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

by Jenny White

  12

  WHEN HE SAW Kamil, Omar jumped up from his chair in the corner of the police station and greeted him. The room was subdued. The desk by the door was unoccupied, the ledger lying open, seemingly untouched since Ali had sat there yesterday noting down other people’s misfortunes.

  “Thanks for the gift,” Omar grumbled. “Wrapped like a butcher’s portion. Where did you find that scum?”

  “He followed me from the Tobacco Works. Did you find out anything?”

  “He squealed like a calf when we used the bastinado. The tougher a man’s hide, the thinner the soles of his feet. Allah is just.”

  For once, Kamil had no qualms about Omar’s method.

  “Ali?”

  Omar frowned, flung his cigarette onto the floor and stamped on it. “Nothing. He said he didn’t know anything about it. I think that’s a bad sign. If Ali were still alive, this motherfucker would have tried to bargain.”

  Kamil slapped his riding gloves on the table in frustration. An officer brought tea, but the men let the glasses sit untouched between them. Kamil told Omar about his conversation with Amida, the carpet that proved Amida had stolen the reliquary, and his fruitless search for the tunnel.

  “Amida looked pretty rough, like he hadn’t slept. And he was holding his arm stiffly, as if he’d been wounded. He denied knowing Remzi, but I’m sure he recognized the name. He’s involved, but I don’t see him as a killer.”

  “No, his main vice is chasing ass, which I couldn’t care less about. I kind of like the kid, pathetic as he is. Growing up in that strange family, all that weird sect crap, then being sent off to some mountaintop in Africa for eight years. That would screw up anyone.” From Omar’s red eyes and chin thick with stubble, Kamil was sure he had neither gone home nor slept.

  Kamil shook his head. “It doesn’t add up.”

  “You’re right. There’s something wrong with Remzi’s holier-than-thou story. He didn’t look scared enough, even after I let some of the men take out their disgust on him. It’s like he knows he’s got Allah on his side.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “That Amida had hired him and some other men from Charshamba to run the shipment that night.”

  “So he’s deflecting attention away from his real boss by pinning everything on Amida.”

  “Which is like trying to pin an elephant on a flea.”

  “What about the tunnel?”

  “He claims he wasn’t there on the docks when the men were killed. He was the innocent lookout at the other end of the tunnel.”

  “You found it?” Kamil’s voice betrayed his excitement.

  Omar looked disconsolate and shook his head. “He said it was in a house in Sunken Village, but they went there at night, so he couldn’t tell us where, just that it was dark and you had to go down a stairway into the ground. That’s all we could get out of him. Believe me, we tried.”

  “How did he get there if he doesn’t know where it is?”

  “Apparently Amida led them there.”

  “Why would he do that? From what I’ve learned, the Habesh are very protective of their secrets. And it puts his whole family at risk. I can’t believe Amida wouldn’t know what kind of men these are.”

  “The young look at a desert and see an oasis.”

  “Any way we can loosen their tongues?”

  “I think they’re more afraid of their boss than the bastinado. He must be the devil himself!”

  “Amida is giving away Habesh secrets and attracting busybodies like us snooping around. Someone must want to stop him enough to talk to us.” Kamil picked up his riding gloves. “I think I know who that might be. I just need to find a way to speak with her privately.”

  Omar raised an eyebrow and gave Kamil a knowing look.

  Irritated, Kamil asked, “Don’t you ever think about anything else?”

  Omar shrugged. “I’m a married man,” he said. “Imagination is my only refuge.”

  13

  FERIDE MET HIM in the hall and whispered enthusiastically, “Hamdi Bey is here, Kamil. What a nice, gentle man. Do you know he studied art at the same academy in Paris as Elif. They’ve been talking nonstop since lunch. Would you like some…” She stopped in midsentence and took a closer look at Kamil’s face. “My brother, are you ill?”

  “Just tired,” Kamil answered gruffly, annoyed that the conversation would now be monopolized by art instead of the more serious business of the antiquities thefts. Huseyin had sent a message saying Hamdi Bey, the director of the archaeological museum, would be coming to their house at five that afternoon. It was now after six.

