The Winter Thief (20 page)

“V
ERA
,” M
ARTA CALLED
as she came into the kitchen, where Vera was chopping cabbage.

“What is it?” Vera asked, suddenly anxious. Was there news about Gabriel or Sosi?

“Do you know someone named Apollo Grigorian? An Armenian Russian who claims to be from Geneva. He’s been walking around the Armenian quarter, asking after Gabriel, so they sent him here to Father Zadian. He claims to know you. Can you vouch for him?”

“Apollo! He’s my very good friend. He was supposed to join us for the trip to Istanbul, but he didn’t show up at the train station, and we didn’t know what happened to him. I’m so glad he’s all right.” Vera brushed past Marta, heading for the door, then stopped to take off her apron and smooth her dress and hair. “Where is he?” she asked, feeling suddenly shy. What would Apollo think of her, chopping cabbage while Gabriel was building his commune?

“He’s in Father Zadian’s study.”

Vera hurried out, leaving Marta smiling after her.

V
AHID SAT IN HIS FATHER’S
armchair and watched his mother’s hands dance in her lap over the tatting for a tablecloth that he knew she would give to one of the neighbors. She would then begin a new one. His mother sat beneath a window, a square of sunlight illuminating her head and hands as if she were an idol from some unknown tribe. He tapped his finger on the armrest. Since Rhea’s death and Yorg Pasha’s disturbing revelations about his father, he had been unable to find peace in the usual ways, despite ever more frequent and painful attempts. He must do something to calm himself, he realized, before he made a fatal mistake. His middle finger drummed on the upholstery.

“Why are you fidgeting?” his mother asked suddenly, her hands paused in midair.

“I’m not fidgeting, Mama. I’m thinking.”

“Well, think quietly.” She returned to her tatting.

Vahid rose and went down the hall to his bedroom. After locking the door, he opened the wardrobe and pulled a large box from the top shelf. It was a presentation box of the kind that held expensive pieces of china. He sat down at a table and passed his hand across the moth-eaten nap of blue velvet before opening the clasp. At the center of the frayed satin lining was a depression where a serving dish had once nestled. That dish, hand-painted with carnations picked out in gold, rested on a shelf in a glassed-in cabinet in the sitting room. It was his mother’s prized possession, a wedding gift from her mother-in-law, never used and dusted only by his mother’s hand.

Within the depression lay three fist-sized switches of different-colored hair, the curls neatly tied with a twist of ribbon. Beneath them lay a sheet of parchment, torn in half. Vahid picked out the pieces and laid them side by side on the desk. Together they formed a charcoal sketch of a mother and her baby. In the image, the woman’s hair tumbled in black waves around a delicate face, with wide-set eyes and a generous mouth that curled in the beginning of a smile. Her expression was one of utter solicitude as she looked down at the baby wrapped in a shawl in her arms.

Vahid adjusted the pieces so that the tear was less noticeable. The edges were stained with finger marks. The night he had followed his father to the bridge, Vahid had come home in tears and his mother had insisted on knowing why. When he told her his father had called him Iskender, she had marched into their bedroom and returned with the sketch. She held it under her husband’s nose and said in an angry voice, “You think I don’t know about this? This icon you pray to. She’s gone, dead.” Her voice rose. “They’re both dead, do you hear me?”

Vahid’s father reached for the drawing. “You have no right…”

At this, Vahid’s mother tore the sketch in half, threw it at her husband, shouting, “We are what you have. We are all that you have, or ever will have.”

Enraged, Vahid’s father grabbed her by the hair. He beat her with his fists and, when she collapsed to the floor, kicked her savagely in the ribs.

Vahid had watched in horrified fascination, every nerve alive with feeling. He didn’t try to help his mother, and for this he had felt enormous guilt. She had been bedridden for weeks and thereafter was plagued with pains and illnesses that often made her take to her bed. His father was absent from home after that, returning only to sleep and sometimes not even then. It made little impact when one day he did not come home at all. They learned that he had been found dead, a drunk who in the early-morning hours had plummeted from the Galata Bridge into the oily water below. He had disappeared little by little over the years, and this was simply the final vanishing.

