eyed each other, thinking the same thing. Although Takiyuddin was married, he slept in the observatory most nights. They did not dare to ask if, when talking about Koppernigk, he had been alluding to himself as well.

  Thanking the architect and his acolytes, Davud and Jahan bade them farewell. Scarcely had they stepped outside when they were engulfed by a wave of fog, penetrating and sinister. Fumbling like two blind men, they found Chota, climbed up to their places and slowly, very slowly, trotted towards the city.

  A few steps into this walk Jahan felt an urge to turn back and look. Something strange happened then. Of the two tall buildings that formed the observatory, not a single thing could be seen – not even a flickering candle from the windows or a glow from the instruments on the upper terrace. So fully had its contours sunk into the sea of grey that in that moment it felt like the observatory had never existed and that everything said and done under its roof had been nothing more than prints in the sand.

  One gusty day, upon returning from work – Jahan on Chota’s neck, the master and the apprentices inside the howdah – they found Takiyuddin waiting in the courtyard, a troubled look on his face. Having not visited him in a while, Jahan was astonished to see how much he had changed. The excitement that had glossed his features in the early months of the observatory had worn off, leaving an older and gaunter face beset by tension. After a brief interchange of greetings, the two elderly men retreated into the pavilion in the garden, under a canopy of vines, their voices subdued, strained.

  Unable to get near, unwilling to stay away, the apprentices strode to the kitchen, where, despite the grumbling of the cook, they perched beside the window – the one spot in the house where they could spy on their masters. From this distance it was not possible to hear what they were saying. Even so, nothing could hold them back from making guesses of their own.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ murmured Davud. ‘I feel it in my bones.’

  ‘Maybe they are only having a discussion,’ said Nikola, not ready to abandon his customary sanguineness.

  Takiyuddin had brought along one of his acolytes – a young star-gazer with a pockmarked face and the thinnest beard the colour of sunset. When he joined them, the apprentices began to badger him, asking what was happening. Though he tried to evade their questions, he soon laid everything bare. ‘My master observed a comet in Sagittarius.’

  Jahan cast a glance at the others. Nikola seemed confused; Davud suspicious; there was no way to tell what was on Sancha’s mind, since her eyes were fixed on the floor. Assuming he was not the only ignorant one around, he asked, ‘What’s that?’

  The star-gazer sighed. ‘Long-haired star. Huge. It’s coming our way.’

  ‘What will it do?’ Davud inquired.

  ‘My master will say.’

  ‘Surely you must know something about this,’ Davud insisted.

  ‘Some comets have caused floods. In one kingdom all the women with child miscarried. Another time three-legged frogs rained from the sky.’

  The apprentices listened aghast. Spurred on by his own voice, the man recounted one calamity after another. ‘Another comet brought a dry spell that lasted for seven years. Winds so strong that all the saplings were uprooted. Locusts devoured any plant that was left.’

  ‘Sssh, they’re coming,’ Nikola said, even though there was no way they could be heard from the outside.

  Embarrassed, not unlike badly behaved children, they went into the garden to welcome the two masters. Whatever it was that troubled Takiyuddin seemed to have blighted Sinan’s mood, like a canker that passes from one tree to the next.

  ‘Look at them,’ Takiyuddin said, pointing at the apprentices.

  ‘Gossip flies faster than a comet,’ said Sinan
in the waggish voice he reserved for fatherly reproach.

  ‘Particularly if someone can’t hold their tongue,’ Takiyuddin chided, his stare resting on his own acolyte, who instantly lowered his head, colour rising to his cheeks. Quietly the astronomer added, ‘It’s fine. The entire city will learn about it anyhow.’

  Encouraged by this, Jahan demanded, ‘What does it all mean?’

  ‘Allah is great and so are His omens,’ Takiyuddin said. ‘We mortals might not see it that way, but in the end it always is.’

  Jahan stared at the court astronomer, tongue-tied. His answer, which offered scant comfort, had weighed him down. He wasn’t the only one. Until that moment the apprentices had been more preoccupied with inventing menaces where they saw none. Now they felt threatened by a force they had neither the wisdom to grasp nor the might to defeat.