  Feride took Kamil into the parlor, a room rarely used except when Huseyin entertained important visitors. It was furnished with Frankish sofas, tables, and chairs. Heavy blue drapes kept the room in semidarkness.

  Elif was dressed in loose black trousers and a long white tunic, less masculine but uncoventional attire. She sat on the yellow sofa, talking to a bearded man with a prominent nose and receding hairline who sat opposite her. His hair and beard were flecked with gray, and a pair of spectacles lay on his knee. They were speaking French, Elif leaning forward and gesturing. She had dispensed with even the token scarf, and her bare feet seemed white and vulnerable against the blue and red carpet. A stack of drawings lay on the table beside them.

  Huseyin rose from his armchair. “Well, brother-in-law, glad you could make it.” He looked over at Hamdi Bey, who had also risen. “My brother-in-law’s a busy man, but he’s been anxious to meet you.”

  Elif smiled up at Kamil. He bowed graciously, then turned to Hamdi Bey. He saw a kind man in an old-fashioned suit, quick to smile. He was anxious to consult with him, but could see that Elif wanted to continue her discussion. In any case, it would be unthinkable to impose his own agenda on this gathering without first playing the role of guest. He reached for the glass of water a servant held out to him and tried to relax.

  Elif told him excitedly, “Kamil, did you know that Hamdi Bey also studied at the Académie Julian? Under Gustave Boulanger. Before me, of course, but we know many of the same people. It’s so exciting to find someone here who knows what it was like.”

  Hamdi Bey beamed at her and said to Kamil, “I know the passion for art that animates those who are drawn to that life. I was sent to France to study law, but Paris was such a paradise for creativity, I could do nothing else but paint, paint, paint.” He turned to Elif. “Although I’ve recently taken up photography. It’s a remarkable thing, like painting with light. Have you tried it?”

  “I haven’t had the opportunity,” Elif responded, “but I’d love to see how it works.” Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes blazed.

  “You will have to come to our house at Eskihisar and meet my wife. She’s French. I’d like her to see your sketches.” He thought for a moment, then asked, “Would you be interested in teaching at the Istanbul Academy of Fine Arts? I’d have to look into it, but I think it might be possible.”

  Clearly stunned, Elif responded, “I didn’t know you had an academy here. I would be honored.”

  “Hamdi Bey founded it four years ago,” Huseyin interjected. “Are you still the dean?”

  “No longer, Huseyin. A man has just two arms and two eyes. Being director of the archaeological museum takes most of my time and this year I’m directing the excavations in Sidon.”

  The look of sheer pleasure on Elif’s face moved Kamil.

  “Thank you, Hamdi Bey.” She reached out to kiss his hand, but he withdrew it gently and patted her on the arm.

  “This is a remarkably talented young woman,” he said to the room. “It is I who am grateful for the opportunity to take advantage of her talent for our school.”

  Elif wiped her eyes, unable to stop smiling.

  Huseyin broke in. “Well, enough good news. Let’s hear the bad, Kamil. Tell Hamdi Bey about the thefts.”

  Kamil flashed him a grateful look and began to recount the problem of the stolen antiquities and the London
dealer. When Kamil finished, Hamdi Bey shook his head. “I’m not familiar with Rettingate and Sons, but I’ll make some inquiries for you. I presume you want to know the names of the current owners and any connections they might have here.” When Kamil nodded, he continued. “I’ll see what else I can discover, Kamil. Thanks be to Allah for devoted servants of the state like you.”

  Kamil expressed his gratitude and added, “We need more guarded locations to store antiquities, like your museum.”

  Hamdi Bey sighed. “Think of the empire as a plump piece of baklava. Each layer is studded with artifacts, entire civilizations,” he gestured broadly with his hand, “ancient cities, temples, enormous stone sarcophagi, friezes, mosaics, statues, an endless array of objects. The layers near the top have preserved clothing, carpets, inlaid wood, documents. Those near the bottom are littered with clay tablets and bones. The layers in between are endless, each as replete as the next. There aren’t enough museums in the world to house all our treasures.” He smiled in a self-deprecating way. “We are embarrassingly rich.”

