The Architect's Apprentice

by Elif Shafak

  ‘Come,’ she whispered, extending her hand.

  Jahan attempted to move towards the garden where she waited. But halfway through something distracted him. A noise coming from the other side. Footsteps. Not by the door, though. Somebody was trying to break in. There was a loud, sharp clank – the sound of a boring tool on wood. The window must have been opened, since a cool, crisp draught swirled in.

  ‘Clear,’ a voice said. ‘Go!’

  Something heavy landed on the floor with a thud. A man. Another followed suit. The two intruders tiptoed around, unaware of Jahan’s presence. The lamp they carried illuminated a tiny patch.

  ‘Find that trunk. It must be here.’

  ‘Ogh, what’s this smell?’

  ‘A dead rat, I’d say.’

  ‘You sure there’s treasure in this hollow?’

  ‘How many times have I told you? Those two oafs were carrying something big. Seen it with me own eyes.’

  ‘Sober eyes or drunk eyes?’

  ‘I know what I’m sayin’, dolt. There’s a secret here.’

  Thieves! Jahan shuddered. They could cut him to pieces. Still, he had nothing to lose. He was dying anyhow. A dry croak rose from his lips.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘What was what?’

  Jahan’s breath rasped in his throat.

  ‘Who’s there?’ one of them yelled, his voice dripping with fear. If Jahan didn’t say a word, they would beat a hasty retreat, taking him for a gulyabani.*

  ‘Help,’ Jahan pleaded.

  It didn’t take them long to find him amid the boxes and crates. Surrendering to his fate, Jahan slipped into blankness but came to, trembling. One of the men was holding him by the shoulders and shaking him like the branches of some mulberry tree.

  ‘What are you doing? Poor fella’s been clobbered enough.’

  ‘Trying to wake him up.’

  ‘Yeah, well done. Now he’s totally smacked!’

  ‘You wake him, then.’

  ‘Go get some water.’

  They poured a bucket of seawater on Jahan’s head, the salt burning the cuts and grazes on his skin, drilling down to his bones. He moaned in pain.

  Just then another voice was heard – gruff and strangely familiar. ‘Hey, what’s goin’ on?’

  ‘We found this one here. Looks like someone roughed him up, chief.’

  Footsteps drew closer. ‘The man is dying of thirst, muttonheads! They’ve pummelled him like a dirty old rug and what do you do? Pour seawater on his wounds! Step back! Stay away, butchers!’

  Jahan heard the thump of a flask being opened. Wetting his handkerchief with sweet water, the man pressed it to his lips. ‘More,’ Jahan begged as he strove to suck the cloth.

  ‘Brother, take it easy. Not so fast.’

  They began to wipe his face, curious to see the star-crossed soul underneath the blood and the mud and the grime. Jahan wanted to say something, but it was too exhausting, every word, every gasp. His head drooped.

  ‘God Almighty. Bring that lamp closer,’ the same voice bellowed. ‘May the sky fall on our heads, it’s Jahan! He’s got no wits, this man! A snail knows better! I find him freezing in water, I meet him in the dungeon, now he’s in with the rubbish! Always in trouble!’

  Jahan stammered, ‘Ba … laban?’

  ‘Indeed, brother.’

  Jahan burst out laughing – the cackle of a mad man.

  ‘He’s lost his little mind, chief,’ said one of the Gypsies.

  ‘Poor chap,’ said the other.

  To both of which Balaban shook his head and said tenderly, ‘Nay, he’s got an elephant’s strength, our brother. He’ll be fine.’

  Freeing him from his ropes, they helped Jahan to stand up, though he could not walk. His right foot was a mess of empurpled flesh, swollen to twice its size. They grabbed him, a man under each arm. As soon as they stepped outside, the wind pricked his skin like splintered glass. He didn’t mind. It was over. Once again in his life, just as he was going down fast, ready to cross to the other side, a Gypsy’s hand had pulled him back, pulled him up.

  Balaban’s wife, taking Jahan into her care, applied a poultice to his wounds and pigeon dung to his cuts. Morning and evening she forced down his throat a brew that was the colour of rust and tasted no better. The cut on his cheek, which bled whenever he moved a muscle, had to be sewn, she declared. So she did, her fingers not trembling once, even when he screamed and kicked in agony. When done, she assured him that from now on he would have lovers galore, since women were fond of men scarred on the battlefield.