T
HE CANE SEAT IN
Kamil’s winter garden was low, and Yorg Pasha needed Simon’s help to lower himself into it. Yakup brought in a tray of savories and a samovar of tea.

“This was the oasis of my youth,” the pasha said, slightly out of breath and waving his hand at the leaves of the potted palm that arched above him. “In your mother’s day, this was a terrace. We used to drink tea in these very chairs. But I like your glass house.” He looked appreciatively at the ranks of colorful orchids on gravel-filled trays. “It looks like a kaleidoscope in here. A Swiss clockmaker sent me one of those last year. Have you seen them?”

Kamil, seated opposite him, said he hadn’t. “What is it?”

Yorg Pasha explained. “Lovely, like watching women in colorful gowns dancing about a room.” His voice betrayed his enthusiasm. Kamil knew the pasha loved calibrated mechanisms of every kind. “I’ll show you the next time you come to Bebek.” Yorg Pasha folded his hands in his capacious lap. “Now, my son, let’s talk.”

Kamil told him about his meeting with Vahid and what Omar’s men had seen in the basement of Akrep. He handed him the torn paper with Russian writing. Yorg Pasha glanced at it, then handed it over his shoulder to Simon. The secretary took a magnifying glass from a small bag and began to examine it.

Kamil then told Yorg Pasha what he had learned from his meeting with Sultan Abdulhamid. “Through Vizier Köraslan, Vahid has convinced the sultan that the commune is a threat to the empire and that the Armenians are scheming with the Russians to take the Choruh Valley.”

“It’s plausible,” Yorg Pasha commented.

“But not true in this case,” Kamil asserted somewhat uncertainly.

“As far as we know.”

“The sultan wants me to go find out the true nature of the settlement. If I fail, he’ll wipe out the commune and, if Vahid has his way, the entire population of the valley.”

At that, Yorg Pasha raised his eyebrows. “He’s sending you, so that means he doesn’t entirely trust Vahid.”

“The vizier suggested it.”

Yorg Pasha looked concerned. “It might be some kind of trap.”

“I’ll be all right. The sultan is sending troops along.”

“When are you going?”

“He wants a report by the end of March.”

“It’ll be heavy going even then. Spring doesn’t arrive in the Kachkar Mountains until at least May.”

Kamil shrugged. The sultan’s deadline was not negotiable.

“That fool Gabriel should be holed up in Trabzon by now,” Yorg Pasha commented. “I hope he’s not trying to get supplies through to his commune. I told him to wait, but he’s a Russian. They’re like large stones Allah has thrown down in the road. You can’t go over them. All you can do is go around them.”

Simon handed Yorg Pasha a glass of tea.

“Have you deciphered that scrap of paper yet?” the pasha asked him.

“It’s part of a Russian travel document. There are letters, possibly of a name—
e
,
r
,
a
.”

“Vera. What else could it be?”

Kamil thought about the room in which the paper had been found, the room with restraints and peepholes, but said only, “If it was Vera Arti who escaped, where would she go?”

“To other Armenians, no doubt. Simon, spread the word.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of doing that, my pasha.”

“Well, let’s talk about your trip, Kamil. Who will take care of your orchids?”

Kamil assured him that his servants were well trained in the needs of his eccentric garden. “But to tell you the truth, I haven’t fully decided if I will go.” He told Yorg Pasha about Huseyin’s disappearance and the attack on Feride. “I can’t leave if she’s in danger.”

Yorg Pasha frowned. “That is very serious indeed. But you won’t be going for another month yet. Surely your brother-in-law will turn up by then. The attack on Feride is another matter. I imagine we know who’s behind that.”

“I know you think it’s Vahid.” Kamil propped his head in his hands. “But what I don’t understand is why.”

