by Jenny White
“On the contrary,” Kamil responded, “an opportunity to meet up with an old friend is precious. And I hear there was a witness. There’ve been thefts from the Patriarchate, the Fatih Mosque, and other places in the area. One thief could lead us to others, especially the dealers they sell to.”
Malik looked relieved. “I’ll do whatever I can to assist. What else can I tell you?”
“You’ve heard the description of the thief?”
“Omar told me,” Malik replied. “Long hair. Could it have been a woman?”
Kamil nodded thoughtfully. “I hadn’t considered that possibility. Do you have the key to the storeroom?”
“It’s not locked. The keys to those old doors are long gone. The mosque was restored about ten years ago and we asked the Ministry of Pious Foundations to replace the doors, but they didn’t see fit to do so. Only the outer door can be locked.”
“How many keys are there?” Kamil remembered that the baker’s apprentice had seen the thief bend over the door as if locking it.
“Just one. Both the imam and I use it, so we keep it in a room behind the mosque to which we both have a key.”
Two men were arguing in the square. A group of men surrounded them and began to take sides. There was shouting and a scuffle.
Malik frowned in their direction. “It’s probably about the icon, the one that was stolen from the Patriarchate. You heard about it?”
“Of course,” Omar replied, his eyes on the quarreling men.
“The Christians are blaming the Muslims for stealing it. It’s ridiculous, of course. Everyone knows a theft is just a theft.”
As the tension in the square rose, Kamil waited for Omar’s cue to act. It was his district. Just then, the imam appeared and spoke to a few of the men. They turned their backs angrily and left, and the argument seemed to subside.
“Let’s see the key,” Omar suggested.
Malik led Kamil and Omar around to the back of the mosque, where a small, whitewashed structure had been built into the corner of a collapsed but still massive brick wall.
“This used to be a church in Byzantine times,” Malik explained. “The name, Saint Savior in Chora, referred to the fact that in those days it was in the country, outside the original city walls.” He laid his hand on the crumbling bricks. “This is all that’s left of the monastery. The monks spent their time copying old texts. They copied Greek manuscripts that have been lost in the original, and they translated Arab writings from earlier centuries. If it weren’t for the monks, we wouldn’t have Ibn al-Thahabi’s medical treatise The Book of Water or al-Ma’mun’s Face of the Earth. When you come again, I will show you some pages. I have a modest collection in my home.” He pointed beyond the rubble to a nearby two-story house that stood alone in a small yard. “You’re welcome any time.” He looked directly at Kamil. “Why don’t you join me for breakfast one day soon? Perhaps tomorrow? As long as the weather allows, I put a table under the plane tree behind my house. It’s very pleasant and the housekeeper supplies me with excellent cheese from her village.”
Beneath the pleasantries, Kamil heard the entreaty in Malik’s voice. For some reason, he thought, Malik wished to speak with him alone. “Thank you, Malik. I look forward to it.”
After a moment, Malik added, “You’re welcome to come too, Omar, but you know that.”
“Thanks, but I see enough of you already.” Omar was prowling the perimeter of the building, testing the windows. “A child could open these windows,” he pointed out, teasing one open with a small knife.
Malik unlocked the door and led the way into a bright, pleasant room with blue-washed walls. “Quran classes are held here now, so it’s still a place of learning.”
The room was furnished with a threadbare carpet. A cushioned divan stretched along two sides, and more cushions, their colorful geometric designs stitched in wool, were stacked on the floor. Kamil saw several low writing desks, a shelf of books and papers, and a cabinet that presumably held writing supplies.
Malik opened the cabinet and took a heavy iron key from the top shelf. “It’s possible that someone saw where we keep the key,” he told Kamil. “As you can see, it’s quite large.” He slipped it into the pocket of his robe.
