The Abyssinian Proof: A Kamil Pasha Novel (Kamil Pasha Novels)

by Jenny White

  Kamil thanked him and rode down the Rue de Pera to his office.

  As soon as he entered the antechamber, Abdullah handed him a letter embossed with the British Embassy seal.

  6

  THE THREATENED RAIN didn’t materialize, and Sunken Village basked in the unexpected warmth of a late autumn afternoon. The shadows of the cistern wall crept into the orchards and gardens, but hadn’t yet reached the village square. After the ritual in the prayer house, the Habesh men had gone to the Kariye Mosque for afternoon prayer. Two prayers are better than one, Balkis always said when explaining this tradition. Abundance reaped abundance. It was a law of nature. In the morning, the men had set to roast over a charcoal pit the sheep Balkis always provided. She knew that many of the villagers filled their bellies with cabbage the rest of the week and looked forward to the Friday feast.

  Having returned from the mosque, the men joined their families lounging on carpets spread before their homes and in the square, spooning rice and mutton from their bowls. Children ran through the chatting groups. Gudit brought a tray of more generously apportioned plates to the big house, where Balkis rested on the divan. She had removed her ritual clothing and put on a gold-embroidered robe. Malik had remained at the Kariye Mosque.

  Saba sat on a cushion on the floor. She leaned back against the wall, eyes closed as if asleep, fingers curled quietly in her lap. Such a lovely child, Balkis thought wistfully, but they praise a horse’s swiftness, not its looks. Saba needed to wake up.

  Amida sat opposite Balkis on the divan, still in his jacket, his back straight, as if rebuking the cushions that invited him to recline. He had her build, short and portly, but his father’s dark complexion and eyes—small, deep set, and unreadable. Wavy brown hair fell to his shoulders and Balkis found herself wondering what it felt like. She sensed he wouldn’t like her reaching out to touch it. Was it soft or coarse? When he was a boy, before he went away to the monastery in Abyssinia, it had been light as angel feathers. Balkis remembered suddenly that she had never touched her husband’s hair, not once. Why was it that those closest to us often seemed like perfect strangers?

  Saba offered Amida some grapes. When he refused, she joked, “When you were little, you were angry at me once when I wouldn’t give you my fruit ice. Do you remember?” She laughed. “Mama made me give it to you, though. She really spoiled you.”

  “He was older than you, Saba,” Balkis interjected. “And he was going away for a long time.” Children remembered the oddest things. An ice, from so long ago, yet it stuck in her daughter’s memory like a fishbone.

  “That’s right. She got to stay while I was shipped off for eight years to that rat-infested pit in the mountains. You thought a fruit ice would make up for that?”

  “Was it really so bad?” Balkis asked, taken aback by the bitterness in his voice.

  Amida looked at his hands. “It was a school run by old men who’ve spent their entire lives on that mountain,” he muttered. “What do you expect?”

  If Amida had had a bad experience at the monastery, Balkis thought, it might explain some of his anger. Malik had never spoken about his years at the monastery either. She had mourned her son’s childhood passing without her, but had never given much thought to what monastery life was actually like. Young men of the priestly Melisite line were always sent there to be educated. There had been reports that Amida had run away, sometimes disappearing for months before the monks tracked him down and brought him back, but she had put it down to the rebelliousness of youth. After leaving the monastery for good, Amida had taken his time returning to Istanbul, lingering for almost a year in Cairo. What had he been doing there?

  “Well, you’re with your family now,” she consoled him. “And when you become caretaker, I’m sure the things you learned at the monastery will make sense.”

  “You can’t draw milk from a dead sheep.” Amida adjusted a cushion on the divan, then pushed it away. “Anyway, I told you I don’t want to be caretaker of a mosque where nothing ever happens. It’s a waste of time.”

  Balkis looked squarely at her son. “Being caretaker isn’t about the mosque. It’s about four hundred years of tradition and our family’s duty, your duty, to guard the Proof of God. You’re going to be caretaker and Saba will be priestess. You’ll be leaders of the Melisites, just as it’s always been.”