  Sinan was correct about the speed of gossip. In the ensuing days Istanbulites talked about nothing else. Fearful whispers and dark foreboding seeped into the cracks in the walls, filled in the gaps in the cobbles, passed through the holes in the locks, flew down the sewers, sullied the very air. Soon after, the Sultan declared he would hold a conclave of notables, viziers and members of the ulema. An impromptu council where Takiyuddin would give an account of things. Jahan’s excitement soared when he heard that Sinan, too, had been asked to come and offer his opinion.

  ‘Please take me with you,’ Jahan pleaded.

  Sinan threw him a burning look. ‘Why, just because you are curious?’

  ‘If not me, take another one of us. We built this observatory –’

  He didn’t need to go on. Sinan yielded. ‘Go, get ready.’

  After the midday prayer the master and the mahout reached the palace. Like the others they were ushered into the Audience Chamber. There were about forty dignitaries, some of them with their attendants, lined up on both sides of the vast room. Sitting on a golden throne in the heart of everything was Sultan Murad.

  Takiyuddin was brought in. Jahan watched him kneel and kiss the Sultan’s hem, bow again, salute the members of the diwan and wait demurely, his hands clasped, his gaze on his feet. In that moment no one wanted to be in his place.

  ‘Chief Royal Astronomer, you are here to tell our benevolent Sultan what the comet promises to bring,’ said the Grand Vizier Sokollu.

  ‘If your Highness permits,’ Takiyuddin said and took out a scroll from the inside of his robe. He began to read it aloud: ‘I, Takiyuddin ibn Ma’ruf, in my capacity as the Chief Royal Astronomer, have seen a comet in Sagittarius. After consulting my zij and making use of my turquet, as the great Nasir al-Din al-Tusi had once done, I found its longitude to be at 26 Sagittarius and its latitude at 22 degrees north. In my measurements I have taken three major stars as my reference points: Aldebaran, the bull’s eye; Algorab, the raven; and Altayr, the flying vulture. For days on end I have observed the motion of the comet to understand its temperament. The details of its progression I have written down at length for young astronomers to study after my soul departs this world of shadows.’

  Here Takiyuddin paused. Not a single sound could be heard in the chamber.

  ‘I slept little for the next seven nights. My apprentices and I took turns, studying –’

  ‘Spare us what you have done,’ said Sokollu. ‘Tell us what the star will do.’

  Takiyuddin drew breath, as if imbibing this moment, this room; he took it in, the faces of friends and foes watching his every move, and perhaps he felt as lonely as the comet he had been tracking. Placing his finger on the scroll, he skipped to the end: ‘I’ve found that the comet is attracted by Venus, its tail stretches eastwards, its motion is from north to south. By studying the constitution of the comet and the temperament of the planet it is drawn to, I have come to the conclusion that, unlike the comets that have visited our skies in days of old, this one has a benevolent nature. It does not wish us harm.’

  A quiet rumble of relief rose. Into this the Sultan, speaking for the first time, said with a bob of his head, ‘That’s good. Tell us more.’

  ‘It shall bring rainclouds aplenty; the harvest will overflow,’ said Takiyuddin.

  ‘What about on the battlefield?’ asked the Shadow of God on Earth.

  ‘Our troops shall gain a major victory, your Majesty.’

  Another wave of excitement rippled through the room. Eyes grew wide, glittering with delight. With that, the meeting was concluded.

  None of it came to pass, however. The war with Iran did not go as expected. Even though the Ottoman Army was triumphant, the losses were too enormous to fool anyone. A drought followed. For months on end pantries remained empty, children went to bed hungry. Worse was the earthquake that left entire neighbourhoods in ruins. Afterwards the plague hit again. People died en masse and were buried en masse. Wherever one turned there was poverty and grief.

  The comet had brought misery. But to none more than to Takiyuddin. The ulema started to scheme about him. Having waited for an opportune moment to strike at the court astronomer, the new Shayh al-Islam, Ahmed Shamseddin Effendi, attacked with all his might. It is because of the observatory that this calamity has fallen on the city. Who were they to watch God? It had to be the other way round: God should watch them. Human beings ought to have their eyes on the ground, not pointed towards the vault of heaven.

