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

by Jenny White

  Balkis put an arm around her.

  “I’m very sorry,” Kamil said. “We’ll do our best to find whoever did this. If I may, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Saba looked up and dried her eyes on her veil. “I’m sorry, Kamil Pasha,” she said in a shaky voice. “Look at us. We should be helping you instead of falling apart.”

  Balkis looked at her daughter gratefully, surprised at how quickly the girl had pulled herself together. Her own tongue had grown numb. It was as if nothing she said could ever again be of any importance, so her mouth refused to form any words. She couldn’t even find the energy to despise her brother’s killer.

  “What do you want to know?” Saba asked. “I didn’t see Uncle Malik after Friday either.”

  “Do you know where the Proof of God is?” Kamil asked.

  Balkis and Saba both stared at him.

  “Malik told me about it,” Kamil explained. “He asked for my help in locating a reliquary that had been stolen from the mosque. He said it was important to your sect.”

  Balkis looked at him, shocked. “He told you about the Melisites?”

  “He told me in confidence and I have no intention of telling anyone else unless it becomes necessary,” he assured them. “But it’s important that you talk to me now. I think whoever has the reliquary might be the same person who killed Malik. Who else knew that this reliquary contained the Proof of God?”

  At that, Balkis saw Saba suddenly raise her head and become still and alert, like a deer scenting danger. She tried to focus. Malik had told her after the ceremony on Friday that he had found the Proof of God. She hadn’t believed him, thinking he had unearthed an old box and that his fanciful imagination had gotten the better of him. He told her that the reliquary had been stolen, but that the Proof itself was safe. She had mocked his incompetence, joked that he had managed to lose even the Proof of God. The shame she felt now was only a fraction of the punishment she deserved. Why else would someone kill Malik? Perhaps he really had found the Proof of God.

  “Amida knew.” Saba pressed her veil against her mouth. “I told him.”

  “Why would he steal something from his own uncle? Much less kill him? That’s impossible.”

  But Balkis knew Malik would try to protect the Melisites no matter what. Had he told Amida he wouldn’t allow him to become caretaker, threatened to send him back to the monastery? Balkis knew it had been on his mind. Malik didn’t think Amida was ready and he was worried that the boy would reveal their secrets to outsiders. She had assured Malik that he would outgrow his infatuation with money and travel and that other distasteful interest he had brought back with him from the south. Once a man tastes leadership, it goads him like salt on the tongue.

  “Where was Amida last night?” Kamil still stood near the door as if he did not want to track dirt as well as bad news into someone’s home. Balkis bade him come in and sit.

  When he had settled on the divan opposite her, she told him, “He was at home.”

  “You saw him?” Kamil asked her.

  “I heard him playing the piano.”

  “But he could have gone out. Surely he didn’t play all night.”

  “Well, let’s ask him.” Balkis said, exasperated. She signaled to a servant and instructed him to bring Amida.

  “I think we should consider the possibility that if the reliquary is so important, someone in the village might have heard about it and stolen it. It would probably sell for a lot of money, but only if it were complete. And, of course, the thief would have to know where to sell it.”

  Balkis knew he meant Amida.

  “Malik told me about the smuggling in the village,” Kamil added.

  “Malik didn’t know what went on here,” Balkis answered wearily. “He came once a week for the ceremony and the rest of the time he lived in his head. If you’ve seen his library, you’ll know he had a very active imagination. Don’t believe everything he told you. He was probably angry that his reliquary was stolen and wanted to blame someone.”

  If her brother hadn’t been so headstrong, he’d still be alive, she thought.

  Kamil asked a few more questions and seemed anxious to leave. A few minutes later, the breathless servant returned and announced that Amida hadn’t been seen since the day before.

  Kamil stood. “Bashiniz sagholsun,” he offered again and bowed deeply, his hand on his heart. “If I can be of any service to you, you have only to send a message.”

