The Winter Thief: A Kamil Pasha Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels)

by Jenny White

  Vera nodded, disappointed. The girl drew a cotton shawl around her lower face and slipped out of the room. Vera heard the key turn. Sosi had taken the lamp with her, leaving Vera in darkness again.

  Vera reached out and pulled the basket closer. She felt the contents and was delighted to recognize the textures of kindling, coal, and matches. She dragged it toward where she thought the stove would be. In the process, she stumbled and twisted her wrist. Ignoring the pain, she made up a fire and by the light of the flames examined the rest of the contents. There was a loaf of bread, slices of dried meat encased in red paste, soft goat’s cheese, a ceramic pot of olives, and another of yoghurt. She drank more water, then, afraid she would drink it all, put it carefully aside and tasted the food. It was all very salty but tasted better than anything she could remember eating in a long time, except Christmas dinner with Gabriel.

  The thought of Gabriel made her want to weep. She didn’t know how, but she was certain she had endangered his mission. He would worry about her when he should be concentrating on his work. She was just a fool, she berated herself, the soft daughter of bourgeois parents, brought up in a cocoon with no skills to survive by herself. She should have married the man her parents had chosen for her, a kind young doctor, instead of insisting on going abroad. Why had she gone to Geneva? She admitted it to herself. Because she had been bored. The socialist cause had given her life an exhilarating edge, a meaning greater than the books she read for class and the fashionable shoes she bought with her parents’ money. The socialist community in Geneva was her family, but she didn’t deserve them now. Kneeling by the open stove door to warm herself, she crammed cheese and bitter olives into her mouth.

  20

  ON HIS way TO FERIDE’S house, Kamil made a detour to his office in the courthouse on the Grande Rue de Pera.

  The avenue crested a hill in the Beyoglu district, or Pera, as it was commonly known, and was bustling with shoppers and tradesmen making deliveries. The air rang with a hundred different tongues. The merchants were mostly Armenian and Greek-speaking Ottoman subjects, but many French and other foreigners lived in Pera as well. It had been the foreigners’ section even in Byzantine times, a thousand years ago, when the Genoese and Venetians set up trading posts here. The peaked tower of the Genoese fortifications still dominated the skyline of Galata, now a Jewish district that unfurled down the hill toward the confluence of the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara and the inlet of the Golden Horn that served as Istanbul’s harbor.

  Elif lived in Pera, in a building owned by the wealthy Jewish Camondo family that had taken her under its protection. Kamil had visited her there only once, in the apartment overlooking the water that the Camondos had given her and that she had turned into a studio, the room flooded by light, the sea beyond, the paintings and the room merging. Even though the building was only steps from the courthouse, at her request he had never again visited her. Thoughts of her and an uneasy feeling of regret were never far from Kamil whenever he walked down the Grande Rue de Pera.

  Kamil handed his horse to a stableboy and strode up the courthouse stairs. He hadn’t been to his office in two days and dreaded the pile of files and paperwork that would have accumulated on his desk. He had asked Nizam Pasha several times for more staff, but the minister had refused, arguing that Kamil had access to the police and the gendarmes for his investigations. They didn’t do paperwork, Kamil thought, his head throbbing.

  The doorkeeper greeted him. “You have visitors, pasha.”

  Kamil nodded absently. Most likely plaintiffs who should have been sent to the scribes to draw up an official petition, then to his assistant Abdullah for processing. Why did he have assistants if they didn’t assist him? It was as if the sourness of the Eyüp cemetery had stayed with him, settling in his head and bones.

  He entered the gilded door to his outer office and stopped dead. Feride, Elif, and Doctor Moreno sat on the divan meant for clients of the court. Their heads turned to him in unison. Abdullah had brought them tea, which they held in their hands like tiny bouquets. Feride, putting her glass down so suddenly that it jumped on its saucer, rushed toward him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the fire?” she cried.

  Kamil ushered them into his private office, then closed the door. He bowed to Doctor Moreno and asked them to sit. Feride refused. “What are you not telling me?” she demanded, loosening the veil that covered her lower face.