  ‘I was in no battle,’ Jahan protested weakly.

  ‘Who’s goin’ to know that? They’ll drop in your path like ripe plums. Mark my words,’ she said, spitting in her palm and stamping it on the wall. ‘But your foot looks bad. We’ve summoned the Mender.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ she said mysteriously. ‘When he’s done, you’ll be as good as the Almighty first made you.’

  Stubby and scraggy as a reed, dressed in tatters and with a wooden spoon dangling from his neck, the man who showed up the same afternoon didn’t seem at all remarkable to Jahan. How wrong he was. With a quick glance at Jahan’s foot, the healer declared it was not broken but badly dislocated. Before Jahan could ask what that meant, he had shoved the spoon in Jahan’s mouth, taken his foot in the hollow of his hand and twisted it. Jahan’s scream was loud enough to frighten the pigeons in the courtyard of the Suleimaniye Mosque. Later the Mender would show him the teeth marks on the spoon. Apparently, his weren’t the only ones.

  ‘All broken bones?’ Jahan asked when he could speak again.

  ‘Those and women giving birth. They bite harder.’

  ‘Keep an eye on your piss,’ continued the Mender. He explained there were six shades of yellow, four of red, three of green and two of black. A healer would not waste time looking at the patient; he would inspect his urine and see what was wrong. At his behest Jahan peed in a pot and watched the man swirl, sniff and swallow the liquid.

  ‘No hidden bleeding in the organs,’ said the Mender. ‘Advent of dropsy. Prone to melancholy. Otherwise, fine inside.’

  Thus sewn, fixed, washed, fed and tucked up in bed, Jahan slept uninterrupted for two days. On the third afternoon, when he opened his eyes, he found Balaban by his bed, weaving a basket while waiting for him to come round.

  ‘Welcome to the land of the livin’. Wonder where I’ll save your skin next time.’

  Jahan chuckled, although it hurt because of the stitches in his face.

  ‘How is the elephant?’

  ‘Chota is dead.’

  ‘Sorry, brother. How sad.’

  They were pensive for a moment. Jahan was the first to break the silence. ‘Do animals go to heaven, you think? Imams say they won’t.’

  ‘What do they know about animals? Farmers do. Gypsies do. But imams, nay.’ Balaban paused. ‘Don’t brood. When I go to heaven, I’ll have a word with God. If He says there’s no room for creatures, I’ll beg Him to spare Chota.’

  Jahan’s eyes lit up with amusement. ‘You steal. You drink. You gamble. You bribe. You still think you’re going to Paradise?’

  ‘Well, brother … I look at the holier-than-thou. I say to myself, if these chaps are goin’, I sure am goin’, ’cause they are no better than me. That’s how I measure my sins.’ Balaban poured himself some wine. ‘Pity he won’t see his father.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your elephant’s son.’

  ‘Chota has a son?’

  ‘Tatcho!* You thought all that effort brought no result! Poor Gulbahar was pregnant forever. Did you know?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jahan said, nodding. ‘They have long pregnancies.’

  ‘Long? Seemed like an eternity!’

  ‘What did you name him?’

  ‘Remember, you told me four elephants held the universe. If one moved, there were earthquakes, you said.’ Balaban took a sip. ‘I named him Panj. It means five. Ju
st in case, you know, someone should stand in the centre.’

  Jahan’s throat constricted.

  ‘Do you want to see him? Your grandson?’

  ‘Indeed!’

  Placing Jahan on a horse-drawn litter, they took him to the barn. There he was, Chota’s son, swinging his trunk, grey as a storm cloud. Jahan told the driver to take the litter closer so that he could touch the beast. Under the watchful gaze of the mother elephant, he patted the son’s trunk and offered him a nut, which the animal accepted with delight. Sniffing, Panj searched for more; smart, suspicious, spry. Jahan’s eyes brimmed with tears. For an instant he had the feeling that he was staring at Chota. Something from him continued in this creature, who had never seen his father and yet was, except for his colour, already so like him.

