by Jenny White
Ali’s body sat bent over, hands stretched forward, on the mosaic of fish above the ghost of a cistern, looking for all the world as if he were fishing.
22
BY THE TIME they brought Ali’s body to the Fatih Mosque and handed it over to the imam for washing; by the time Omar and Kamil had located his family in a shabby two-story wooden house up a steep, narrow lane; by the time Omar had delivered the news of Ali’s death to his elderly parents and to his shy, young wife, her face hidden behind a veil, in the sparsely furnished sitting room of the house they occupied together, it was nearly night. A scruffy boy with wide eyes and Ali’s ears pressed himself against his mother’s legs. She bent her head low over the baby in her arms and rocked back and forth. Ali’s mother went over and put an arm around her.
Kamil couldn’t help but look for the hole in the floor from which Ali claimed to have fished, but saw only a threadbare carpet.
He and Omar stepped out to find an orange sky blazing across the landscape as if the whole city were on fire. From this height, they could look down through the tight canyons of streets to the Golden Horn, which at this moment channeled not water but molten copper. Without a word, they both stopped and watched. Omar took out a cigarette but didn’t light it. Kamil thought about the looting and burning of Constantinople by the Turkish armies. He wondered whether someone, a Byzantine, had stood at this very spot and watched his city go up in flames.
“Want one?” Omar murmured. When Kamil nodded, Omar handed him the cigarette, took another out of a battered silver holder, and clamped it in the corner of his mouth.
When they’d finished smoking, they began to walk down the steep hill. The sky had quieted too, matching their mood. Shades of gray bled into feathers of pink, slowly smothering them. Kamil was aware of Omar walking beside him, but in the twilight he felt invisible, alone. Sounds seemed to come from a long distance away, or were muted, as if from another room. Children cried out and pots clanged from a kitchen window; a street vendor called out, “Melons like honey, melons.”
“Should we head over to Malik’s house or leave it for tomorrow?” Omar asked.
“Might as well go now.”
A PIGEON HAD somehow managed to get into Malik’s house and fluttered about like a dispirited ghost as the two men systematically searched the rooms. They were in no hurry this time, so they moved slowly and deliberately, Kamil on one side, Omar on the other, lifting each object and examining it carefully before placing it on a cotton sheet that Kamil had spread on the floor. The pile grew: shattered crockery, worn leather slippers, a broken pair of spectacles, the detritus of a simple life.
“What does this Proof of God look like?”
“A box of some kind, probably lead, or individual pages of a very old document written in Aramaic.”
“And what does that look like?”
“Like odd Arabic.”
“Well, that narrows it down,” Omar huffed, picking up a book in Ottoman Turkish, written in Arabic script.
“Just look for anything you can’t read.” Kamil wished he could show Omar the letter—maybe Omar could see clues that escaped him. But Malik’s letter contained too much information that Kamil didn’t want anyone to know about. It was too new, too raw.
After he and Omar had finished with all the other rooms, they stood at the entrance to the study and eyed the sea of paper with trepidation.
Kamil bent over and picked up a fragment of old linen parchment, brown and crumbling at the edges. His eyes had been caught by the brilliant colors that surrounded the Greek text—vivid purple, green, and red, ornamented in gold leaf.
Omar looked over his shoulder. “Malik collected those. He said they were done by monks at the Kariye when it was a church.”
Kamil wondered what the monk who had copied this particular page had been thinking when he painstakingly painted the flowers and vines, the tiny distorted faces peering from behind highly elaborate letters. Did monks have a sense of humor? Were they bored by the texts and looking to entertain themselves? Why would their superiors allow such a thing?
According to Ismail Hodja, the Chora monastery had been built by Theodore Metochites, a Byzantine minister of state and diplomat who in his later years became a monk there. Had he devoted himself to studying these texts or did he while away his remaining days painting whimsical designs around their edges? Perhaps he had written his memoirs, as aging statesmen were wont to do in any age. If so, they hadn’t survived. Only his image on the wall of his church and on the reliquary had survived him.