  “Isn’t it better to leave the things in the ground then, instead of digging them up so people can steal them?” Feride asked.

  “That’s a good point,” Hamdi Bey conceded. “I wonder that myself sometimes. But our curiosity is too great and we keep excavating. It’s a wonderful thing to know about the people who lived on this earth before us. I think it helps us be more tolerant toward our neighbors. The fact that they speak to God rather than to Allah is a minor difference, a matter of semantics, really, compared to the lives of the Romans and Greeks who lived on this very same spot.”

  “Didn’t they feed their Christian neighbors to the lions?” Huseyin asked with a laugh.

  Hamdi Bey stood. “Unfortunately, I must depart. I leave for Sidon tomorrow. But I’ll be in touch with you, madame,” he bowed low to Elif, “and with you, Kamil, about the thefts. It’s rare that in one afternoon I am allowed to contribute, even if in a minor way, to two such important projects.”

  AFTER HAMDI BEY had gone, Huseyin commented, “He has a tongue that could sweeten vinegar. He should be in parliament. If we had a parliament.”

  Kamil responded, “That’s how he gets the government to support all of his projects.”

  “After he’s gone, we should gild his tongue and display it in the museum.”

  Kamil couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re jealous.”

  Huseyin stuck out his tongue at Feride. “Mine’s already gold, isn’t it, wife?”

  Feride blushed and ran after Elif, who had gone to put her drawings away.

  Kamil got up to leave.

  Huseyin clapped him on the shoulder. “Brother-in-law, you look like a camel on the far side of the desert. Just skin, bones, and determination. Sit with me for a moment before you rush off back to that desert of yours.”

  Kamil allowed Huseyin to lead him into an adjoining sitting room. He settled in an armchair by the unlit fireplace and took the glass of scotch Huseyin handed him. He set the glass down, then drifted off. He was awakened by Feride pulling at his sleeve. Next to her stood Avi, a bandage on his head, watching Kamil intently.

  “Well, my boy,” Kamil said, sitting up straight. “How are you feeling today?”

  “I’m very well, bey,” Avi said in a firm voice. “I’m ready to come back to work.”

  “Good riddance.” Alev’s little-girl voice floated across the room.

  Huseyin laughed. “No golden tongues in this family.”

  Feride scolded Alev. “Don’t be impolite. Avi is our guest.”

  Alev folded her arms and scowled. No doubt the girls weren’t used to sharing the adults’ attention. Yasemin was perched on a chair, admiring her embroidered skirt, which was splayed across her legs like a fan. Kamil wondered which moments in childhood predict the adult.

  Then he noticed Elif, or rather, he caught the scent of her as she approached the back of his chair. It was a fresh, green scent, not floral like that of other women. She sat in the chair next to him and crossed her legs. Her foot arched elegantly, animated by the beat of her heart. Her toes were long, but not bony, the clefts between them almost erotic, a tiny country of vulnerabilities. There was a slight plump rise on the inside of her foot near the heel. He wanted to press his mouth there, feel the resilience of the flesh at her instep, at the span of her arch.

  Elif was watching him, her face flushed. Kamil was embarrassed. Had he been asleep and dreamed this? He looked down quickly. Her feet were tucked under her chair. She was asking Avi about his life in Middle Village.

  14

  THAT EVENING, Kamil was in the winter garden, repositioning his orchids to compensate for the shifting autumn light. He set the pot of Orchis lactea down carefully. Its long spikes were densely set with milky white conical flowers flushed with rose. He had discovered the plant growing in a patch of wildflowers just outside the city walls, despite the stench and effluvium of the nearby tanneries, and had managed to bring it to bloom in his winter garden for the second time this year. The lacteal orchid, however, was a simple fishwife compared to its delicate, high-born cousin in the next pot, the rare Orchis pinetorum, which grew only at high altitudes in the Taurus Mountains and whose pure white blossoms looked like tiny hummingbirds feeding on the stem.