V
ERA SLICED THE APPLES
they had purchased at Gosdan’s shop on a wooden board while Marta kneaded dough. Her face was dusted with flour, and her powerful hands plowed efficiently through the pale mass on the table. Apollo sat on a chair near the stove, his prominent nose bent over a piece of the apple cake that had just emerged from the oven. He was tall and angular, with thick black hair and mustache, high cheekbones, and a ready smile. His dark brown eyes glowed with pleasure.

“This tastes as good as my mother’s cake,” he told Marta, swallowing. “I give no higher praise than that.”

“How is your mother?” Vera asked, basking in the familiar sound of Apollo’s resonant voice, as burnished and rich as caramel. She wished for him to continue speaking, to extend the balm of his voice over her forever. The afternoon light slanted into the room and lit up ropes of crimson peppers, clusters of garlic heads, and bouquets of herbs hung up to dry. Vera relished the rhythmic chopping and the ever-growing pile of red-rimmed slices filling her bowl. She felt content, she realized, though she found herself testing even pleasant feelings as gingerly as if she were palpating a wound.

“She’s not well, Vreni,” he answered, using the diminutive of her name. Only Apollo and her own family had ever called her Vreni, Vera thought. Her knife slipped and the white flesh of the apple in her hand flushed red. Apollo rushed over. “Put your finger in your mouth,” he told her. “Now give it to me.” He pressed his finger on the cut, hard. “The pressure will stop the bleeding.”

They stood facing each other, Vera’s hand inside Apollo’s. The hands of a philosopher, she thought, admiring his long, slender fingers. She had found Apollo less than an hour ago, and already he was comforting her.

“That’s why I couldn’t meet you on the boat as we had planned,” he explained. “My mother had an attack of apoplexy. It happened while I was visiting her to say goodbye. She started shaking uncontrollably, and I could see something receding in her eyes. It seemed as though she didn’t know me.”

Apollo had dropped Vera’s hand. She took his and pressed it. “That’s awful. Has she recovered at all?”

“She’s much better, a bit lame on one side, but she can care for herself again. Still, some part of her soul has left us. You can see it when you look into her eyes.”

Marta clanged the oven door shut on the second apple cake, wiped her hands on her apron, and checked the samovar. “Let’s sit,” she suggested. “Father Zadian has gone to a meeting. He’ll probably be away all afternoon.”

When they each had a glass of tea in hand, Marta asked him, “What do you plan to do?”

“Father Zadian has invited me to stay at the rectory for now. Gabriel is at New Concord, so as soon as I can arrange transportation, I’ll join him.” Apollo looked curiously at Vera. “You decided to stay here?”

Vera’s contentment evaporated. She nodded in assent, unable to say anything more.

Marta came to her rescue. “Vera was detained, so Gabriel went on without her.”

“Detained?” Apollo looked to Vera for an explanation.

Vera flinched from his gaze. With Apollo she wanted to be the old Vera, before anything else had happened. The Vera with whom he discussed the debates of their Henchak comrades, the Vera who prepared picnics for her friends in the Bâtie Woods, the Vera who remembered how to laugh. When she looked up, it was to see Marta explaining something to Apollo in a low voice. The look on Apollo’s face was enough to tell Vera that her old self was gone. Like Apollo’s mother, some part of her soul was now missing.

V
AHID STRODE INTO
the Fatih police station, followed by three of his men, escorting a nun. They were not visibly armed, but their black uniforms caused a stir as the policemen whispered to one another, trying to guess which organization the visitors represented. Vahid wore a tightly tailored stambouline frock coat. With his high black boots and air of command, he needed no insignia.

Omar was sitting on his usual stool in a corner of the station. He recognized Sister Balbina from the Italian church, the one who had found Sosi’s body. He watched as Vahid and his contingent moved toward the large oak desk that, although Omar never used it, boasted a plaque with his name. Someone brought a stool for the nun. Omar lit another cigarette and watched the group for a while. He wondered what Vahid wanted.