Kamil picked up another illuminated page. They were beautiful.
“Well, the old rake,” Omar exclaimed, throwing on the table a depiction of a man penetrating another from behind in an explosion of colorful robes.
“This is Japanese,” Kamil commented, noting the eyes and elaborately knotted hair of the two men and their exquisitely detailed kimonos.
“Well, I guess the Japanese aren’t choosy.” Omar dropped another page on the pile, an ink sketch of a woman holding up her kimono and straddling a man. She was leaning forward and every detail of their joined organs was lovingly depicted. Discomfited by the memory of his dream, Kamil placed a page of Latin text on top of the Japanese drawing.
Omar looked at him with amusement. “I didn’t know you were so squeamish, Magistrate.”
“Let’s not forget what we’re doing here,” Kamil responded irritably.
Omar shrugged and lumbered back into the pile of papers on the study floor. He picked out the spines, shook each one, then laid it out flat on the table.
After an hour, the table was covered in papers and book spines, but the piles on the floor didn’t look much smaller.
Omar rubbed his back and stretched. “Guess I’m not going to smoke here,” he observed. “Back in a minute.” He tramped down the stairs.
Kamil heard the iron entrance doors clang. After a few moments, he heard voices, Omar’s deep bass and a rapid-fire response. He opened the window and looked out. The night air, tinged with coal fumes, filled his lungs and he had to wrestle a desire to cough. The yellowish haze was illuminated by the moon and seemed almost alive, twining itself around the ruined Byzantine arches and foundations.
He could make out the top of Omar’s head and broad shoulders by the door, and the top of a fez and long hair of a man facing him. The latter glanced up and Kamil saw it was Amida.
“Greetings, Magistrate,” he called out. “I saw a light and thought I’d investigate. Could have been thieves or the murderers, back for another go. I didn’t expect it to be you.”
Kamil went downstairs and set a lamp down just outside the door so it illuminated the nattily dressed Amida and a wary Omar, his eyes locked on the young man.
“What are you doing in this part of town?” Kamil asked, noticing Amida’s stambouline jacket and trousers. “It’s not somewhere you get dressed up to go promenading.”
Amida shrugged, “I had some business around here.”
“At this time of night?” Omar’s eyes flicked to a nearby Byzantine arch, then returned to Amida.
“I was concerned that someone was breaking in,” Amida said defensively. “Why am I suddenly under suspicion?” He pulled open his jacket. “There’s no crowbar in here. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Getting a haircut,” Omar said in a tone that warned Amida not to ask further.
“Fine.” Amida shrugged. “I’m glad to see our civil servants are burning the midnight oil. I’m going home.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the dark lane.
Kamil turned to go back inside, but Omar grabbed his arm and indicated he should wait. Omar sauntered down the lane in the direction Amida had disappeared and when he’d assured himself that he was gone, he walked back to the dark hulk of the Byzantine arch and smiled. “You can come out now, you rascal.”
Avi emerged, dressed in rags, his face and hands filthy. Omar smiled broadly and boomed, “A disguise worthy of Saladin!”
“We
ll done, Avi,” Kamil said. “Let’s go inside.”
“Have you eaten, son?” Omar asked as they trooped back up the stairs.
“Yes, Chief. Thank you.”
Kamil wasn’t so sure. The boy looked pinched. He decided to take him home and ask Karanfil to feed him. He and Omar could return the following day to sort through the rest of the papers.
But Avi was almost jumping with excitement. “Can I report now?”
“So, my son,” Omar asked obligingly, “where was our friend Amida this evening in his fancy suit?”
“He was in Beyoglu.” Avi turned to Kamil, his eyes alight. “He met with a Frank and they agreed to meet again tomorrow night at eight o’clock by the Galata Tower. I didn’t hear his name, but Amida is supposed to bring him something.”
“Well done, Avi.” Kamil said, patting his shoulder. He wondered if this Frank was the mysterious Kubalou. “Let’s get you home.”
“If you permit, the boy could stay with us,” Omar suggested shyly. “We’re close by and he’s tired.”