  They left the barn, the horse pulling lazily. As they were crossing the courtyard, Jahan caught a fragrance in the breeze that sent a signal to an obscure part of his brain. He shouted, ‘Stop!’

  They ran to his side, fearing he had been hurt.

  ‘Where does this smell come from?’ Jahan asked.

  ‘Nothing stinks around here. Lie down,’ snapped Balaban.

  One of the lads broke into a grin. ‘I know what he’s talking about. Daki dey was burning herbs.’

  Balaban said, ‘Go get her.’

  In a little while they brought in a woman with an upright gait and a dark moustache. She said, ‘Chief says you wanted to see me.’

  ‘This thing you were burning,’ said Jahan. ‘What is it?’

  A look of annoyance crossed her face. ‘It’s called mullein. We throw it in the fire every Monday morning. And at full moon. The smoke keeps the evil spirits away. If you have enemies, you’d better boil it and take a bath in it. You want some?’

  ‘Tell me … Who else would use it? Other than the Romany, I mean?’

  She gave this some thought. ‘Those who have trouble in breathing. They carry it everywhere.’

  ‘People with asthma …’ Jahan mumbled, dismayed. He closed his eyes, the floor shifting beneath his feet.

  That night, as they sat around a peat fire, Balaban’s wife threw salt in the flames. Embers burst like sparkles of gold. His eyes transfixed by the display, Jahan said, ‘I should be on my way soon.’

  Balaban nodded, expecting to hear this. ‘When?’

  ‘There is one last person I need to visit. Then I am done with this city.’

  Davud was right when he said Jahan was not a man of revenge. But he was also partly wrong. Jahan understood it wasn’t only happiness that he sought in life. He also yearned for the truth.

  She peered down at the water in the silver bowl. Its surface had formed ripples and its bottom had turned black. She frowned, not liking what she spotted. A sound like a whistle pierced the air every time she inhaled. Her condition had worsened over the years. She placed her hand, shrivelled and lined with veins, upon the cat’s head.

  ‘Do you see what he’s up to? Maybe he’s no fool after all.’

  She glanced at the window, which was letting in a draught. How many times she had ordered the maidservant to keep it closed. But the silly girl threw it wide whenever she found the chance, claiming it was hot and stuffy. She did it to chase away the smell, of course. It wasn’t only her farting and her perspiration that soured the air, she knew. Underneath she gave off an odour like an ancient book that smelled of dust no matter how often it was wiped. The maidservant was scared of her, scared of the witch. For that’s what everyone called her behind her back.

  She wore a silken garment, too bright and too ornamented for her age, some might have said. She didn’t care. The sleek fabric did not lessen the ache in her joints or her hunched shoulders. Her body was a graveyard of memories. And each passing day as blurry as a shadow dancing on a wall. She had stopped quarrelling with God. She no longer asked Him why He had let her live when He had taken everyone else too early, too fast. She carried her age as a curse she was proud to be afflicted with. A hundred and twenty-one years old. That’s how old she was. Her hair was no longer red and wavy, but it was still thicker than many a maiden’s plait. Her voice was strong, unwavering. The voice of the younger woman who still resided inside her.

  She pulled away from the bowl as if she feared the man down there was watching her, just as she had been watching him all these years. She reached for the pouch on the table, opened it and scattered the herbs on to her palm and sniffed. When the rattle in her chest calmed somewhat, she murmured, ‘He’s discovered us, that Indian. He’s coming to find us.’

  The Abode of the Disfavoured, they called it. A giant of a mansion half hidden by tall pine trees and high walls. This was where the concubines who were no longer in the Sultan’s eye or had never been or never would be were sent in due course. Those who were jealous or ambitious in the extreme and had become entangled in the darkest intrigues might also find themselves under this roof, having lost their chance to ascend at the palace. Harem servants and odalisques too old or too sick to work would end up here as well. As a result, its inhabitants were a mixed bunch of young and aged, pretty and ordinary, hardy and ailing.

