The Abyssinian Proof (8 page)

When the prayer was done, Balkis nodded. The man in red pulled back the ewe’s head and stroked its soft throat as tenderly as a lover. When the animal relaxed, he cut its throat, directing the blood into a large bowl on the ground. Balkis used a cup to pour some of the blood into the hollows on top of the pillars by the entrance. Then Malik dipped the peacock feather in the blood and anointed the prayer house door with one long stroke, followed by three short cross-strokes. He took the key from his belt and unlocked the door.

They waited while Gudit lifted the bowl and spilled its contents beneath a towering fig tree, its fruit plump and red veined. Then Balkis led the village into the prayer house. As the villagers entered, they each touched one of the pillars and then their forehead.

The interior of the prayer house was lined with marble, except for a mosaic inside the vault that depicted a gold crescent and disk against an indigo background. Oil lamps hanging from the ceiling cast a spiderweb of light over the congregation. At the front of the nave a wrought-iron divider separated the congregation from the Holy of Holies. Beyond it, an iron gate guarded a room that only the priestess was allowed to enter. Inscribed on the gate was an angel with powerful wings, which were painted gold. Those permitted to approach could see that the angel was crying.

The floor was spread with carpets, like a mosque. The women’s side of the room bloomed with bright colors, while the men’s side reflected the stolid tones of earth and grain and vernal green.

As the procession passed down the middle of the hall, the villagers bowed their heads respectfully. Balkis and Malik passed through the divider and stood before the gate, where they led the congregation in prayer.

Balkis unlocked the gate using the key on her chain and pushed it open. It made no sound on its oiled hinges. The congregation craned to see. Malik took a lit candle from a niche and handed it to Balkis. She walked through the opening and was immediately swallowed up by the darkness. The gate swung shut behind her.

There was a faint scent of incense. Balkis could hear the muffled hum of conversation resume in the hall. She blew out the candle and closed her eyes. The dark power in this room, the Holy of Holies, penetrated her like heat in the hamam, taking control of her body and cleansing it.

She imagined her brother’s majestic, cloaked figure on the other side of the gate, standing guard before the miracle. Malik, caretaker of the Melisites.

“Behold Balkis,” she heard him intone in a loud voice. “Behold the Proof of God, Container of the Uncontainable. Behold the Key to all religions.”

The angel gate opened and Balkis stepped out into the light. She felt tall and commanding. She knew the villagers no longer saw her, but their priestess. Two fillets hung from her embroidered turban, framing the face of a woman comfortable with power. In her hand was the iron scepter. The gate closed behind her.

Balkis stood for a moment, surveying the crowd, noting who had come and who had stayed away. She took her time, bestowing approving glances on those whose goodwill she needed to carry out the project she had in mind, and letting the few young people heedlessly flirting at the back of the room feel the weight of her gaze until they fell silent. Saba and Amida sat side by side at the front of the room before the elders, a place of honor. Saba, as always, was absorbed in the ceremony, perhaps imagining herself in the role of priestess. Amida looked bored and distracted. This saddened Balkis. She wanted her son to believe in the Melisites as she did, to love the sect. To love her.

Balkis put her scepter aside and turned to face the gate, her eyes on the angel’s powerful wings. She wondered, as she always did, why the angel was crying. She thought she knew.

The cloak slipped from her bare shoulders and pooled around her feet. Beside her, Malik too let his cape fall. They raised their arms to the angel gate.

“Behold the Proof of God,” Balkis announced.

“Adonai, help us,” the congregation responded. “Virgin of Chora, Container of the Uncontainable, keep us.”

Balkis felt the fervor of their gaze on her bare tattooed back. Priestess and caretaker, angels before the angel gate.