Kamil hesitated. He felt strangely disappointed and realized he had been looking forward to Avi’s company. “Well, Avi, it’s up to you. If you decide to stay with Omar, I’ll have some clothes sent to you there.”
Avi looked at the floor and said nothing, but Kamil had seen the flash of pleasure in his eyes at Omar’s invitation.
“He might as well stay with you, then,” Kamil said, smiling. “Set him on Amida’s trail again tomorrow morning.”
“In case the little pimp changes his plans.”
“Right. Let’s meet at the courthouse at seven.”
“Yes, bey,” Avi chimed in.
“Not you, Avi. You’ll have done your job by then. This might be dangerous.”
Avi looked disappointed.
“If we manage to arrest this Frank and if he’s the central player we think he is, then you’ll have done your empire and your sultan a great service. How many other young boys can say that?”
Omar motioned toward the door. “Shall we look some more?”
“None of those papers looked like they might be the Proof of God. I suspect they’re too delicate to be lying around in a heap. They must still be in that lead liner. If the thief had found it, he wouldn’t have turned the house upside down.”
“There’s no lead box in there. We were thorough.”
“I’ll search the Kariye tomorrow and I’ll also check the bazaar.”
“You won’t find anything in the bazaar.”
“Maybe the reliquary.”
“We know it’ll trace back to Amida.”
“It’s part of the puzzle. And you never know what else might fall into our hands.” He wished again that he could share Malik’s letter with Omar. He had seen nothing in it that indicated where the Proof was hidden. Had Saba? More than anything, he understood, Saba wanted the Proof. Perhaps she had already retrieved it from its hiding place.
“Searching for the Proof of God,” Omar chuckled. “You and a thousand theologians. Good luck, then.” He put his hand on the boy’s thin shoulder and steered him out the door. “You’ll make a fine policeman, son,” Kamil heard him say.
23
KAMIL SLEPT DEEPLY with, thankfully, no disturbing dreams and awoke refreshed for the first time in days. It took him a moment to realize that it was past daybreak. It was raining and a muddy yellow light clogged the windows.
After breakfast, he took Karanfil aside and asked her discreetly what she knew of an Abyssinian woman named Balkis. Karanfil bore little resemblance to her son Yakup. Where he was tall and angular, his profile sharp as a hawk, Karanfil was round, with delicate features.
“That was a friend of your father’s, bey.” She seemed reluctant to say more.
“Come, Karanfil. My parents, may they rest in paradise, are no longer with us and can’t be hurt by such revelations. I’ve heard the story from others, but I’d like to hear what you know of it.”
“Why would anyone tell you such a thing, bey? It was all over with such a long time ago.”
When Kamil wouldn’t let the matter rest, she said finally, “Your mother found out. Everyone talks, so the news that her husband kept a mistress was bound to come to her ears. But she was such a good person, at first she didn’t want to interfere. Me, I would have kicked my husband out and thrown his water cans after him, may Allah give him rest.” Karanfil’s husband, a water carrier, had died in a fire. “When the affair continued, she thought that if she left your father, he might end it, so she moved the family to Beshiktash. But your mother never denied your father anything, and whenever he came to visit, she treated him like a sultan. It didn’t stop anything. So one day, your mother decided she wanted to see this woman herself. We went to her apartment. I waited outside. When she came out, your mother said the woman had agreed to give your father up. I don’t know what she said to her, but sure enough, we heard that the woman had moved out of the apartment, and after that, your father spent all of his free time at Beshiktash. It’s sad that your dear mother was too ill to move back to the city, but your father took care of her here until the end.”
“Was there a child?”
There was a long pause while Karanfil deliberated. “Your mother sent this woman gifts every year and I saw what she put in the bundle. She never said anything to me, but you don’t send gold liras to your husband’s ex-mistress. There had to have been a child.”
“Why didn’t anyone from the family help the child after my mother and father passed away?”
“Your mother had left instructions for the gifts to continue, but somehow the name and the location were lost. It was in Allah’s hands. There was nothing to be done.”
