by Elif Shafak
In front of their eyes was a man, tottering. He had the raw look of someone who had just woken up. The doorway where they had stopped was his bed, apparently. Too drunk to find his way home, he had dozed off there.
Jahan tried to warn the poor fellow. He leaned over and whispered, ‘It’s the Sultan sitting here!’
‘Aye,’ the man barked. He pointed at Selim. ‘That’s the Sultan!’ He pointed at the courtiers. ‘These are the archangels …’ He pointed at Chota. ‘This beast is the zebani in hell. And I am dead.’
The Sultan broke in, ‘What are you doing on the streets at this hour?’
‘Nothing,’ said the man.
‘You can barely stand but you are searching for more drink, right? Don’t lie! Have you no shame?’
Dazed, lost, the man leaned forward as if he wanted to kiss Chota’s trunk. ‘Searching, yes. But not wine.’ He patted his chest. ‘I am looking for love!’
The courtiers chortled and so did the Sultan, despite his irritation. ‘At this hour, on empty streets. You’re hopeless.’
The drunk lifted his head, his arms folded over his chest. ‘Maybe I am. But how about you?’
Jahan was worried sick. He dared not glance at the Sultan, fearing the punishment he would now inflict on this insolent subject. Yet when Selim spoke again he sounded calm, almost compassionate. ‘Catch!’ Something rattled on the cobblestones. The man picked it up and stared quizzically at the ring in his hand.
The Sultan said, ‘If you find what you’re looking for, come to the palace and show my seal. Tell them you have a message for the Lord of the Empire.’
The drunk, only now realizing this really was the Sultan, lurched forward to kiss his hand or his hem or his feet, but, being unable to reach any of those, hugged Chota’s leg instead.
‘Stay away,’ Jahan said. ‘You’re going to get trampled.’
The man took a step back, lost for words, shaking, sweating, mumbling his gratitude, flummoxed and glad to be alive.
Selim ordered, ‘Let’s go, mahout.’
On the way back they were silent and suddenly sombre.
Since they had arrived in the Ottoman palace, there were times when Chota had been neglected, even mistreated, but he had always been the one and only. There was no other elephant in the menagerie. No other royal elephant in the empire. Everything changed the day a carrack moored in the port of Galata.
The month of April it was. The Judas trees were in full bloom, the city wrapped in perfume, when the ship dropped anchor. Among its cargo were three animals: a zebra, a giraffe and an African bush elephant. They were brought to the palace on carts, wretched and ailing, after a harrowing voyage. The giraffe, with its black tongue and peaceful eyes, sadly did not survive for long. The zebra was sent off to the Lion House. As for the elephant – a twenty-year-old male that was named Mahmood – he recovered and stayed. Along with him came an unfriendly face – Buziba.
By this time Chota had reached thirty years of age. Though not at all doddering in elephant years, he no longer had the agility of his heyday. Nonetheless, with each passing summer he had become smarter, sharper. Jahan now understood why battle-scarred warriors preferred aged elephants to young ones. Sound in body and limb as they might be, the youths tended to be foolhardy – like human beings.
Mahmood was placed in the same barn as Chota while Buziba joined the other tamers in the shed. Initially, Jahan tried to give him a wide berth but it was impossible. Every evening they supped together, every afternoon they attended to their elephants side by side. Had Buziba heard what a hamam was, he gave no indication of it. He seldom bathed, if at all, and never cleaned his surroundings. Contrary to the custom in the palace, he ate noisily. At meal times Jahan avoided the seat beside him to avoid the crumbs he spewed left and right.
Jahan wasn’t the only one who was vexed by the newcomers. Chota, too, was perturbed. Incensed. He resented Mahmood munching his hay, drinking his water, getting his treats. On occasion he would knock over the other’s bucket or filch his food. An angry elephant was a dedicated avenger.