B
ACK IN HIS OFFICE
at the courthouse, Kamil combed through the files again, this time looking for links to the Charshamba district or the Habesh, but the files contained little more than lists and sketches of objects taken, and the names of places they had been taken from. None of the thefts had occurred in Charshamba. Kamil wondered if criminals had a code of honor that forbade them from stealing in the area where they lived, or whether the pickings were simply better elsewhere. A silver nielloed Byzantine ewer and matching plate, a solid gold plate, a chalice decorated with diamonds, and another with rubies and pearls had disappeared from the Fatih Mosque, just a stone’s throw from the Charshamba market. The sketches were clear enough, but the report was illegible. The police required their officers to be literate, but in practice that could mean anything. He peered at the paper, unable to make out where in the large mosque complex the objects had been stored.

The other stolen items came from smaller mosques, churches, and synagogues all over the Old City. He assumed that these would be less carefully guarded than a venerable institution like the Fatih Mosque. But, he chided himself, on what basis was he making that assumption? What he had seen so far had convinced him that people at all levels of responsibility were careless with old things, probably believing them to be intrinsically less valuable than something new, even if they were made of precious materials.

The descriptions of stolen items corresponded closely to a list sent by the London Metropolitan Police Force of oriental objects recently sold in that city, including the ruby and pearl chalice. That sale and several others had been handled by Rettingate and Sons, dealers in oriental antiques, located at 58 Smythe Street in South Kensington. A good address near Kensington Gardens and the museum, Kamil noted. He remembered elegant rows of brick and stucco houses with black-lacquered doors and polished brass knockers. Perhaps the tent of facts could be anchored at that end. He penned a telegram to Detective Inspector Joseph Ormond, his contact at the Metropolitan Police, or as it was commonly known, Scotland Yard.

In the letter accompanying the list, Ormond had suggested Kamil contact Magnus Owen, the cultural attaché at the British Embassy in Istanbul. Kamil wrote a note requesting an appointment with Owen and gave it to Abdullah to deliver to the embassy, only minutes away.

Half an hour later, the door to the office flew open and an enormous man with a heavy beard fell into the room. With one hand, he extricated himself from Abdullah’s grip, with the other he dragged Avi, who squirmed in pain.

Kamil jumped to his feet and bellowed, “Drop that child right now. What is the meaning of this?”

The man stopped but didn’t loosen his grip. Abdullah renewed his attempt to pull the stranger from the room.

“Let the boy go or I’ll have you arrested.”

Reluctantly, the man complied. Trouble seemed to stick to this boy like metal filings to a magnet, Kamil thought irritably. He noticed that the man’s sash protruded at the side, indicating a weapon, most likely a long-handled knife. With a stealthy flick of his fingers, he slid open a drawer, putting his Colt revolver within easy reach.

“Abdullah, take the boy out.”

Abdullah looked doubtfully at the intruder, but did as he was told. He left the door open.

“Your name?”

“The boy belongs to me,” the man said in the thick accent of Istanbul’s back streets. His hands were scarred and his fingernails blackened. He took a wrestler’s pose, feet apart, arms loose at his side.

“Your name?” Kamil repeated angrily. He smelled anise; the man had been drinking raki.

“Mustafa,” he muttered grudgingly.

“What do you mean, the boy belongs to you?”

“He works for me. His father gave him to me.” Mustafa became animated, gesturing with his hands. He took a step toward Kamil. “I have the agreement.” He reached into his vest, pulled out a tattered piece of paper, and held it out to Kamil. “He signed it and I signed it.”

Kamil took it and read it. “This is a bill of sale for a young sheep,” he said finally. “It says you paid five hundred kurush for it. That’s quite a sum for a sheep.” There were two names at the bottom, Mustafa the Tanner and another name that was illegible, with an X penned under each.

Mustafa looked stunned. “That can’t be. Let me see.” He reached over the desk and snatched the paper from Kamil’s hand. He looked at it intently, but it was clear to Kamil that the man couldn’t read. He looked at Kamil helplessly. “I paid him for an apprentice.”

“Didn’t you go through your guild?” The tanner’s guild regulated the hiring and training of apprentices.

Mustafa shifted nervously. “I needed the boy to do some extra work. It wasn’t really an apprenticeship.”

Most likely something dangerous, Kamil thought, something the guild wouldn’t agree to. Tanners worked with caustic chemicals that ate the flesh from hides and from the workers’ hands. The stench of drying hides stung the eyes and throats of residents within a wide radius of the tanning sheds just outside the city wall.