  KAMIL MADE HIS way through the gardens toward a stairway leading out of the cistern. A breathless Saba appeared at his elbow. “Kamil Pasha, may I speak with you?”

  “Of course. This has been a difficult day for you,” he said kindly. She held her charshaf closed under her chin. Her face was blotchy from crying, but she still looked beautiful, he thought. In his haste that morning, he had forgotten to bring Malik’s letter. He would give it to her the following day.

  She led him to a secluded part of the garden by the wall, where the arches of an old arcade had collapsed, leaving a row of tall brick scallops. They sat on a bench under one of the niches.

  “I apologize. The shock was so great, we forgot our hospitality,” she said softly.

  “There’s no need. On a day like this, it’s you who should be taken care of.”

  Saba signaled to a servant standing some distance away, who then approached, set down a heavy tray, and withdrew.

  This was no chance meeting, Kamil realized, and wondered where the conversation would go. He waited while she filled their glasses from a steaming pot and placed a lady’s navel on his plate. The plump mound of dough, soaked in honey, was indented in the center by a tiny jewel-like pistachio. She added a small pickled cucumber. “To cut the sweetness,” she explained.

  “My mother used to do that.” Kamil smiled. He took a bite of the lady’s navel, then was glad of the vinegary pickle to take away the scorching sweetness. As he wiped his fingers and took his tea, Saba added another pastry and pickle to his plate. The combination of sweet and sour was making him feel slightly ill, but it would have been rude to refuse. He ate the second pastry, then politely declined any more.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” Kamil asked, hoping to draw out the reason for this unusual picnic.

  There was an awkward silence.

  “I’m worried about my brother,” she said finally. “Are you sure you won’t have more tea?”

  He shook his head no.

  She got up to refill her own glass, and when she sat down again, she was nearer to Kamil on the bench.

  “Now that my uncle is gone,” she said, her eyes welling with tears, “there’s no one to keep Amida on the right path. I’m afraid he’s in over his head. He thinks his bravado will get him through, but he’s dealing with people who are truly dangerous.”

  “Who are these people? What do they want with your brother?”

  “They’re from Charshamba. He’s hired them to do jobs for him, but in reality he has no control over them. The Habesh have never had anything to do with people like that. You must believe me. It puts us in a bad light. I wish it would stop.”

  “I understand, but what is it you’d like me to do?”

  “Arrest Amida.” She startled Kamil by letting the charshaf fall back from her hair onto her shoulders.

  “I don’t think being in jail will keep him safe, Saba Hanoum. Do you know these men from Charshamba? Someone named Remzi or Kubalou, perhaps?”

  “No, of course not.” She dropped the spoon into her empty tea glass, a loud, dissonant clatter.

  “I apologize,” he said. “Of course not. Yet you seem so well informed.”

  “This is a small village. People hear things.”

  “There’s a policeman missing.” He looked hard at her. “Have you heard anything about that? We think this Charshamba gang was involved. If we can find him alive, he could testify against them. That way, they’d be in jail and your brother would be safe.”

  She appeared genuinely
shocked. “I didn’t know. If I hear anything about that, I’ll tell you.”

  “Do you know about a tunnel between here and the Tobacco Works?”

  When Saba didn’t answer right away, Kamil added, “It’s not a secret any more, now that Amida has let the Charshamba gang in on it. You might as well tell me. We think the policeman might be there. His name is Ali. He’s a decent young man with a family.”

  “If I help you find this man, will you help me with the two things I want?”

  “And what are they?” Kamil asked.

  “The Proof of God.”

  “Of course,” he said, surprised. “We’re already looking into that.”

  “Not the reliquary. The document that Malik took out to study. Did he tell you where he put it?” she asked urgently.

  “No. He just said he’d hidden it.”

  “I want you to help me find it,” she said. “It’s what Malik would have wanted. Amida must never get his hands on it.”

  “Why not?” Kamil wondered if this was sibling rivalry.

  “He doesn’t respect it.” She held out the palms of her long, delicate hands. He noted the elegance in the tilt of each finger.