  “I told you I didn’t know anything, Ferosh.” Kamil tried to keep the frustration and worry from his voice, but Feride knew him too well. She looked him in the eyes, arms crossed, waiting.

  “I’ve been to that taverna with Huseyin,” Doctor Moreno explained to Kamil, “so when I heard about the fire, it occurred to me that he might have been caught up in it, especially since he didn’t come home that night.”

  “He should have told me he was going there, even if it was to meet his mistress,” Feride insisted.

  “You don’t know that,” Elif scolded. “I’m sorry I said anything.” She had been wandering about the office, examining the books on Kamil’s shelves, all leather-bound law books, and the paintings on the wall, naturalistic oils and watercolors of flowers. She was dressed in a man’s suit, with a broad hat that she removed, letting her chin-length hair swing free. Kamil had never completely adjusted to Elif’s impersonation of a man in public, at once high-strung and aggressive. He wished that Elif as a man would be kinder to his sister.

  Kamil reached into his pocket and handed the medal to Feride. She ran her fingers over the diamonds and enamel decoration. “It looks like his,” she announced dispassionately, although Kamil could see her hands shaking. “Where did you find it?”

  Kamil explained where the medal had been found and the fact that many of the wounded were unrecognizable. “There are two patients at Eyüp Mosque hospital who could be Huseyin. I went to check after we spoke this morning, and I was on my way to tell you.”

  She slipped the medal into her purse and took him aside. “I know you mean well, my brother,” she insisted in a low voice, “but I don’t need to be protected from news about my husband. I’ll be fine.” She attempted a shaky smile. “Huseyin always calls me his thorn.”

  “And his rose,” Kamil reminded her, passing his finger across her cheek to wipe away a tear. “We still don’t know anything for certain,” he said, as much to remind himself as to comfort Feride.

  “I’ll go to Eyüp,” Feride announced. “I know you’re busy, but maybe Doctor Moreno would accompany us?”

  “I’d be honored.” Moreno met Kamil’s eye, and he nodded lightly.

  “Thank you, Doctor, but I’d better take you there so I can tell you which patients I mean. They’re very short-staffed and I doubt anyone would be able to show you.”

  Kamil crammed the stack of files on his desk into a leather satchel, put on his kalpak, and led the way out of the courthouse.

  “Where are your servants?” he asked Feride, seeing only a single coach and their driver, Vali. Usually his sister traveled with an entourage of ladies-in-waiting and guards. Seeing her so unprotected made him suddenly anxious.

  “I didn’t tell the staff. I wanted to get here as fast as possible to find you, to find out whether he’s alive. Oh, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I will always tell you everything,” Kamil assured her. He helped her into the coach. “Take some guards with you from now on, Ferosh. Promise me.”

  “Yes, my dear brother.” Feride reached out and touched his cheek.

  Kamil mounted his horse and led the way over the crest of the Pera hill, followed closely by Feride’s carriage. The streets had been cleared of the worst of the snow, but it took almost an hour to reach Eyüp through the afternoon traffic, snarled by an overturned coal wagon.

  “The hospital is over there.” Kamil pointed.

  In the entry hall, they stepped aside to let an orderly carrying a bundle of bedding pass. Kamil led them down the corridor to the director’s office.<
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  The director jumped to his feet when the four visitors crowded into the room. Seeing Kamil, he snapped, “Back again? This isn’t a social event.” When he remarked the quality of his visitors’ clothing, his tone suddenly became ingratiating. “If you’re here to contribute to the hospital, of course, that’s different.”

  “We’re here to see…“Kamil started to say, when Feride interrupted him.

  “Are you the head doctor?”

  “Yes, madame.” The director stood and made a formal bow. “Amadio Levy, surgeon and director of Eyüp hospital.”

  “I am Feride Hanoum, and this is Doctor Moreno and my cousin Elias.” With the latter she indicated Elif, wrapped in her greatcoat, hat still on her head. She stood with arms crossed just outside the office door. “You’ve met my brother, Kamil Pasha.”