  The Sultan ordered the observatory to be demolished.

  The morning they heard the news the apprentices ran to the master’s house. Hardly able to speak, they looked past one another as though they were walking in a dream.

  Meanwhile Sinan spent the rest of the day sitting in the pavilion alone, perhaps remembering another time when he and Takiyuddin had been there, hopeful and faithful. After the evening prayer he came out and said in a voice so soft and mellow it belied the hardness underneath, ‘You made it; you should raze it.’

  ‘But master –’ Nikola tried to protest.

  Jahan’s self-control broke. Since Olev’s death there had been much anger in his heart and now it exploded. He said, ‘Is this why you let us build it? You didn’t do it yourself because you knew this was bound to happen.’

  The others gaped at him. It was the kind of thing they had all thought on the quiet, but they were astonished that he had had the discourtesy to say it out loud. Sinan said, ‘I wasn’t aware. If I had known I’d not have asked you to do it.’

  But once he began Jahan couldn’t stop. He insisted, ‘Then why don’t you defend our observatory? How can you let this happen?’

  Sinan smiled sadly, the lines around his eyes deepening. ‘There are things that are in my hands and things that are not. I cannot prevent people from destroying. All I can do is keep building.’

  The evening before the demolition, they retreated to their own corners, avoiding conversation. The master was upstairs in the haremlik with his family; Nikola in the workshop; Davud nowhere to be seen; Sancha in her room at the back of Sinan’s house; and Jahan cloistered in the barn. The poor kahya, unable to convince them to sup together, had to send everyone their food on separate trays.

  Jahan missed spending time alone with the elephant and attending to his every need, so tonight he chased away the young helper. In his heart of hearts, he believed that no one could look after the animal the way he did. Just as in the olden days, he washed the urine off the floor, shovelled the dung, topped up the water in the barrel, renewed the leaves in the trough. He scoured Chota’s feet – the big, round front and the smaller, oval hind – careful not to hurt the doughy footpads underneath. He pored over his toenails, all eighteen of them, which he then trimmed, cleaned and rubbed with balm one by one. Drudging at construction sites and trudging up steep hills, year after year, had eventually taken its toll. Four of his toenails had split and one was about to fall off.

  Jahan inspected the animal’s trunk for warts, pleased to find none, and his tail for fleas and mites. He examined the soft tissue behind his ears for elephant lice, which were the worst. It was odd to see a beast this huge utter
ly helpless in the face of the most infinitesimal creature. But the truth was one louse could ruin an elephant’s temper. Though he found a few tiny brown lumps, thankfully there was nothing alarming. After washing him Jahan checked his back for wounds and abscesses. Where his skin was dry he applied ointment. While he did this, Chota waited patiently, basking in the attention. Jahan, too, enjoyed the effort. It helped him to forget his despair, even though he knew it wouldn’t be long before he remembered it again. When he was done, Chota swung his trunk as if to ask him how he looked.

  ‘There, handsome as gold,’ Jahan said.

  It was then that he heard footsteps behind the slightly open gate.

  ‘Down here,’ he yelled, expecting to see a houseboy with his meal. To his astonishment, it was Sinan. Wiping his hands on a greasy rag, Jahan scurried over to him. ‘Master, welcome.’ It didn’t sound right to invite him into a barn, so he added hastily, ‘You want me to come out?’

  ‘Let’s talk here. Better.’

  Jahan spread Chota’s mantle on a mound of hay, making an odd chair, half velvet, half straw.

  ‘I never thought there’d come a day when I’d ask you what I’m about to ask now,’ Sinan said after settling down.

  ‘What is it?’ Jahan said, though he was not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  ‘I need your skills. Not as a draughtsman. Your earlier skills, if one may call them such.’

  Seeing Jahan draw a blank, he explained, slowly, ‘Back when you used to help yourself to other people’s belongings, I mean. I know you don’t do it any more.’

  Shame. Horror. So the master knew all about his pilfering. A rush of guilt ran down to his fingertips. Still, he did not deny it. ‘Yes, right … but … I don’t understand.’

  ‘I need you to steal a few things for me, son.’