The policemen in the station, aware that their chief was not at his desk but observing his visitors at his leisure, couldn’t resist an occasional snicker, and there rose a distinct murmur in the room. When Omar saw Vahid’s face flare red, he got up and wandered over.

“What can I do for you?” he asked politely.

To his surprise, Vahid laughed out loud. “Public shaming, meant to break down your enemy. Not bad for a small-time policeman, but rather trivial and, dare I say so, childish.”

“What do you want?” Omar asked, already sick of the man.

“The watch. Is this the man, Sister?”

Sister Balbina nodded. “Yes, I gave the watch to him.”

“Let’s have it,” Vahid snapped at Omar.

“What watch?” Omar asked. He had sent a messenger to Kamil telling him about the watch, but hadn’t had the opportunity to return it.

“The watch the dead girl had in her hand. The sister here said she gave it to you. And don’t claim you never saw it. I’ve got ten nuns willing to testify. And you know nuns never lie.”

His smile reminded Omar of a viper he had once seen in the desert that had swallowed a rat. Omar had killed it. “What’s your interest in this case?” he asked Vahid. “Is it worth your while to be chasing around town after a watch?”

“What was the name on it?” Vahid asked the nun.

“Kamil. A gift from his mother. It was in French.” She nodded officiously, her wimple moving up and down.

The station had fallen silent.

The reason for my interest is clear, Vahid’s smug smile seemed to say. Omar wanted to punch his fist right through it. He realized that it was useless to deny that he had the watch. His word against ten nuns. If he were Christian, he would cross himself against the devil. If he didn’t give them the watch, they would still implicate Kamil, and then he would be accused of destroying evidence—or of corruption and who knew what else. Omar didn’t mind an accusation of corruption, especially if it was deserved, but he needed to be free to help Kamil. His eyes fell to Vahid’s boots. They were the right size, new and of good quality, with a nick at the edge of the sole that matched the footprint in the churchyard.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out Kamil’s pocket watch, and handed it to Sister Balbina. He wouldn’t give Vahid the pleasure of taking it from his hand. “It means nothing,” Omar told him, “unless we know how it got there.” He gave Vahid a meaningful look. “And I know who put it there.”

“You know nothing, and you can prove nothing.” Vahid took the watch from the nun’s hand and bounced it on his palm. “But this does.”

T
HE MOMENT
they were gone, Omar rode hard to Kamil’s office. To his surprise, a line of gendarmes was guarding the front of the courthouse. They hadn’t even waited to see whether he would give them the watch, Omar thought angrily. It was outrageous for someone of Kamil’s stature to be arrested in public. Surely they wouldn’t imprison him. Pashas don’t appear in court and they don’t go to jail. It would be as unthinkable as arresting the sultan.

Omar ran up the stairs into a scene of chaos. Kamil stood in the middle of a knot of people, looking calm but puzzled. The captain of gendarmes was explaining to Kamil in an apologetic voice that he had instructions to arrest him but that he hadn’t been instructed as to the reason. A repeating rifle was slung across the captain’s shoulder and a revolver stuck in the crimson sash around his waist. A scimitar hung from his sword belt. Kamil’s assistant Abdullah was shouting at the captain to get out if he didn’t have cause to arrest the pasha. The burly doorkeeper, Ibrahim, stood beside Kamil, scowling and ready for a fight.

When Kamil saw Omar, he raised his hands to calm the crowd and walked over to him. “Do you know anything about this?”

Omar leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

“I see,” Kamil said, his expression unchanging. His eyes met Omar’s. “Tell Yorg Pasha and Nizam Pasha. Do what you can. The only way to prove that I didn’t kill the girl is to find out who did.”

“We know who did it,” Omar growled. “Leave it to me.”

Kamil turned to the gendarme captain. “Let’s go.” He gave instructions to his astonished staff and then walked out of the office, surrounded by armed soldiers.