He let them into the mosque and lit a lamp. Kamil was surprised by the brilliant mosaics lining the domes and arches above him. He saw peacocks, trees, fruited branches. Jesus taking a woman’s wrist. A woman kissing his hem. A diminutive Mary, her head caressed by an angel, approaching a woman on a throne, her hands outstretched. The dazzling images and colors were overwhelming. Kamil had never seen anything better, even in the Aya Sofya Mosque, where fragments of gilded mosaics were still visible in the upper galleries.
Malik followed his startled gaze.
“Thirty years ago, this was all painted over. The plaster was cracked and filthy. Then there was a fire and Sultan Abdulaziz, may he be rewarded in heaven, allowed the architect Kuppas to restore the interior. During the restorations, these mosaics were revealed. Aren’t they magnificent? These are scenes from the life of Mary. The Byzantines believed her to be the mother of God, the Container of the Uncontainable, the vehicle by which Jesus came to the earth. Chora also means the dwelling place of the Uncontainable.”
Kamil was puzzled. “I admit they’re beautiful, but surely depictions of the human form are prohibited, especially in a mosque. Why didn’t they plaster over them again?”
“You’re right, but this wouldn’t be the first time that rule was broken. Persian and Ottoman artists have always painted scenes from the lives of important persons, pictures of hunts, battles, processions, picnics, circumcision parties, all kinds of everyday activities. Like most civilizations, the Byzantines used art to honor their leaders, especially those who had a lot of money.” He pointed to a faint figure painted on plaster against the outer wall. “That’s Theodore Metochites, the patron who paid for these mosaics.”
Kamil could barely make out the image of a man wearing a striped turban, who was presenting a miniature of the church to Christ.
“Still, it’s forbidden by the Quran,” Omar pointed out.
Malik looked at Omar with an expression Kamil put somewhere between respect and disbelief.
“There are two kinds of religion in the world, my friend,” Malik explained patiently. “One is blind faith that requires only obedience and discourages thought. It’s to the leader’s advantage that you see only his heels, so he demonizes all other views. That kind of faith is comforting, but it can lead you down treacherous paths. Another kind of faith encourages the faithful to think about what they’re doing and why. These are people who praise Allah in the highest way they can imagine, through scholarship or art, or simply by living consciously as good Muslims. The rules don’t matter as much as the principle.” Malik put his arm around Omar’s shoulders. “I’m worried about you suddenly becoming devout, my friend.”
“Well, it’s true I don’t know much about it,” Omar admitted reluctantly, “but it seems to me that Islam is Islam and there are certain rules. I’m a policeman because I like to know what’s what.”
“In the Quran it says that all the prophets back to Abraham were given the same message. Jews and Christians share the same prophecy as Muslims.”
“Of course, but Islam is different. Our Prophet is the last one.” Omar shrugged, then admitted to Kamil, “I don’t believe any of it, really, without proof.”
“Faith means believing anyway,” Malik explained.
“That’s the problem,” Omar replied. “But I still like to get the story straight.”
Kamil thought it was as perceptive a description of his own feelings as he had heard, but said nothing.
Malik craned his neck at the mosaics. “Regardless of the theology, these mosaics deserve to be displayed for their beauty alone. Look how the colors are striking even after all this time. The craftsmen used gold and ground lapis. But they used simple materials too. Look over here. They used tiny pieces of pottery to ma
ke these amphorae. The theme of Mary as Container is everywhere, even in the structure of the building. Let me show you.”
He led Kamil and Omar to the end of the hall and a small door that stood open. Inside, Kamil could make out the base of a steeply winding stair that led to the top of the minaret, where the imam called the faithful to prayer five times a day.
“The walls are very thick here in order to hold the weight of the bell tower.” Malik pointed upward. “There are also ceramic jars built into the corners with their openings exposed so that moisture doesn’t build up inside the walls. They’re called weepholes. The workers keep plastering them over, so they’re hard to spot.”
“Clever engineering,” Kamil responded, thinking that faith required a great deal of creativity to find signs in even the most mundane objects.
As if reading his mind, Malik said, “You’re a skeptic, Kamil, I know. And maybe the architects of this church had nothing more in their heads than keeping the walls dry. But the actors don’t write the play.”