  “Leaders of what?” Amida scoffed. “Nobody believes that Melisite crap anymore. The young men in the village are Muslims. They don’t plan on raising their kids in the old way.” He raised his hand to his chest and pleaded, “But if you let me, I could modernize things. We could make decent money and build proper houses, instead of these shacks. Make Habesh a term people respect, instead of assuming we’re all slaves.”

  Balkis was dismayed. She knew he was unenthusiastic about becoming caretaker, but this was the first time she sensed the depth of his skepticism about the sect itself. His rejection was seamed with anger. That meant he couldn’t be lured back by argument or appeals to his faith. He had to be cajoled, brought into the stable like a skittish horse. She would tread carefully so as not to drive him away. She couldn’t bear to lose him again.

  “You’re right, my son. Our business is failing and I’m glad you have some ideas about how to set that right. What do you propose to do?”

  Amida flashed her a smile, leaned back against the cushions, and crossed his legs. “The way we do things now is a waste of time. We’re just middlemen between Charshamba and the bazaar. The bazaaris sell the stuff to someone else and pocket most of the money. I say we bypass the bazaar and go straight to the buyer.” He clapped his hands. “We take orders, meet customer demand.”

  “But we’ve been working with the bazaaris for generations,” Balkis cautioned. “We have obligations.”

  “This is the modern era. You make contracts for services, not vague promises that last for generations. A business has to be able to change with the times. You say the merchants are our friends. Well, you know what friends pay friends: nothing. When you’re in bed together, the services are free.”

  “Amida,” Balkis chastised him. “We deserve your respect.” He was smart and he had courage and determination, she thought, qualities the Habesh needed in their leader. But the bird doesn’t fly with one wing. She had yet to see much evidence of character and maturity. The pain in her stomach increased. Her eyes rested longingly on the glass-fronted cabinet across the room where, in a crystal bowl, lay the envelopes of powders Courtidis supplied her with.

  Amida looked uncomfortable but didn’t apologize. “The Charshamba families are working for one man now. That’s why they don’t need us. He has his own shop, so he can buy with one hand and sell from the other. We could start working with him.”

  Balkis had suspected the families had found new channels that bypassed the Habesh, but she had thought they were selling to the shops in Beyoglu. She hadn’t realized her competition was a single person. “You know this man?”

  Amida shrugged lightly.

  “What’s his name?”

  “He keeps that to himself.”

  “How can you trust him if you don’t know who he is?” Balkis asked, incredulous.

  “He’s legitimate, not small trash like the Charshamba people,” Amida answered defensively. “This is business. We don’t always have to do things the old way. The modern world lets us reinvent ourselves. In fact, we don’t have a choice.”

  “There’s always a choice. Even the blind man can smell. Business has to be honorable.”

  “A choice between starving and going hungry. Where’s the honor in that?”

  Balkis decided she had nothing to lose with a meeting. At the very least, she’d learn something about her competitor.

  “Alright. If he wishes to speak with us, bring him.” She saw the light in Amida’s eyes and was glad.

  “Mama,” Saba asked in a soft voice. “Have you heard about the killings in Charshamba? Maybe we should get out of the business altogether and do something
else? I don’t see that there’s anything honorable about associating with men like that.”

  “Like what? Let our young men become porters carrying burdens on their backs like snails? We’ve invested many years in our trading connections. Why throw that away? Our men have to work.” Balkis thought Saba was sounding more and more like Malik with his useless idealism. “If you were priestess, we’d all starve,” she added irritably. “You don’t know a kurush from a stone.”

  Undeterred, Saba told Amida, “You overlook our true wealth, brother. After all, we’re custodians of the Proof of God.” She spoke the name reverently.

  Amida rolled his eyes.

  “But it’s our greatest strength,” Saba insisted. “The community needs an income, that’s true, but its spiritual center is what holds it together.”

  “Just look at this place. You think we’re special? We live in a hole in the ground! At least half the people have no teeth because there’s no hygiene. People get sick and die because no doctor will come down here.”

  “Constantine Courtidis comes here,” Saba corrected him.

