The Architect's Apprentice

by Elif Shafak

  Next morning Jahan found the site covered in mire. Dirty rivulets ran on all sides. Ahead of him a dozen labourers were pushing to dislodge a cart stuck in sludge. Another team was erecting a massive timber with the help of steel pulleys, shouting in unison Allah, Allah, as though the construction was a holy war to be won. On the sloped roof there were workmen mending the damaged parts. Wherever he looked he saw people working away to fix things. The only one not working was Chota, wallowing in a brown pool, delighted.

  There was a makeshift shed outside the mosque, opposite the narthex, where the master retreated whenever he needed to rest. On that day, suffering from back pain, he spent the afternoon there, lying on a flat surface, wrapped in warm towels. A Jewish physician arrived and drew two bowls of blood from him to release the malignant humours. He then applied poultices to his aching joints.

  After the evening prayer the door was opened and the master walked out, pale and drowsy but otherwise fine. He waved at Jahan, and was about to mouth a salute when something strange happened. One of the workmen on the roof who was pulling up the lead sheets lost control of his load. The rope he was holding snapped, sending the entire load plummeting just as Sinan was passing by.

  A cry pierced the air. Loud, sharp and distinctively female. It was Sancha. Three words spilled from her lips, ‘Master, watch out!’

  The lead sheets came down with a horrible crash. Sinan, having miraculously veered aside, was spared. Had he not moved, they would have sliced him in two like the Sword of Damocles.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Sinan said when they ran to him.

  That was when, one by one, all heads turned to Sancha. She blushed up to her ears under their prying stares, her lip sagging.

  Into an awkward silence Sinan said, ‘How blessed we are to hear Yusuf’s voice. Fear loosens tied tongues, they say.’

  Sancha, trembling, lowered her head, her body that of a rag doll. During the remaining hours of work she avoided everyone. Jahan dared not go near her. The workers were suspicious. There is a hunsa among us, they whispered with sidelong glances. Someone who was half woman, half man, forever stuck in limbo. The possibility that Yusuf was a woman had not occurred to anyone.

  The next day Sinan’s Chief Apprentice was absent from the site. And the day after that. It was explained that, feeling unwell, Yusuf had to go away for a few weeks. Where or how, no one inquired. Somehow all and sundry, having stumbled upon a secret, had sensed that it was better, safer, to know nothing. Only Jahan understood that this was the end – Sancha would not be working with them again. She would be putting herself and the master in peril if she were to return. She had gone back to the life she abhorred: the life of a concubine.

  The same week Jahan was wending his way through the site, lost in thought, when he glimpsed a rope that Chota had trampled in the mud. Unthinking, he picked it up. As he inspected it, his face sank. The two strings on the sides had snapped, leaving the fibre splintered, while the strings in the middle were shorter and straight, as if slashed by a blade. Someone had thinned the rope by cutting its core. Outside it looked like an ordinary rope; inside it was weak as an eggshell.

  Straight away Jahan went to see his master. ‘Someone laid a trap.’

  Wordlessly, Sinan squinted at the rope. ‘Are you saying this was no accident?’

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ Jahan said. ‘Why did you come out of the shed, master?’

  ‘I heard someone call for me,’ said Sinan.

  ‘Must be the same person who planned this. He knew the rope would break because he cut it. Poor San … Yusuf tried to save you. And now he is doomed!’

  ‘Since you know so much already …’ Sinan said, his eyes infinitely sad, ‘you should know she is at home with my family.’

  ‘Master, working with you is her only joy. You ought to bring her back.’

  Sinan shook his head. ‘I cannot have her here any more. It isn’t safe.’

  Jahan pursed his lips, trying to bite back words that he might regret afterwards. ‘Are we not going to investigate who did this?’

  ‘What can be done? I cannot interrogate every man on the site. If the workers suspect I don’t trust them, they’ll lose their will to work.’

  Uneasiness came over Jahan. He, on the contrary, believed that Sinan should question everyone until the culprit was found. He said, in a voice he didn’t know he was capable of, ‘Michelangelo mourned his assistant like his son. Whereas you … don’t even care for us. Glass, wood, marble, metal … Are we not like these in your eyes, mere instruments in your constructions?’