“I like to think we write our own scripts.”
“It’s in our nature to try,” Malik responded good-naturedly.
“It’s my observation,” Omar interjected, “that someone else is always trying to write it for you. Your wife, your mother-in-law, the government.”
Malik laughed. “A man whose nature is untamed by his heart. You should be grateful you have a wife who puts up with you.”
“Never marry a woman who was spoiled by her father,” Omar said to Kamil. “A peddler’s daughter loves beads.”
“Do you have children?” Kamil asked.
“By the will of Allah, it hasn’t happened.” Omar looked uncomfortable.
Kamil felt sorry for the burly police chief. Having no children, especially sons, was considered a tragedy by many. It was said that a man without a son was a man whose hearth had gone out, and it occasioned pity and sometimes scorn, especially for the man’s wife, who was usually held responsible. Omar didn’t seem the sort to appreciate people’s pity.
To change the subject, Kamil asked Malik, “Where do you teach your pupils?”
“In the room behind the mosque. When I have female pupils, my housekeeper comes and knits. I’m hoping she’s learning something just by being in the same room. I took Saba on as a pupil because she has a passion for the old languages and learns them as readily as birds take to the air. Allah has placed in her a yeast that I’m privileged to help rise.”
“Old languages?” Kamil asked. He had assumed Malik taught only the Quran.
“Greek, Aramaic, the sacred languages.”
Omar scoffed. “Half the neighborhood speaks Greek.”
“Modern Greek is infected with the street. It sheds history like a dog flinging rain off its pelt.”
“Those Greek dogs,” Omar joked. Malik laughed.
Kamil watched them, envying their easy camaraderie. He had few close friends. His American friend Bernie had returned home the previous year, leaving a gap that Kamil found he was no longer able to fill as easily with work and books and orchids. He wandered into the central prayer room, its walls decorated with marble panels instead of mosaics. He let his eyes try to puzzle out the patterns in the marble. They looked like the desert, a sea, snowy mountains. Art with no human intercession, remote and beautiful.
Malik followed him, seeming to sense his mood. Kamil was glad of his company. “Those revetments were once Greek columns. To get these continuous patterns, the Byzantines cut the columns into thin slices that unfolded like fans.” Malik illustrated with the palms of his hands.
Kamil noticed Malik wore a gold signet ring on his right forefinger. It had a curious design engraved on it, a disk and crescent. The silver pin that clasped his cloak was also unusual, a geometric weave of lines. He wondered about the history of Malik’s family. Had there been Abyssinians in Istanbul during Byzantine times? Perhaps they had been desired as slaves even then.
Malik stopped in the middle of the room and swept his hand toward the walls. “The Greeks built their empire on top of what came before them, Constantinople was built on Greek ruins, and Istanbul is built on top of Byzantium. Nothing is wasted. There’s a lesson there,” he smiled mildly at Kamil, “but I’m not wise enough to know what it is.”
As they walked back to the corridor, Malik leaned closer and said in a low, urgent voice, “Tomorrow morning. Please do come to my house. I must speak with you.”
Puzzled, Kamil assured him that he would.
“Thank you, my friend.” Malik squeezed Kamil’s arm, then turned and walked away quickly.
Omar was in conversation with a tall, thin man by the mosque entrance. As Kamil drew closer, he recognized the policeman Ali. The two spoke in low voices and then Ali left.
“Our snitch in Charshamba has reported that there’s going to be a big smuggling operation late tonight,” Omar told Kamil. “Do you want to join us in the raid?”
“Of course.” So far, he had learned nothing about the thefts here, only about Byzantine architecture. He wondered what it was that Malik had to tell him.
“Good,” Omar said amiably. “Let’s go fishing and see what lands in our net.”
They went looking for Malik and found him sitting on a sarcophagus in a long, narrow room with a domed ceiling. More sarcophagi rested in niches along the wall. One side of the room was piled with sacks and chests. In the corner, someone had arranged a circle of cushions around a low tray.