  “Yes, madame.” A note of impatience crept into the director’s voice.

  “What is it that you need?” Feride asked.

  “Madame?”

  “For the hospital.”

  The director became animated. “Salaries, mainly salaries so we can hire more orderlies and nurses. We have no nurses. You have no idea, madame, how hard it is to handle so many patients with no staff. I myself am on bedpan patrol first thing in the morning. If we don’t get to them in time, they soil the linens and the bandages, which are also in short supply, especially after all the recent burn victims. Their bandages have to be changed constantly.”

  “Please make me a list. I’ll take it with me on my way out,” Feride told him. “Now I’d like to see my husband, Huseyin Pasha.”

  “Your husband, madame?” the director stuttered, looking at Kamil.

  “The two men in Ward Three,” Kamil reminded him. “We saw them this morning.”

  “Yes, of course.” The director brushed by Kamil and strode rapidly down the hall. They had to run to keep up with him.

  Sunlight streamed through the deep, arched windows of Ward Three. Kamil’s handkerchiefs were still in place, but one of the two beds was empty.

  Feride examined closely what was visible of the remaining patient’s hair and face and shook her head no. Kamil went from bed to bed looking at the other patients, but the one he had thought might be Huseyin was gone.

  He turned on the director, fairly shouting, “Where is he?”

  Feride looked stricken. “Is he dead?” she asked in a whisper.

  Elif stood beside another bed, looking down at a woman whose face was so puffed and bruised that her eyes were no longer visible. Her nose had been broken and was in a splint, so she breathed loudly through her mouth. Kamil could see Elif’s shoulders trembling and went to stand by her side. The patient had been badly beaten, most likely by someone in her family. Kamil wondered what memories this raised in Elif. He wanted to put his arms around her, but it would have been scandalous, whether she was a man or a woman. He drew Elif away.

  “She’s going to be all right,” he assured her.

  “She’ll never be all right,” Elif responded. “Someone she loves did that to her.”

  Kamil found himself reluctant to agree that something so heinous was a daily occurrence, even though he knew better.

  “It’s ugly,” she said, half to herself. “Violence is always ugly. I don’t know why some people love it so much.”

  The director, nonplussed, stared at the empty bed festooned with Kamil’s handkerchief. “There were no deaths recorded in Ward Three today,” he said in a dry, matter-of-fact voice. “And no transfers authorized. I’m responsible for this hospital, and I’ll find out what happened here. There’s only a limited set of possibilities.”

  “Which are?” Kamil asked.

  “One, the patient died and the orderlies called the imam to fetch the body for burial without notifying me. Two, the orderlies transferred the patient without permission. Neither of these things has ever occurred under my watch.”

  “To your knowledge,” Kamil added.

  The director looked at him. “To my knowledge.” Then he turned and walked out of the ward.

  Kamil and Feride followed. When they reached his office, he was sitting behind his desk, squinting at a ledger. “I was correct,” he announced triumphantly. “No deaths, no transfers.”

  “So where is he?” Kamil couldn’t keep the anger from his voice. He was losing patience.

  For a moment, the hospital director fell silent. Then he said, “I’ll find out. Come back tomorrow.” He returned to his ledger.

  Kamil walked up to the desk and slammed the ledger shut. “Start now.”

  The director made a sour face.” My dear sir, I was looking to see which orderlies were on duty. If you permit.” He opened the ledger again, found the right page, and pulled his finger down a column of neat writing. Then he closed the ledger. “That orderly has already gone home.”

  Feride sat in a chair by the door. “I’ll wait here until you bring him.” She looked up at Kamil, who stood in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. “Brother dear, you have other important matters to deal with. I’m in good hands.”

  Doctor Moreno nodded at Kamil, his sidelocks bouncing beneath his hat. “I’ll make sure they get home safely.”

  Kamil took Feride’s hand and held it briefly to his lips. “May Allah guide you.”

  Feride smiled at the unaccustomed religious sentiment. “Go, you,” she told him, and turned back to the hospital director, who was now deep in conversation with Doctor Moreno.