  Into the ensuing silence Sinan said, slowly, ‘That’s not true.’

  But Jahan was no longer listening.

  Even with one apprentice missing the master finished Sokollu’s mosque on time. Prayers were chanted; hennaed sheep and rams were sacrificed. Sokollu, glowing with pride and joy, gave baksheesh to the labourers and freed a hundred of his slaves. Shortly afterwards, at a meeting of the diwan, a man dressed up as a dervish asked to see the Grand Vizier. Like Sokollu, he, too, came from Bosnia. For a reason nobody could fathom, then or afterwards, Sokollu gave him permission to come in, to come close.

  He was stabbed by the stranger, who was caught and killed before anyone could discover the reason behind the bloodshed. Sokollu, Sokolovic, the Grand Vizier and one of the last patrons of architecture, was gone. The female djinn, if there was one, had failed to warn him this time.

  After Sokollu’s assassination the Sultan would appoint a succession of viziers, one after the other, none coming close to their predecessor. All at once, it was as though a lid had been lifted and the boiling cauldron underneath exposed. The imperial treasury was empty, the coins not worth their value. The Janissaries were furious, the peasants upset, the ulema dissatisfied, Master Sinan too old and too frail, and his mute apprentice no longer by his side.

  In his dream Jahan was in his village. He trudged through the path leading to their house, the sun hot on his neck. Finding the gate open, he strode in. There was no one in the courtyard. Then he noticed a faint movement under a tree – a tiger. Not far from it a peacock strutted, a deer grazed on a scrubby tuft of grass. He plodded with the utmost slowness so as not to draw attention to himself. A vain attempt since the cat had already noticed him. Its eyes flicked to his, uninterested. At each step he came across other animals – a rhino, a bear, a giraffe. In his absence his family had built a menagerie.

  Their house had been enlarged with more rooms, additional floors. Desperately, he searched for his mother and sisters, trotting along the marble corridors. Upstairs, in a room that resembled the Sultan’s palace, he stumbled upon his stepfather, sitting by himself. The man pointed towards the back garden – only there was no back garden any more. In its stead ran a rowdy river. Far ahead in a boat being dragged by the current was Sinan.

  Jahan shouted. At his voice Sinan stood up and lost his balance, fluttering his arms like a bird about to take flight. The boat capsized, sending him into the water. Someone was shouting next to Jahan’s ear, poking him on the shoulder.

  ‘Wake up, Indian!’

  Jahan did, his heart beating fast. Staring at him was the last person he expected to see: Mirka the bear-tamer. Jahan scowled at him, the memory of that night years ago returning as fast as a sword pulled out of its sheath.

  Mirka took a step back, his hands raised in a gesture of defence. ‘Something happened. We had to tell you.’

  Only then did Jahan notice the boy standing beside him. It was Abe, Chota’s new tamer – a young, slender, black African, no older than sixteen. A kind soul but so inexperienced Jahan wouldn’t trust him with a rabbit, let alone an elephant.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Jahan.

  Mirka averted his gaze. ‘The beast’s gone. He ran away.’

  Kicking off the blanket, Jahan leaped to his feet and seized Abe by the arm. ‘Where were you? Why didn’t you keep an eye on him?’

  The boy went limp, an empty sack in his hands. Mirka pulled Jahan away fro
m him. ‘It’s not his fault. The beast went on a rampage, snapped his chains. Never seen him this mad.’

  ‘Something must have irritated him,’ Jahan said. ‘What did you do to him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Abe answered, his voice dripping with fear. ‘He was possessed.’

  Jahan changed into his shalwar and splashed water on his face. They tiptoed past the dormitories. Upon reaching the menagerie, they stopped at the entrance of the empty barn, looking for clues that weren’t there.

  ‘Which way did he go?’ Jahan asked.

  A glance passed between Mirka and Abe. ‘He went out the main gate. The guards could not stop him.’

  Jahan’s heart sank. In a city so vast how could he find Chota before he got himself into trouble?

  ‘I need a horse and a letter of permission,’ Jahan said to Mirka.