  “That quack! We all know what he wants.”

  Saba’s face flushed. “You’re wrong about that.”

  Balkis knew why the young Greek surgeon bothered with a small village like theirs, but she didn’t know whether Saba reciprocated his interest. Saba had always kept her feelings to herself, even as a child.

  “I’m worried about the young people too,” Balkis said, hoping to draw Amida back in. “Are they really as disengaged as you say? I know there isn’t much for them to do. There used to be all kinds of jobs related to the rituals, but now only Gudit knows how to do them.”

  “She’s so unpleasant, Mama,” Saba complained. “Why have you put up with her for so long? When I was little, she used to pinch me when you weren’t looking, but now it’s worse. A few weeks ago, I saw her in the laundry room, sniffing my dirty clothes. That’s disgusting. And she spies on me, even in the hamam.”

  This worried Balkis. Was Gudit preparing to initiate Saba? Surely she wouldn’t do so without her permission. Saba hadn’t yet borne an heir. “There are a lot of important things only Gudit knows how to do, my dear. But you must come and tell me your concerns, not keep them to yourself.”

  “I’d feel better if you retired her. Let some of the girls apprentice to her so they can learn her skills.”

  “The girls only last a few weeks, then leave. It’s a hard job. There’s a lot more to being a Melisite midwife than delivering babies. The tattoos, for instance.”

  “Why does it have to be the midwife who does the tattoos? I’m sure you could get apprentices from Charshamba,” Amida suggested. “They’d jump at the chance to learn a trade.”

  “The tattoos aren’t just for decoration. They’re part of our ritual. Some things have to remain within the sect. You forget who we are.”

  “Please, mother. I’m whoever I make myself.”

  “You’re the caretaker, Amida. You will always be the caretaker, and your son will be the caretaker.”

  “You talk about becoming caretaker as if it’s like becoming the grand vizier.” Amida got up and began to wander around the room. “Malik doesn’t seem to have a say about anything.”

  “Malik has never cared about leading the community,” Balkis said. “He thinks being caretaker means sitting in his library reading or daydreaming under his linden tree. That’s why we’re in such a sorry state.”

  “That’s not fair, Mama,” Saba broke in. “He’s very well known. People all across the city read his dawah, his calls for ecumenical discussion.”

  “While he’s holding theological debates, no one’s leading our young people,” Balkis said, her eyes intent on Amida. “That’s why we need you, my son. You’ve got the energy and the ideas to revive the community. But you have to respect the traditions.”

  “How much power does the caretaker have, then, in the tradition?” Amida asked, pointedly emphasizing the last word. “And none of this happens until Uncle Malik dies, right?”

  Balkis was taken aback by his unsentimental inquiry. “Once people in the community learn to trust you, they’ll follow your lead.”

  “I understand that, but what I want to know is how much power the caretaker has. If the caretaker is someone who can really do his job, unlike Uncle Malik, then he’s in charge, right? The priestess is just a figurehead.”

  Saba’s head jerked up in surprise.

  “The priestess is the equal leader of this community,” Balkis told him, aghast. “She’s joined to it forever, so you should never underestimate her.” The last thing the community needed was a power struggle between her children. “Think of the priestess as a cornered animal,” she added in a low voice. “Reach out your hand and she’ll reward you. But never, ever cross her.”

  Amida looked at her open-mouthed. “So a woman is the leader and the caretaker’s some kind of servant? I’m supposed to feed the animal?” He laughed. “I’m in a zoo!”

  Balkis got to her feet. “Watch your tongue,” she barked.

  Saba rose from the floor and faced her brother. “There have been women leaders before,” she scolded him. “It’s nothing new. The Queen of Sheba. Mary, the Mother of Jesus. There was our founder, Saint Melisane.”

  “Melisane is just a legend, like her ridiculous reliquary. I’ve never seen this Proof of God, have you? Who knows if either of them ever existed. And even if they did, so what? We live in the modern world. Where do you see a woman in charge of anything?”