  A mirthless place it was – the ceilings seldom echoed with laughter; the carpets only occasionally, if ever, were trodden by dancing feet. Bitterness exuded from the chimneys like steam from a sizzling dish. What little singing was done was mostly so sad there would not be a single dry handkerchief left. The residents did not ponder the future, for there was no future to ponder. Nor present. There was only the past. They looked back to the old days, resenting the mistakes made, the opportunities squandered, the paths untaken, the youths misspent. And on winter nights, when it was so cold their prayers froze in the air, never reaching the ears of God, many felt their hearts freeze alongside the solid earth outside, no matter how many stones they boiled and put in their beds.

  A few had resigned themselves to the women they had become, though more had turned spiteful. A great many were pious, having dedicated the rest of their lives to the Almighty. Being pious did not mean being at peace, however, and they rarely were. Although each and every one, when asked, would say they believed that everything, good and bad, was in His hands, they still preened themselves on their achievements and accused others of their misfortunes. The contrast between the royal harem and its bleak counterpart was stark. Strict and stable in its rules and codes, the harem was nevertheless a versatile world, fluid and fickle. Its inhabitants had wishes and aspirations to spare. At night they had dreams aplenty. Whereas in the Abode of the Disfavoured it was the dreams that withered first, then, gradually, the dreamers.

  This is where Hesna Khatun had been living for the last fifteen years, though she had so frightened the other women she had been banished to a three-room cottage at the far end of the second garden. She didn’t mind. Should she wish it, she could still go to the mansion Princess Mihrimah had endowed for her, but she found its vastness and emptiness suffocating. It was better here, however modest. Besides she did not have to see, day in day out, the courtyard with its roses and flowers, whose heady scents crushed her chest, making her wheeze and cough. Her asthma had worsened. Even so, she never asked for help. They could hate, fear or shun her, if they wished, but she would never allow anyone to pity her.

  ‘They may all go to hell,’ she drawled, before she realized she had said it out loud. It happened often lately. She found herself saying things that were in her head and would have been better off staying there.

  Walking with leaden steps, she extended her hands towards the fireplace. She was always cold. Spring or winter made no difference; she kept the fire burning. When she had warmed up a bit she took her brush and turned towards the cat on the windowsill. ‘Let’s make you pretty, shall we?’

  She held the cat and sat down on the sofa to comb its hair. The animal stood still, a bored look in its eyes.

  There was a knock on the door. A slave boy appeared, no older than seven, his voice breaking. ‘There’s a messenger, nine.* He has brought you an
urgent letter.’

  ‘Tell that liar, whoever he is, there’s nothing urgent for me any more. Send him away.’

  The boy gaped at his feet, too frightened to meet her gaze.

  ‘Why are you lingering, ignorant boy?’

  ‘The man said, if she refuses to see me, tell her I have brought a message from Princess Mihrimah.’

  At the mention of the name, Hesna Khatun flinched, blood draining from her cheeks. Never a woman who bowed to threats, she composed herself. ‘How much did he pay you for this? Have you no shame?’

  The boy’s bottom lip sagged; he let out a whimper ready to break into a cry should she scold him again.

  ‘What’s the use of shouting at you?’ she said. ‘Go fetch the rascal. I’ll give him a roasting myself.’

  No males – unless they were eunuchs or boys – were allowed in the Abode of the Disfavoured. Certainly no strangers. Still, the nursemaid had her own rules. There were some benefits, after all, to being feared as the zhadi.

  In a moment, Jahan appeared, followed by the boy who, not daring to enter, closed the door and waited outside.

  ‘So it is you,’ Hesna Khatun said, her voice a dry, throaty grumble.

  They regarded each other with a dislike neither of them cared to conceal. He saw how impossibly old and thin she had become. Every inch of her face was furrowed; her back was crooked; her ears had enlarged. From under her scarf a streak of silver hair showed, reddened with henna on the ends. As unrecognizable as she was, she had the same calculating, hard stare as always.

  ‘How dare you utter her name?’ she rasped. ‘I should have you lashed.’

  ‘I had no choice,’ Jahan said. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have seen me, dada.’

  She recoiled upon hearing the name that Mihrimah, and only Mihrimah, had called her. Her mouth opened and closed in an angry silence.

  Knowing the effect the word would have on her, Jahan was observing her every move. He stood tall and erect, neither bowing low nor kissing her hand. His insolence had not escaped her. She said, ‘To what do I owe your visit – and lack of manners?’