  ‘We’ll ask the Chief White Eunuch. He’ll be furious when he hears. But we’ve got to find the beast.’

  In a little while Jahan was outside the palace gates, riding with no idea about which way to go. The streets sprawled in front of him, opening like fans. His horse – an aged, pale brown steed – was reluctant to gallop, though it soon gained pace. They passed through squares and bazaars.

  Rounding a corner, Jahan came across a watchman with two Janissaries on his heels. The watchman lifted a cudgel, yelling, ‘You, stop!’

  Jahan did.

  ‘Are you a djinn?’

  ‘No, effendi, I’m a human like you,’ Jahan said.

  ‘Then get off your horse! What are you doing outside at this hour, defying the Sultan’s rules? Come with us.’

  ‘Effendi, I’m from the palace,’ Jahan said, as he held on to the pommel of the saddle with one hand and gave him the letter of permission with the other. ‘An animal escaped. I have been sent to fetch it.’

  Reading the letter, the man mumbled, ‘What sort of an animal?’

  ‘An elephant,’ Jahan said. When there followed no response, he added, ‘The biggest creature on land.’

  ‘How are you going to catch it?’

  ‘I’m his tamer,’ Jahan said, his voice breaking. ‘He’ll do as I say.’

  Jahan wasn’t sure about this but luckily they did not press him further. He felt their eyes on his back even after he had left the street.

  It was only when he saw a muezzin on his way to a mosque for the morning prayer that he realized how long he had been out searching. He remembered the ancient graveyard overlooking the Golden Horn and the talk that had passed between him and Sangram a lifetime ago. I heard a strange thing about these beasts. They say they choose where they’d like to die. This one seems like he has found his place.

  When Jahan reached the site he was looking for, a wisp of cloud was hiding the moon, and a tang of salt was in the wind. He caught sight of a large shadow ahead, perhaps a boulder. Jumping off his horse, he approached. ‘Chota?’

  The boulder shifted.

  ‘Why did you come here?’

  Chota lifted his head and let it drop immediately. His mouth, most of his teeth gone, opened and closed.

  ‘Naughty boy! Don’t do this again.’ Jahan hugged his trunk, weeping.

  Together they witnessed the break of day. The sky showed them its brightest hues, like a cloth merchant hawking his precious silks. Jahan watched Istanbul with its seagulls, steep slopes and cypress trees, seized by a dawning comprehension that their time in this city was coming to an end. Strangely, it didn’t make him feel sad. That would come later, he knew. Sadness was always belated.

  After much begging Jahan managed to convince Chota to follow him to the palace. They put him in his barn, chained him with stronger fetters, filled his buckets with new fodder and hoped his escape would soon be forgotten. Yet the mahout finally had to face what he had refused to see before. The elephant was dying. And the great beast wanted to be alone when the end arrived.

  After the Master

  There was a tree in Paradise unlike any on earth. Its branches were translucent, its roots absorbed milk instead of water, and its trunk glittered as if ice-bound, though when one got close to it, it was not cold, not cold at all. Every leaf of this tree was marked with the name of a human being. Once a year, during the month of Shaban, on the night between the fourteenth and the fifteenth day, all the angels gathered around it, forming a circle. In unison, they flapped their wings. Thus they raised a powerful wind that shook the branches. Gradually, some of the leaves fell off. Sometimes it took a leaf quite a while to drop down. At other times, the descent was as quick as the blink of an eye. The moment a leaf reached the ground the person whose name was written on it breathed his last. This was why the wise and the learned would never step on a dry leaf, lest it bore the soul of someone somewhere.

  In 1588, a rainy day it was, Master Sinan’s leaf touched the soil. He had worked until the final moments, his health and his mind always strong. It was only in the last weeks that he was bedridden. The three apprentices clustered around him, together with the head foremen who had worked with Sinan for so long. The women, clad in their veils, lined up by the door, and even though Jahan dared not glance in their direction, he knew one of them was Sancha, Sinan’s loving concubine.

  His voice merely a whisper, the Chief Royal Architect told them, in the faint light that seeped through the blinds, that he had written, signed and sealed his will. He said, ‘You shall read it when I am gone.’