  “Where do you think he would have hidden it?”

  “In his house or in the Kariye.” She withdrew her hands and shrugged off her charshaf. “It’s so warm today.” Her skin looked as golden as the honeyed pastries on the tray. A fat bee buzzed about the plate, then settled delicately on a lady’s navel. Kamil could see its legs and antennae quivering as it sampled the sweetness.

  “Uncle Malik spoke about you,” Saba said softly. “He always told me you were a person I could trust. He said we would have a special relationship. I felt I knew you even before we met.”

  She had let her slippers fall to the ground. The tips of her toes were red with henna. Kamil’s heart contracted at the brutal contradiction between her tiny feet, so like the chubby feet of his nieces, and their flushed tips.

  “He told me to go to you if I ever needed anything,” she continued. She put her face close to his. “Why do you think he said that?” she asked curiously, like a small child confident he would have the answer.

  “I don’t know. He never spoke to me about his family, but last night he came to see me and told me something similar. He seemed worried about you and thought I’d be able to help.” He spread his hands and said more formally than he meant to, “I’m available, of course, should your family need assistance, Saba Hanoum. But I’m also investigating a crime. I can’t promise to help someone who’s guilty.”

  Kamil saw the disappointment on Saba’s face and felt ashamed.

  “Of course not,” she answered, pulling the charshaf briskly back over her shoulders. There was an undertone of anger in her voice.

  “He also gave me a letter for you. He said I should give it to you if anything happened to him. I think he knew he was in danger.”

  Saba sat up. “A letter?”

  “I don’t have it with me. I’ll bring it next time.”

  “But it might be important,” she insisted. “May I come to get it now?”

  Kamil was shocked that Saba had suggested she accompany him to his home. Perhaps she had some notion that she was honoring Malik’s wishes by befriending Kamil.

  “I’m sorry, Saba Hanoum. I won’t be home until much later. I’ll bring it tomorrow, if you like. We can talk more then. Perhaps you can give me some idea where to search for the Proof of God. Maybe there’ll be something in Malik’s letter.” He considered asking her permission to open the letter, but remembered his promise to deliver it, presumably unopened. “And if you find any information at all about the missing policeman, send a messenger to my home no matter what time of day or night.” He told her his address.

  Saba stood before him as if willing him to change his mind. Then she gave a sad smile and said, “Tomorrow, then. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  He bowed. “Thank you for the tea.” Smiling, he added, “You haven’t told me your second wish.”

  Saba stepped close and inclined her head so it was almost resting on his chest. Finally, she said in a soft voice, “Another time.” She looked up and searched his face. By her expression, Kamil decided, she couldn’t find what she was looking for there.

  “I’ll see what I can find out about the tunnel.” She stepped back and then was gone.

  As Kamil mounted the stairs to Charshamba, he noticed Saba, wrapped in her charshaf, standing by a fig tree in the gardens below, watching him.

  17

  AS KAMIL RODE through Fatih toward the Galata Bridge, he wondered why, after two nights with little or no sleep, he felt so energetic. Colors assaulted him from the drab streets, from women’s patterned trousers, their bright sweaters and head-scarves, as they sat on doorsteps and pavements knitting and talking. Laundry stretched between the houses above his head snapped like spinnakers. He thought he heard whispers from behind the latticed windows, a susurration of speech like receding waves. It was disturbing and exhilarating. Ahead, red-and blue-painted ships, boats, and ferries traced criss-crossing wakes across the broad triangle of water where the Golden Horn joined the Bosphorus and emptied into the Sea of Marmara.

  He crossed the bridge at Karaköy, then turned onto the shore road. Here, the buildings were substantial, made of stone: the stock exchange, banks, the customs house, the armory, Foundouklou Mosque with its enormous green leather curtains at the door and an ornate public fountain. To his right, the Bosphorus was a deep turquoise, the color of the rarest Iznik bowls. Light chased across the surface like children at play. Kamil almost felt happy despite the tragic events of the day.