  He thought he heard a tap on the glass and peered out the window. In the half-light, he made out Malik’s worried face.

  “Malik, welcome,” Kamil said. “Please come in. Have you eaten? The cook has made some wonderful kabak dolmasou.”

  Malik stood in the winter garden, looking about as if he had never been there before. Kamil was concerned. “Has something happened?”

  “May I sit for a moment, my friend?”

  “Of course.” Kamil gestured toward two comfortable cane chairs under a potted palm. “Let me take your cloak.”

  Malik ignored his request and sat down in the chair, eyes closed.

  Kamil waited, trying not to show how tired he was. The light had faded, leaving a gray pall that infected the air and made the colorful blooms of his orchids look like the wings of dead moths. When Yakup appeared at the inner door with a lamp, Malik turned so his face remained in shadow. At a look from Kamil, Yakup retreated without a word.

  “I need your help,” Malik said finally in a weary voice, “but more than that, I need your silence.”

  “You have my loyalty as a friend, Malik, but you should know that if you tell me anything about a crime, I can’t keep that to myself.”

  “Of course. I would expect no less from you. This is about a crime that I need your help solving, but there are other things that must remain between us.” He leaned back and regarded the palm fronds above him. “It’s so restful here.”

  “What is it you wish to tell me?”

  “It’s about the reliquary.”

  Kamil nodded.

  “It’s more important than I told you.” He leaned forward, his face in his hands.

  Kamil reached out and laid his hand on Malik’s arm. “Is there something valuable in it?”

  Malik looked up at Kamil with red-rimmed eyes. “I know I must tell you, but understand that this is difficult for me. If word gets out about its true nature, there will be more death.”

  “No silver box could be that valuable, Malik.”

  “You see, that’s my dilemma. If I don’t tell you about it, I know you’ll do your best as a friend to locate it, but I’m not ignorant of your other priorities. If I do tell you, I’ll be revealing a four-hundred-year-old secret and putting my community at great risk.”

  Kamil waited, but Malik was silent, clearly struggling with his decision. Kamil got up and opened the door into the house. Yakup reappeared immediately, the handle of a revolver protruding from his belt.

  Kamil nodded towards it. “That won’t be necessary, but you can bring us some coffee and water. Just leave it here,” he pointed to a small table outside the door, “and knock. Make sure we’re not disturbed.”

  He close
d the door, sat down again, and, after a few moments, said gently, “I’ll do whatever I can, my dear friend. You know you can trust me.” He wondered what secret could agitate the old man so deeply.

  “I’ll tell you what I can. You are one of us, in a way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  There was another long silence. Dry leaves skittered across the glass ceiling.

  “Let’s discuss that tomorrow at breakfast in the light of the new day. Here in the darkness, let me tell you a story.”

  Kamil settled back in his chair. He was having difficulty keeping his eyes open.

  “Sunken Village is home to a sect,” Malik began, “called the Melisites. It dates back to the time of the Conquest.”

  This was not at all what Kamil was expecting. He was suddenly wide awake. “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “There’s a reason for the secrecy.” Malik shook his head. “No, not because of any criminal activity, although…” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Although Omar isn’t wrong. They do deal in stolen goods. I’ve kept out of it myself. My sister runs the commercial affairs of the village.”

  Kamil kept his excitement at bay. He knew a door had opened, and that he must enter slowly so it didn’t swing shut again. He waited for Malik to continue.

  “But these aren’t the people you’re looking for,” Malik added quickly. “Everything’s on a small scale. The Habesh don’t steal, so much as provide a service to those who do. They buy stolen items from professional thieves in Charshamba and sell them to merchants in the bazaar. They’ve been doing this for generations.”

  He held up his amber-skinned hand, then turned it and looked curiously at his palm. “I am Habesh, so I suppose I’m culpable. You understand that I would rather discuss the reliquary.”

  “As you like.” One door opened, another shut. They led to the same place.

  “Since the Conquest, the Melisites,” Malik continued, “have been custodians of a reliquary said to contain a priceless religious artifact that gives it miraculous powers. It’s called the Proof of God.”