by Elif Shafak
Under the swooping boughs of a willow tree they tucked into their food, gossiped about the people who had attended the ceremony and those who had not shown up. But there was one question nobody dared to broach: who among them would replace their master? They would have to wait for the will to be opened. Until then, it was futile to speculate. How could they know what was cast in the runes, written in the stars, when even Takiyuddin had not? So they spoke about this and that, curt words that did not add up to anything, and soon afterwards each went his own way.
The next day, Jahan was summoned to the Chief White Eunuch’s quarters and informed that he was to start teaching at the palace school – a reputable job that filled him with apprehension and pride in equal measure.
Later on, when he met his students, he found in their young faces innocence and curiosity, pretension and ignorance, dexterity and laziness. Which of these qualities would take precedence over the rest, he wondered; would schooling make any difference or had their paths already been drawn? Had his master been alive, he would say, ‘Every man is given his own kismet, for God never repeats the same fate twice.’
Immersed in his own concerns, weeks passed by. It was only then that it occurred to him he had not heard from either Davud or Nikola. He sent both a message. When no answer came from either, he was worried, particularly for Nikola. Davud had a wife and children; Sancha still lived in Master Sinan’s house; Jahan had Chota and a bed in the menagerie and now another one in the palace school. But Nikola had only his aged parents, both of whom had recently passed away. He realized how little he knew him. All these years they had toiled side by side, summer and winter, and yet they still remained a mystery to each other.
On Tuesday morning, Jahan decided to visit Nikola. Fog had settled into the city; the sun was a blurry halo behind billows of grey. At first glance, the settlement of Galata on the far side of the Golden Horn was the same as always. Houses – half stone, half wood – were arranged in rows like decayed teeth; there were churches with no bells; the scents of candles and incense wafted from the chapels; and a medley of people – Florentines, Venetians, Greeks, Armenians, Jews and Franciscan monks – milled about.
Jahan rode his horse at a trot, observing his surroundings. As he went deep into the back alleys, the crowd thinned. It became quiet. Too quiet. Something was not right. Closed shutters, bolted doors, packs of ravenous dogs, dead cats on the pavement and a foul smell that enveloped everything. Upon entering Nikola’s street, he shuddered, as though a nippy breeze had passed through him. There were crosses painted on some of the houses, and prayers in Latin and Greek, unfinished and unintelligible, scribbled in haste.
Jumping off his horse, he went near another sign, only this one was on Nikola’s door. He didn’t know how long he stood there staring, unable to leave, unwilling to go inside. A neighbour, a man with a back so hunched that he seemed bent, approached. ‘What do you want?’
‘My friend lives here. Kiriz Nikola – you know him?’
‘I know everyone. Don’t go in there. Stay away.’
‘What is it?’
‘The curse, it’s back.’
‘You mean …’ Jahan halted, detecting the man’s contempt for his ignorance. It was the plague again. ‘How have we not heard about it?’
‘Dolt! You only hear what you are allowed to hear,’ the man said before he strode away. He didn’t go too far. From the threshold of the house across the street he kept watch, his eyes like narrow slits.
Jahan took his sash off and wrapped it around his mouth and nose. He pushed Nikola’s door. Had it been locked, he would have given up. But it was ajar, propped open with a wedge to make sure it wouldn’t close. Whoever had placed this here intended to return and knew there was no one inside to open the door.
Upon entering the house, a heavy stench hit him like an unexpected blow. He found himself in a corridor, narrow, musty and dim. He had to wait for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The first room was empty. In the next one, by the pale light of a candle, a man was lying on a mat. His dark hair lacked lustre, his skin was drained of colour, his high domed forehead was covered in sweat – it was and it was not Nikola, this man with a few days’ stubble on his always carefully shaved face. Beside him was a small wooden figure of a man with a chestnut beard and long hair.
There were two clay bowls by his side: one with water, one with vinegar. His clothes were damp with sweat, his lips chapped. Jahan put his hand on his forehead. It was burning. At Jahan’s touch he flinched. With a great effort he turned his head towards him, unseeing.