“The reliquary that was stolen was silver and somewhat damaged. It’s very old,” Malik explained, getting to his feet. “The rug once belonged to Sultan Ahmet I, so I think it must have been valuable.” His face looked drawn and Kamil had the impression that his friend had aged in the few moments since their whispered conversation.
“What was in the reliquary?”
Kamil noted a slight hesitation before Malik answered.
“It was empty.”
“Where was it?”
“In here.” Malik went to the back corner and opened a dusty chest.
“How often was this chest opened?”
“Never, that I know of.”
Kamil pointed to numerous finger marks in the dust around the latch and lid. “So these must be the thief’s. Was the lid open or closed when you arrived?”
“Open. That’s how I knew the reliquary was missing.”
“How did you know what was in here if the chest was never opened?”
Malik looked startled. After a moment, he said, “I saw it open once and I remember seeing the reliquary.”
This seemed unlikely to Kamil. The chest was filled with a jumble of objects. Why would Malik notice an unremarkable reliquary with enough accuracy to be able to tell it was missing? It was also clear to Kamil that Malik was not accustomed to lying and it made him enormously uncomfortable. Malik wanted the reliquary found, yet he also wished it to appear unimportant. Perhaps, thought Kamil, that was why he had asked Omar to send for him, knowing he would investigate the matter out of friendship, despite the trivial value of the stolen object. Perhaps the reliquary had personal meaning for Malik and he could think of no other way to convince the authorities to look for it. Kamil planned to have his officers make the rounds to the other police stations that had reported thefts, but for the moment the reliquary was his only lead. He systematically checked the other chests and bundles in the room. The dust on all of them had recently been disturbed.
Omar pointed to one of the open chests. “If I wanted to steal something, I would have taken some of these.”
Kamil looked over and saw dented gold plates, a chalice, and other objects he didn’t recognize, some elaborately decorated with niello work and a few with jewels.
Omar lifted up a heavy gold chalice studded with rubies. Kamil was flabbergasted. A chalice like this could buy a small villa. “Why are these objects not under lock and key?” He thought of Hamdi Bey’s museum with frustration.
Malik looked embarrassed. “The imam occasionally likes to do
an inventory.”
It could have been the imam, then, who had drawn his fingers through the dust. Omar flipped open a small carved box, revealing a cache of coins, not a few of them gold liras.
“Tithes. The thief didn’t take them either.”
“Was the box open?” Kamil asked.
“For inventory,” Malik repeated, then paused before pointing to a small, upended medicine bottle on the tray. “The imam has terrible toothaches. Sometimes he’s a bit forgetful after taking his medicine.”
“Forgetful enough to leave the door unlocked?”
“I always check the door before I retire,” Malik insisted. “Whoever came in here had the key.” Malik sounded so despondent that Kamil found himself wondering whether Malik had an idea who had taken the reliquary.
Kamil sniffed the mouth of the bottle. “Laudanum.” The imam had turned his pain into his own version of paradise.
“In the future, I’ll add such details to my reports,” Omar promised, then turned to Malik. “My brother, I’ve learned that up on their unholy hill of Pera, the magistrates actually read the crappy reports we send them. That alone will help me sleep well tonight.”
Omar was right, Kamil thought. The mystery lay in what the thief hadn’t taken. He began to see that this reliquary might be more valuable than he thought.
He placed his hand on Malik’s arm. “Each loss is a counsel,” he reassured him. “There’s much here to help us.”
4
THREE YOUNG BOYS lay flat on the ground, heads hung over the edge of the cistern wall, frightened by the unprotected distance to the rocky earth below, but daring each other to creep closer. The wall was built in layers, five courses of brick and five of stone, scored at intervals by lines of large marble slabs, with moss and grasses growing from its crevices. Despite its great age and state of disrepair, the wall appeared massive and more enduring than any of the flimsy wooden cottages in Sunken Village below. At intervals, the cistern bent inward in shallow arches, revealing masonry the width of a man’s reach.
The boys watched people emerge from their cottages and converge like trails of ants on the domed stone structure in the village square.