  Kamil placed his hand on Elif’s arm as he left and indicated that she should follow him. Kamil was worried about her. She looked as if she were in a trance, her eyes glazed with unshed tears, and despite her heavy coat, she was shivering. She seemed tensile as glass, as if she might shatter at any moment.

  They walked wordlessly down the corridor until they came to an alcove where they wouldn’t be seen.

  “What is it?” he asked her. “What can I do?”

  Elif’s blue eyes sought his but then slipped away again, focusing on the wool of his cape. Without another word, Kamil put his arms around her shoulders, so frail beneath the bulky coat. He took off her hat and cupped his hand around the base of her head and held it tight against his chest until she stopped shaking.

  21

  THE DOOR OPENED AGAIN, and someone entered carrying a lamp. Vera shut her eyes against the bright light. Her body curled into a ball, preparing for whatever was to come.

  “What happened to your light?” Vahid asked pleasantly, pushing aside the remains of food and placing the lamp on the table. In his other hand, he held a glass of steaming tea. “I see you received the food I sent. I’ve brought you some tea.” He set the glass down beside her. “Is there anything more you need? You have water?” He looked at the empty carafe. “I see not. I apologize. I’ll have more sent right away.”

  Vera found herself gaping. Did he have no idea what had just happened to her? Had those men acted without his knowledge?

  Vahid sat in the chair beside her and crossed his legs, revealing a slim ankle in a white silk sock. Vera found the sight of the white silk so moving it made her want to cry for the lost innocence of her Moscow childhood. Pull yourself together, she told herself crossly. She forced herself to focus on Vahid’s face. He was smiling patiently, like a family doctor making his patient comfortable enough to reveal the wretched failures of her body. He indicated the tea with a nod of his head. “Drink something. You look chilled. I took the liberty of adding sugar.”

  Vera reached for the glass. It rattled against her teeth, but the warm, sweet liquid calmed her. She should tell him, she thought with rising fury and indignation. They would be punished for what they did.

  “I brought you something.” Vahid reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver hairpin. Red stones depending from delicate chains clicked softly against each other. He stood behind her and ran his fingers through her thick auburn hair, avoiding the area he had cut off. Vera was frozen with terror, wondering what he would do next. Suddenly he twisted her
hair into a knot and clumsily inserted the pin so that it scratched her scalp. Her hair fell free again at once, but the pin remained entangled.

  Afraid to move, Vera concentrated on controlling her breathing.

  Vahid sat back admiringly. “You look lovely like that.”

  “Thank you.” Vera breathed out slowly through her nose so he wouldn’t see her chest rise and fall in panic. She sensed it would be worse if he saw how frightened she was. She sat up and attempted a smile. “You’re very kind, sir.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s of no importance. I want to make sure you’re comfortable here.”

  “I’d like to leave.”

  “My dear Lena, there are men outside waiting to arrest you. I hope they haven’t already captured your friend. Here you are safe.”

  Vera felt confused. Was she not already under arrest? If these men weren’t the secret police, who were they? “You’ve been very kind. But…” She felt tears coming on and struggled against them.

  “Please, my dear girl,” Vahid said, leaning toward her solicitously, “just tell me what’s bothering you, and I’ll see to it that it’s taken care of. You’re under my protection here.”

  Did he really not know? Vera wondered, confused. “Your men came in,” she began, but found herself unable to continue.

  He looked puzzled. “My men? I sent a girl with the food.”

  Vera took heart that he hadn’t known about the men. Perhaps they did it believing she would be too ashamed to tell. The comb looked expensive. Maybe he would help her. “They came in here and took me out. To a room down the hall.”

  Vahid waited, frowning with concern. He reached out and took her hand. “Go on, my dear girl.” His hand was warm and Vera found comfort in the gesture.

  “They did things to me.” To her horror, she began to weep, her plan to remain in control in shreds. Vahid squatted beside her chair. His hand tangled in her hair and pulled her head to his shoulder, where she wept uncontrollably.