‘It’s me, Jahan.’
Nikola’s breath came out in sputters, like the crackle of a smouldering log before it burns out. ‘Water,’ Nikola rasped.
He drank greedily. Through his open shirt Jahan saw spots on his chest, a purple that verged on black, and a nasty swelling in his armpit. He had a pressing urge to run away from this place of suffering, but, while his mind whispered cowardice, his body stayed anchored. Soon there was a rattle at the door. Two nuns appeared. Long dark cloaks, white muslin masks on their mouths.
‘Who are you?’ the elder one demanded. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m his friend,’ Jahan said. ‘We worked together under the late Chief Royal Architect.’
A startled silence hung in the space between them. ‘I’m sorry if I spoke harshly,’ she said. ‘I took you for a thief.’
Jahan felt a rush of dismay, dreading that this woman with eyes old and calm as stones had seen through him. Unaware of his thoughts, the nun went on. ‘Nobody comes to these houses. Only robbers.’
‘Robbers?’
‘Yes, they come to steal from –’
She did not finish her sentence. Instead she moved towards Nikola. She made him drink out of the flask she had brought and wiped his forehead with a flannel dipped in vinegar, touching him without any sign of the repugnance that Jahan had felt. Meanwhile the other nun was busy wiping excrement off the sheets.
Jahan wanted to ask them if they were not afraid of death but he kept his thoughts to himself. He whispered, ‘Are there many others?’
‘No, but there will be.’
Nikola started to cough. Blood spilled from his mouth and nose. The elder nun, seeing Jahan’s horror, said, ‘You should go. There is nothing you can do here.’
Saddened but somehow relieved to hear this, Jahan asked, ‘How can I help?’
‘Pray,’ was all she said.
Jahan inched towards the door, then stopped. ‘That figure over there, who is he?’
‘Saint Thomas,’ said the nun with a tired smile. ‘The patron saint of carpenters, builders, architects and construction workers. He was also known as a doubter. He doubted everything, could not help it. But God loved him just the same.’
Two days later Jahan heard that Nikola had died. In a world where everything was in flux, he, the most stable and reliable soul he had known after Master Sinan, was gone. Then followed the others. Hundreds of them. From Galata the disease travelled to Uskudar, leaped to Istanbul and, as if thrust by an angry hand, bounced back to Galata. Once again, mobs took to the streets, looking for someone to blame. Nor was the palace immune. The Chinese twins who took care of the apes went the way of all flesh. The monkeys turned aggressive, unhappy in the royal cages where their forefathers had once been such privileged guests. Taras the Siberian hid in his shed, ashamed to be alive at his age.
Then Sangram died. This kind-hearted, loyal servant of the seraglio, who had always wished to return to Hindustan some day, breathed his last miles away from his homeland. The next victim was Simeon the bookseller of Pera. His wife, duped by some tinkers and vendors, agreed to sell his books for a handful of aspers. Piled on rickety carts, those precious books from all the world over left Pera and travelled to their new destinations. Many got lost on the way. Simeon, who had always desired to be in charge of a magnificent library, had not even been able to bequeath his own collections to someone who would appreciate them.
J
ahan, who learned about all this much later, waited in suspense, wondering who would be the next. But for a reason he could not comprehend the disease spared him and continued on its pilgrimage south like a predatory bird, casting a dark shadow over the villages and towns it passed through. In the Christian cemetery, not far from the Virgin of the Spring, where Emperor Justinian’s church was no more but the holy spring remained, Nikola’s headstone read:
Architect Nikola ascended to the skies like the towers he built
May his soul rest in the vault of heaven
And Saint Thomas be his companion
Upon returning to the palace, Jahan found Chota alone. When he saw his old tamer, the animal trumpeted and stomped his feet. Jahan patted his trunk, offered him the pears and nuts he had brought along. In the past Chota would have smelled them long before Jahan arrived. But lately he had lost his ability to smell, along with his strength.