  ‘You are not going anywhere, master. May God always keep you with us,’ Nikola said, furtively wiping a tear.

  The master lifted his hand, as if to wave away such pleasantries. ‘There is something important you should know. The accidents … the delays … I have found out how they happened. It was in front of my eyes … all this time, I never saw.’

  Suddenly the air in the room changed. Everyone held his breath, waiting to hear more. A tense anticipation gushed into the space where there had only been sorrow a while ago.

  ‘Wait for forty days after my death,’ Sinan said, stumbling over his words. ‘Open my will and see which one of you I’d like to become my successor, God willing. You ought to carry on building. You ought to surpass what I’ve done.’

  ‘Master … about the accidents, you were saying. Aren’t you going to tell us who’s behind them?’ Jahan asked.

  ‘Jahan … fiery spirit … you were always the most curious one,’ Sinan said with difficulty. ‘It all must have happened for a reason. One must think of the reason, not hate the person.’

  Remembering Mihrimah’s final words, Jahan felt an ache so powerful he couldn’t talk. She, too, had mentioned that everything had a reason. He waited for an explanation, but it didn’t come. In a little while the apprentices were ushered out, as they had tired the master enough. It was the last time Jahan saw him. The next night, earlier than usual, Sinan went to sleep. He did not wake up.

  And this is how after almost fifty years as the Chief Royal Architect and 400 exquisite buildings, not counting his many shrines and fountains, Sinan departed this world. He had always left a flaw in his works to acknowledge he wasn’t perfect or complete, as such qualities belonged solely to God. In much the same way he died, at the glorious but imperfect age of ninety-nine and a half.

  On the seventh day following Sinan’s death his family summoned a prayer meeting for his soul. Relatives, neighbours, pashas, artisans, students, labourers and passers-by … came from far and wide to attend the rite. There were so many guests that they spilled into the courtyard and from there on to the street, all the way down to the next neighbourhood. Even those who had never met him mourned his loss as if he were one of their own. Hard-boiled candies and sherbets were offered, meat and rice distributed to the rich and the poor. Olive branches were burned while the Qur’an was recited from beginning to end. Yusuf Sinanettin bin Abdullah. His name was uttered in unison, over and again, an incantation that opened closed hearts. Halfway through, Jahan caught the whiff of a fragrance he knew well: the blend of ambergris and jasmine with which his master perf
umed his kaftans. He glanced around, wondering if he were here, watching them from an alcove or a niche, listening to what was said in his absence, smiling that smile of his.

  Jahan reflected on Sancha, knowing she was somewhere in the house, behind these walls, her forehead pressed against the glazed window, her short hair adorned with a gauzy scarf. It pained him so much, the knowledge that she could no longer work with them, that he had to chase away his thoughts, like a flock of black crows.

  After the prayer, the apprentices walked together for a while – Nikola, Davud and Jahan. The sky was murky and overcast, as though to reflect their mood. Dry leaves hovered in the breeze; seagulls plunged for a morsel. They kept running out of conversation. It wasn’t only grief. There was something else, something that hadn’t been there before. Jahan understood that throughout all these years Sinan had been the invisible thread holding them together. True, in the past, they had displayed petty jealousies, but Jahan had always attributed these to a shared love of the master and a wish to excel in his eyes. Now he saw that, in truth, they had been more different than alike, the three of them, three passing winds, each headed in a different direction. He wasn’t the only one who sensed this. All at once, they were weighing their words like polite strangers.

  As they made their way across a bazaar, they stopped to get some flatbread with pekmez.* None of them had eaten at the house of mourning and the walk had made them hungry. Jahan was haggling with a vendor when, right behind him, he heard a sneeze. Glancing sideways, it was not from a stranger, as he had expected. Instead, it was from Nikola, now half covering his face, as though in shame. When he pulled his hand away, there was a drop of blood on his palm.

  ‘You all right?’ Jahan asked.

  Silently, Nikola nodded. His eyes were two shooting stars in the serene firmament of his face. Davud, engrossed in the turtles that a peasant was selling, seemed not to have noticed anything. Turtles were sought after these days, as their shells, when crushed into a powder and eaten with yoghurt soup, were said to cure many an illness.