“Lost? You must have known where they were delivered. That’s not something you can easily forget.” Kamil’s voice rose. He was overcome with an emotion he couldn’t identify, anger at his father’s betrayal, mourning for the lost purity of his childhood, and a sense of loss that came with the realization that he hadn’t known his parents at all.
He couldn’t bear Karanfil’s sympathetic look. “Tell me what happened,” he demanded.
“After your mother passed away, your father found her account book where she had recorded the gifts. He tore it up.”
“Did he tell you to stop sending the money?”
Karanfil fidgeted. “He never spoke of it directly and the very next day he moved to Feride Hanoum’s house. We assumed that’s what he wanted.”
“You assumed that my father, when he found out he had a child, would want to stop supporting her?” he asked incredulously. “What kind of a man did you think he was?”
“He was a good man, your father. Everyone knows that. But this was in Allah’s hands.”
Kamil stood and quickly left the room, shouting for Yakup to bring the carriage. He threw a waterproof cape around his shoulders and waited by the door, slapping his gloves impatiently from one hand to the other. Everything he thought he had known about his parents had been erased and rewritten in one day.
Just then, a carriage drove up that was not his own. He recognized his brother-in-law’s scarlet and blue livery. The driver dismounted, ran up the stairs, and handed Kamil a note.
It was from Elif.
“Kamil,” he read, “today’s rain reminds me of Paris, wet cobblestones, enormous black umbrellas, the steam from my coat when I took it off. It’s a day to draw the new, the stalwart, the invisible. I think I should start here, if I am to go back to my art. I can’t yet bear to paint in the sunlight where all is exposed. May I sketch your orchids this morning?”
Kamil dropped the letter on a table. Elif, of all people, now when he felt least composed. He took out his watch. It was eight in the morning.
The driver waited with downcast eyes.
“Is she in there?” Kamil indicated the carriage.
“Yes, bey.”
Taking a deep breath, Kamil went out to get her.
24
BALKIS NEVER SAW Alp Pasha again.
Often she daydreamed that he came back to the mosque, that they met again, and she showed him his child. That he was so enraptured by his daughter, he offered to support them and they left the village to live in a small house away from prying eyes. But after what had been done to her, Balkis no longer dared to dream the pasha would find anything at all attractive about the girl he had once compared to a peach. She no longer had a life outside the village, outside the sect. She was a monster, like the eunuchs, who were known to be loyal to their masters to the death because they had nowhere else to go.
After Balkis had given birth to Saba, Gudit had come to see her. Gudit with her powerful arms, short neck, and broad shoulders that gave her the appearance of a man or a bull. Like most of the villagers, she wore wide shalwar trousers, but eschewed the bright flowered cotton of the women. The villagers treated the midwife with elaborate respect. Balkis had been afraid of her.
“Your mother is weak, Balkis,” Gudit had told her. “We need to prepare you to take her place as priestess.”
Over a period of two weeks, the midwife had tattooed enormous folded wings on Balkis’s back with ink made of wood ash, indigo, and Balkis’s own breast milk.
Needle in hand, the midwife promised her, “Soon you’ll be like a houri, a winged virgin, eternally pure.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gudit,” Balkis said through teeth clenched against the pain. “I have two children. Even Allah can’t perform the miracle of making me a virgin again.”
The midwife frowned and explained earnestly, “Only a virgin can touch the Container of the Uncontainable. She must herself become the Container of the Uncontainable.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense. It’s bad enough I have to endure this.”
The day the wings were done, the midwife dressed Balkis in a cotton robe and served her a cup of bitter, honey-laced tea. When Balkis felt drowsy, Gudit helped her walk to the sacrificial stone behind the temple and bade her sit. Three strong women who had been waiting there held Balkis down, covered her mouth, and pulled her legs apart. Balkis saw Gudit take a knife, and what followed was a pain so intense she thought they had killed her. They wrapped her in her robe and carried her to her house. Through her delirium, Balkis thought she saw the midwife empty a bowl into the pillars flanking the door to the prayer house.