  Balkis was speechless. If this was what Amida thought, then her plans for the community were as likely to succeed as a fish in a poplar tree. She wished there were more young men in her line who could be trained as caretaker. But Amida was the last. It was him or no one.

  “There must be some truth to the stories if they’ve held the community together for so many years,” Saba insisted. “If we could show people the Proof of God, it would revive their faith, but it’s forbidden.”

  “I bet if I went through that gate into the Holy of Holies, there’d be nothing there. What about that box Malik found? He says it’s the Proof of God, but how can that be if it’s in our prayer house like you claim,” he taunted his mother. “It’s all just a bunch of lies.”

  “It’s true that the Proof of God is a mystery,” Saba admitted, “but there’s a miracle behind it.”

  Amida looked at his sister with exasperation. “There is no Proof of God, Saba. It’s all just a story. And the reliquary is just an empty box.”

  Saba looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean empty?” she asked.

  That fool Malik, Balkis thought. What had he really found?

  “What I mean is anything that old would be worth something, empty or not.” Amida laughed. “Those Europeans would buy a rat’s turd, if it was old enough. If you can convince them that a worthless box is the Proof of God, well, money will rain from heaven. That would be a blessing, if ever I heard of one.”

  “Don’t even joke about selling it,” Saba snapped.

  “Malik’s reliquary is gone, so someone has already had that bright idea.”

  Balkis listened incredulously to this exchange. She was furious at Amida’s wholesale dismissal of all that was sacred in their lives. “Even though you are my son,” she said, “you are a fool.”

  “Well, I won’t be the donkey pulling your cart.” Amida headed for the door.

  “We’re a community, not a vehicle for your ambitions,” Saba called out behind him. She turned and left the room.

  Balkis was surprised at the strength of spirit she had glimpsed in her normally quiescent daughter. Bent over in pain, she shuffled to the cabinet, opened the glass door, and reached inside for the envelope of powder.

  7

  KAMIL FOUND THE British cultural attaché slouched on a bench in the Municipal Gardens at the crest of the Pera hill, one lanky leg draped over the other, revealing an expanse of white silk sock. Between thumb and forefinger of his rig
ht hand, he pinched a thin cigar, the picture of the insouciant gentleman. Pink clouds had begun to gather to the west as the sun weakened.

  “Mister Owen?” Kamil asked.

  The man turned his head. He was in his forties, with a long, pleasant face, an aquiline nose, and thin lips curved in a friendly smile.

  Owen’s pale blue eyes regarded Kamil with amusement. “You’ve found him,” he drawled, and then motioned with his cigar for Kamil to sit beside him. “Like to come up here and sit.” He leaned back and took a deep breath. “Get away from those ghastly fumes.” He looked to Kamil for sympathy. “The price of progress, eh?”

  Kamil sat down. “I’m afraid so.” As the weather grew colder, a suffocating haze from the coal and wood with which people heated their homes had descended on the city. The public gardens were atop a bluff and a steady breeze kept the air relatively clear.

  Owen wore a well-cut gabardine suit, a brocaded waistcoat, and a shirt that Kamil recognized as the work of a Beyoglu shirtmaker. Kamil owned several shirts made by Tailor Pepo, with their trademark rounded collar and distinctive stitching, and he was surprised to find Owen wearing one. Tailor Pepo was a well-kept secret. He could make only a limited number of shirts, so his devoted customers generally didn’t share his address.

  Owen pulled out another cigar and offered it to Kamil. “Rare, but the best.”

  “Thank you. I prefer cigarettes.”

  “Your English is good,” Owen remarked. “Been to the home country?”

  “Cambridge.”

  Owen looked at him with interest. “Well done.” He puffed on his cigar. “Been to London, of course.”

  “Yes, it’s a marvelous city.” Kamil reached into his jacket for sketches of the missing objects. “Let me show you…”

  “Are you much for classical music?” He leaned toward Kamil. “Mozart? Bach?” He shook his head distastefully. “Germans, I know, but what’s to be done? No one better. Do you play?”

  “If you mean the piano, no, I’m afraid not, although I do appreciate good music when I hear it.”