“You can’t purchase a free subject of the empire. The boy isn’t a slave. And as far as I know, both his parents are deceased.”

Mustafa looked surprised, then said, with a sly smile revealing broken and blackened teeth, “So he needs a home. I can give the poor orphan a home.”

“He has a home. And I’m going to report this to your guild to make sure you don’t use up any of your other boys like kindling. You can go.”

The man glowered at Kamil, then turned and stomped angrily out the door.

Kamil heard a mutter, followed by a sharp scream of pain. He ran to the door and saw Avi collapsed in a heap on the floor, blood streaming from his head. Abdullah and Ibrahim were holding on to the bearded giant as more men ran toward them to help. But with a shrug of his massive shoulders, Mustafa broke free and ran away.

“Let him go,” Kamil called to Abdullah. “I know who he is. Help me with the boy.”

They laid Avi on the divan. Kamil watched while Abdullah washed and bandaged the deep gash on the boy’s forehead where Mustafa had hit him with the hilt of his knife. When Avi opened his eyes, he found Kamil sitting next to him, reading.

“Welcome back, my son,” Kamil said. His relief ran deep, but currents of anxiety still pulsed through him. He crossed his arms. Is this what people feel, he wondered, when they have children? That life can never again be taken for granted and you can never know peace? It seemed a precarious way to live.

Avi smiled weakly. His eyes were bloodshot. When he tried to move his head, he whimpered in pain.

“When you’re well enough to move, we’ll send you back to Amalia Teyze in a carriage.”

Avi frowned and tried to shake his head.

“Don’t worry. When you’re well, you can come back.”

Tears spilled down Avi’s cheeks. “She’s dead.”

Kamil paused. “Who’s dead?”

“Amalia Teyze,” Avi whispered. “I didn’t know she was sick,” he cried. “I could have done something.”

This news didn’t surprise Kamil, who already suspected something of the kind. But surely another family in the village would have taken the boy in. “Bashin sagholsun, my condolences, son. There’s nothing you could have done. These things just happen. Tell me, where did you stay after that?”

“One of the men from the village took me to Tanner Mustafa and told me I had to work for him. But he beat me and I ran away. I’m sorry, bey. I’m sorry I lied to you. I was afraid you’d send me back there.” His thin body shook. “Please don’t send me back.”

Kamil fought down his anger. He would see to it that both sides of this devil’s bargain would regret it. He took out a linen handkerchief and wiped the boy’s face. “Don’t worry. You’re not going back. We’ll find you a place in the apprentices’ quarters. But first you need to get better.” He placed his hand on Avi’s hot cheek and held it there, thinking. Then he rose and told Abdullah to get a carriage ready.

I
T WAS A
short ride to his sister Feride’s mansion in the suburb of Nishantashou. The carriage swayed to a halt inside the stone gate, and three men dressed in scarlet and blue livery ran to greet him. The ambition of his brother-in-law, Huseyin, was emblazoned even on the backs of his servants, Kamil thought sourly as he gave them instructions to carry Avi inside. Kamil disliked his self-centered brother-inlaw, a distant cousin and minor member of the royal family whose exact function in the palace bureaucracy was unclear.

Feride greeted him in the reception hall, a massive room decorated in the European style. Kamil thought the ropes of gilded plaster and oil paintings of fruit and dead pheasants an abomination of taste. He was certain it was Huseyin who had insisted on this décor. In contrast to the room, Feride had the calm demeanor and classical lines of a Roman marble. Her face was a long, pale oval, with a straight nose and thin lips that gave her an air of repose. As always, she was fashionably but simply dressed. A light silk scarf edged in tiny pearls fluttered from her head. He never understood why she had agreed to marry Huseyin against his advice when she had had her choice of men of good family seeking her hand.

Feride smiled happily and held out her hands to Kamil. “My dear brother, what a wonderful surprise.”