  ISMAIL HODJA’S WHITE beard was neatly trimmed and his robe and white turban were spotless. Kamil looked down with distress at his own cuffs, discolored with blood and grime from his unpleasant task in the hamam. But the distress lifted again and Kamil felt buoyed, his mood a cork bobbing easily to the surface. He was disturbed by this feeling, unmoored. He wished to be sad. Anything else was disrespectful to his friend.

  The Sufi sheikh led Kamil into his study. While Kamil filled Ismail Hodja in on the events of the previous two days, the sheikh’s driver, Jemal, brought them glasses of tea on a tray so dainty it was almost lost in his large hands. Kamil had always wondered about Ismail Hodja’s aversion to servants. He lived in a house farther up the Bosphorus and during the day came to these rooms in a dervish lodge high on a hill over Beshiktash to work and meet with his disciples. In neither place had Kamil seen a large staff, although the rooms were always tidy. Most people of his class had several dozen servants. Instead, Jemal seemed to take care of everything. It wouldn’t be a matter of money, Ismail Hodja came from a wealthy family. Kamil supposed he simply preferred to live alone.

  Ismail Hodja sat beside Kamil on the low divan. He leaned forward and looked at him thoughtfully.

  “You don’t look well, Kamil.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your face is flushed and there’s an unusual brilliance about your eyes. Do you have a fever?” he asked with concern.

  Kamil wondered whether he should tell him about the hallucinations in the mosque, but he felt too weary to add yet another story to the day. In any case, he felt certain these effects were due to Courtidis’s balm and planned to ask the surgeon about them. The experience was interesting and not entirely unpleasant, but it wasn’t something he wished to discuss with Ismail Hodja. The feeling would pass. He was puzzled, though, by the duration of the balm’s effects. He had thought earlier that they had worn off, and was surprised to find himself again affected. He wondered briefly about the lady’s navels Saba had given him, but dismissed the idea.

  “I’m just tired, but thank you for asking. I was wondering if you knew anything about a sect called the Melisites.”

  “They’ve been around for four hundred years or so. The sect was founded right after the Conquest. How did you know about it? Not many people do,” Ismail Hodja asked curiously.

&n
bsp; Four hundred years was a remarkably long period of time compared to a man’s lifespan. Malik would have had something wise to say about that, Kamil thought, remembering their conversations. He felt a tide of sadness rising in him and welcomed it.

  “Do wings have any special significance for the Melisites?” he asked.

  Ismail Hodja rose and went to one of the shelves in his study. He pulled one manuscript or book out after another, flipping through, then replacing it. Finally, he took down a slim, leather-covered volume. He cleared the tea glasses away and placed the book on the table before Kamil, open at a page with an engraving of a seated woman holding a girl child suckling from her right breast. Powerful wings rose from her back. In her left hand, she held an elaborate cross on a stave. Next to her a bearded man dressed in a simple robe bowed down and presented her with a small jeweled book or box.

  “This book is about a sect of Jewish Abyssinians. They revere a holy woman who is always depicted with wings.”

  Kamil noticed a symbol of a crescent and disk above the woman’s head that was the same as the engraving on Malik and Balkis’s rings. But they weren’t Jews. He told Ismail Hodja about the rings and the blood-stained columns before the prayer hall.

  “Some of those old rituals, such as animal sacrifice, were once shared by Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike,” Ismail Hodja explained. “The Jews and Christians don’t practice them anymore. I’ve never had the privilege of seeing one of the Melisite rituals. The community is very secretive, but they have good reason to keep to themselves. Some believe that the Melisites are really Christians living as Muslims, although who’s to say what that means. But ordinary people aren’t interested in philosophical debates and they tend to be quite unforgiving about that sort of thing. They say that he who prays at two altars is without religion.” Ismail Hodja leaned forward to refill their tea glasses. “It’s a remarkable feat, if you think about it, to hide their identity for such a long time.”