Perching on a barrel, Jahan told him about Nikola’s funeral. The animal listened to his every word, squinting in his usual way. When Jahan wept, Chota’s trunk slid around his chest, hugging him. Once again, Jahan had the impression that the white elephant understood everything he said.
In a little while they heard footsteps. Two shadows appeared at the door. Sangram’s lad, who had taken over, so resembled his father in looks and demeanour that they all called him Sangram, as though the same soul had been resurrected and death was merely a game. Abe, Chota’s keeper, was with him.
‘Jahan is here!’ said Sangram the son, happy to see the man he had known and loved as an uncle.
‘I’m here but where was he?’ Jahan rasped, pointing at Abe. ‘Why do you leave the elephant unattended? He’s got a broken toenail. Do you have any idea how that must hurt? It needs to be trimmed and washed. It’s a mess around this place. When was the last time you cleaned?’
Mumbling his regrets, Abe grabbed a brush and started to sweep every which way. In the sunrays falling through the wooden cracks, dust was swirling. Sangram the son approached with a troubled stare. ‘You heard the news?’
‘What news?’
‘Davud. He has been raised.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Everyone’s talking about it. Your friend is the new Chief Royal Architect.’
‘Our Davud?’ Jahan stammered.
‘Well, not ours any more. He is way up there!’ said Sangram the son, pointing at the ceiling, where a spider had woven a cobweb and a horsefly, long dead, dangled.
‘You mean they … opened the will?’
Sangram the son looked at Jahan with unmistakable pity. ‘They did. Your master wished him to be his successor, it appears.’
‘Well … that’s good,’ stuttered Jahan, feeling dizzy, as though a precipice had opened up under his feet and he was falling, falling fast.
A few days later Sinan’s wife Kayra, according to the custom, freed several of the household slaves. The first one to be granted berat* was Sancha.
Jahan had always suspected that Kayra had mixed feelings about this unusual concubine under her roof – a woman who had shared things with her husband that she never could. If she had been averse to Sancha’s dressing up as a man and working on construction sites, she must have kept her feelings to herself. Even so, Jahan had little doubt that Kayra was aware of Sancha’s love for the master and didn’t like it at all. Between them the two women had dug a silent abyss that no one, not even Sinan, could bridge. And now that he was gone, Sancha’s was the last face Kayra wished to see. Still, she did not ill-treat her slave. Buying satins, taffetas and perfumes, she gave Sancha her blessing before she let her go. This is how, after decades as a captive in Istanbul, Sancha de Herrera, the daughter of a renowned Spanish physician, was freed.
She sent Jahan a letter. Her words burst with excitement and apprehension. Timidly, she asked if he would help her with the arrangements for leaving, because she did not know the first thing about what to do, where to begin. She said she would have loved to get Davud’s help as well, but that he was unaware of the truth. At times, she wasn’t even sure who she was any longer: Yusuf the builder or Nergiz the concubine. Jahan answered without delay:
Esteemed Sancha,
Your letter has brought me happiness and despair. Happiness because finally you are free to go. Despair because you are leaving. I shall come and help you next Thursday. Do not worry about being ready. You have been ready for this for a long, long time.
On the chosen day, Jahan visited her in Sinan’s house. For the first time since they had met, he saw her wearing a dress – an emerald-green gown with a cone-shaped skirt that brought out the colour of her eyes. On her still-short hair was a matching headdress of the sort ladies wore in the land of Frangistan.
‘Don’t stare at me like that,’ she said, blushing under his gaze. ‘I feel ugly.’
‘How can you say that?’ protested Jahan.
‘It’s the truth. I’m too old for pretty clothes.’
Watching her cheeks turn a darker shade of pink, Jahan said quickly, teasingly: ‘Imagine, if all these years the masons had known there was a beauty among them, they’d have stopped work to write you poems. We couldn’t have built a thing.’
She chuckled and cast her eyes down; her fingers ran along the pleats of her gown, under which was a farthingale of whalebone. ‘It’s so tight I can hardly breathe. How do women manage this?’