He kissed Feride’s cheeks. “You’re looking well, Ferosh,” he lied, using the affectionate form of her name. The strain of her marriage and their father’s suicide had begun to show. Two deep lines had settled permanently above her nose, the beginnings of sorrow on her otherwise flawless face. He reached up and gently brushed away a strand of hair, then kissed her forehead. He was rewarded with a brilliant smile that made her look young again.

“You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you?” she pleaded.

The events of that morning were still fresh in his mind and he did not want to spend precious time in idle conversation, but not wishing to disappoint Feride, he acquiesced. He also wanted to ask Huseyin about Hamdi Bey.

He heard a distant patter of feet and squatted, waiting for his seven-year-old twin nieces to appear. They flew into the room, matching flurries of white and blue, and threw themselves into his arms. He kissed their red hair and breathed in the scent of soap and innocence. Feride pried them away and sent them to tell the cook to add a place at the table.

“Ferosh,” Kamil said, “I’ve brought you a gift, another child. A boy, this time.”

Feride looked shocked, then laughed. “You’re always teasing me. I can’t wait for the day when you really will be married and bring your children to see me. When will that be, my wild-blooded brother?”

“I’m serious. But he’s not mine.”

“Whose then?”

“An orphan.” He told her about Avi. He had considered bringing the boy to his house, but thought Avi might benefit from staying in a family with other children.

“The poor child,” she exclaimed. “Of course he can stay here.”

She swung her arms around wildly. “There’s enough room here for an entire city of boys.”

Feride gestured to a servant waiting at a discreet distance and consulted with her. The woman led them to the servants’ quarters. There, they found Avi on a mattress under a quilt with a matronly servant squatting beside him, spooning broth into his mouth from a bowl. When Avi saw Kamil, he relaxed.

“This is Feride Hanoum, my sister.”

His nieces peered around his legs. “And these are her daughters, Alev and Yasemin.”

The girls giggled.

“You’re welcome in my house,” Feride said, touching Avi’s bandage and lifting the quilt. She turned to the woman. “Bathe him and get him some clothes. And fetch the surgeon. This bandage needs to be changed.”

“You’ll be well treated here, Avi,” Kamil said softly. “When you’re feeling better, I’ll expect you back at your post.”

Feride looked at her brother in surprise.

Avi struggled to keep his eyes open, smiled, then fell asleep. The twins crept close and kept watch over him.

“Y
OU’RE FULL OF
surprises today, dear brother,” Feride said when they were in the corridor. “I heard the way you spoke to that boy. You care about him, don’t you?”

“I suppose so.”

She beamed at him. “It’s a start. We’ll domesticate you eventually. Come along. I have a surprise for you too.”

“Elif is a distant cousin of Huseyin’s from Macedonia,” Feride explained, as they made their way back to the main part of the house. “She landed on our doorstep five days ago, as thin and dirty as a street urchin. And as tough. I can’t believe what she has been through. I wouldn’t have been able to survive it.”

“I think you’d be surprised at how tough you are.”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “They shot her husband right in front of her and then, when she was fleeing, bandits killed her five-year-old son and stole her carriage. Somehow she got hold of a horse and rode until she arrived here. What amazes me is that she seems so kind and considerate. I could never be so pleasant if I had gone through all that.”

Kamil thought, that being pleasant was a survival strategy. The woman probably had nowhere else to go.

He let Feride draw him into the dining room.

“Where have you been?” Huseyin growled when he saw Feride, waving her in with one large, pale hand.

Face flushed, Huseyin sat at the head of a long table that was set with silver and fine china. He wore a frock coat with a wide blue sash and a large diamond starburst order on his chest. His thick neck was encased in a starched collar. Kamil found the medal to be an affectation when worn at lunch with one’s own family. The woman sitting by Huseyin was partly obscured by a silver candelabra.

Spying Kamil, Huseyin jumped to his feet and hurried over. “Brother-in-law, what a surprise.” He grasped Kamil by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. He smelled of expensive French cologne. “What are you doing away from the court in the middle of the day?” He gasped before each sentence, as if he couldn’t get enough air. “Did we commit a murder or did Nizam Pasha fire you?”

For Feride’s sake, Kamil forced himself to smile.