‘You’ll get used to it in no time.’
‘Nay, it’s going to take me years. I’ll be dead by then,’ she said, smiling – a smile that instantly disappeared. ‘I wish he had seen me like this.’
Above them the sky was blue and bright, as still as a looking glass. Outside, a cart rattled by. Peeping out of the window, Jahan saw it was loaded with cages of falcons, their eyes hooded. Distracted by the birds, he had not realized that Sancha, beside him, was weeping. A lad who was a girl, a mute with the gift of speech, a concubine yet an architect, she had lived a life of lies and layers – no less than Jahan.
‘What is upsetting you?’ Jahan asked. ‘I thought you’d be overjoyed now that you’re free.’
‘I’m glad,’ she said, unconvincingly. ‘Only … His grave is here. Everything we did together. He has more marks on this city than any Sultan.’
‘Master’s gone,’ Jahan said. ‘You are not leaving him.’
She tried, for a brief moment, not to talk about him, struggling with herself, losing. ‘Do you think he loved me?’
Jahan hesitated. ‘I believe he did. Otherwise why would he have allowed you to join us? He’d have been in trouble if anyone found out.’
‘He put himself in danger for me,’ Sancha said with a speck of pride. ‘But he never loved me. Not the way I loved him.’
This time Jahan did not respond. Nor did Sancha seem to be waiting for an answer. She said, ‘I heard there is a Venetian ship setting sail in two weeks’ time.’
Jahan nodded. Several times in the past days, he had observed its topmast looming over the roofs and trees. ‘I’ll make arrangements.’
‘I’d be grateful,’ Sancha said. Trepidation flickered in her eyes. ‘Come with me. There is nothing that binds you here.’
Jahan was surprised to hear her speak like this. All the same, he decided to take it lightly. ‘Ah, we’d build mansions for Spanish grandees.’
She held his hand, her touch soft and cold. ‘We might find a patron. I have made inquiries. We could take care of each other.’
Watching her familiar gestures, Jahan felt a stir in his heart. He saw what she saw. United by the memory of the master, their hearts numb to all but their craft they could work together. Love was not needed. Better without it. Love only brought pain.
‘If I’d been younger, we could have had children,’ she said slowly, as though weighing each word.
Despite himself, Jahan beamed. ‘Girls with your eyes and your bravery.’
‘Boys with your curiosity and kindness.’
‘What about Chota?’ Jahan murmured.
> ‘Chota is old. He has been happy in the palace. He’ll be fine. But you and I need to go on building –’
‘Wisdom does not rain from the sky, it springs from the earth, from hard work,’ said Jahan, remembering the words of their master.
‘The dome,’ Sancha went on. ‘We should raise domes that remind people there is a God and that He is not a God of revenge and hell but of mercy and love.’
Jahan rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes.
‘I’m frightened,’ she said. ‘It’s been such a long time since I was torn from my father’s land that I’m a stranger to their ways now.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ Jahan said, trying to reassure her.
‘I will, if you come with me. What do you say?’
In that moment Jahan understood that life was the sum of the choices one did not make; the paths yearned for but not taken. He had never felt as much compassion for Sancha as he did now – the moment when he understood that he would refuse her. She saw it in his face, his resistance. A flash of hurt flickered in her eyes, but she did not cry. Her tears she kept for the master, her one and only love.
‘Pray remember me,’ Jahan said.
Only the slightest break in her voice betrayed her disappointment when she said, ‘I shan’t ever forget.’
About a week later, the Venetian ship, a three-masted carrack with a rounded stern, was ready to return home. The Venetian traders had been losing their privileges to French, Dutch and English merchants. The Captain wore his unhappiness like the jacket that wrapped him tight. Even so there was enough of a bustle to distract him from his worries. The toing and froing of sailors loading the barrels and sellers hawking their merchandise. A small gathering of passengers waited off to one side: Jesuit priests, Catholic nuns, travellers, a British well-born fanned by his servants. Other than these the rest were rough seamen.