One morning, when Jahan entered the barn, he found Chota stamping on the mantle that Buziba would throw upon Mahmood whenever they went out for a walk.
‘Shame on you!’ Jahan hissed, keeping his voice level so as not to be heard by anyone else. ‘Get off that thing.’
Too late. The mantle was ground with grime.
‘What’s the matter?’ came Buziba’s voice from behind.
There was no point in denying Chota’s misbehaviour and Jahan didn’t try. ‘I shall clean it, I swear.’
Buziba picked up the cloth but not before muttering under his breath something that Jahan took to be a curse. ‘You think I’m stupid? I know what’s happening,’ he said, his voice not so much upset as satisfied. ‘You and your beast are jealous.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is, for a reason. Soon you’re going to be shown the door, the two of you. Anyone can see which elephant’s better.’
Jahan opened and closed his mouth, unable to object. Someone had seen his innermost fear and said it out loud and the universe had heard it.
The next day the Sultan appeared accompanied by his courtiers. Just as Jahan moved to get Chota ready for a ride, Selim said, ‘Let’s try the new elephant.’
Buziba threw himself to the ground, declaring that he and the animal would happily serve the Sovereign of the House of Osman, the Commander of the Faithful and the Successor of the Prophet, the Shadow of God on Earth, the most generous and the most virtuous and the most righteous of all rulers who had come to the throne and were yet to come.
Jahan had never heard so many honeyed words, dripping with thick, sticky syrup. Even so, the Sultan seemed pleased. Like lightning, Chota’s howdah was placed on Mahmood, Jahan’s jacket was handed to Buziba – that awful jacket that Jahan had hated with his entire being but now thought the world of. While Jahan gnawed his lips and Chota swung his trunk back and forth, Mahmood and his mahout replaced them, just like that.
Off they went. Even after they vanished from sight, the wind carried their sounds – or so Jahan thought in his misery. He caressed Chota, who coiled his trunk around Jahan’s waist. They stayed like that for a good while, seeking refuge in each other’s company.
The next morning all hell broke loose. There was a pond behind the barn, surrounded by moss like a green, furry carpet. The water was no more than a puddle with fish but Chota loved to spend time there. Jahan had obtained permission for him to take a dip, every now and then, since Selim found the sight of an elephant splashing water rather endearing.
When Chota and Jahan reached the pond they found Mahmood settled in Chota’s usual place. Next to him was Buziba, dangling his bare feet into the water, basking in the sunshine with his eyes closed, his mouth half open.
Jahan considered his options. There was no point in starting a fight, which would reach the ears of the Chief White Eunuch and get him in trouble. Yet he could not let this pass. Chota stood beside him, quiet as a mouse, as though he, too, was considering his options.
Gingerly, Jahan walked towards Buziba and tapped him on the shoulder. Yanked out of his reverie, he flinched. ‘What do you want?’
‘This spot belongs to Chota.’
Not a single emotion on his wooden face. Closing his eyes again, Buziba yawned and went back to swinging his feet lazily, as if Jahan and Chota weren’t standing there waiting for a response.
Jahan said grudgingly, ‘Let’s go, Chota. We’ll come back some other time.’
Jahan had barely taken a step when he heard a splash. Chota, that blessed soul, had done what he hadn’t dared to do. Buziba, now in the pond, unleashed a curse, coughing, waving his hands. He clearly didn’t know how to swim, and Jahan ran to him.
‘Take my hand, I’ll pull you out.’
Buziba stopped, having just realized how shallow the pond was. Standing up, dripping water, he got out by himself and marched past them in a ball of fury.
So it began. Their war. Every day they found a new excuse to be at each other’s throats. Jahan could barely focus on work for Sinan, for fear that while he was away Buziba might harm Chota. He lost sleep, ate little. He recalled what Sinan, with a touch of compassion in his voice, had once said: ‘Balance is what keeps us upright. Same with buildings. Same with people.’ Jahan had lost his balance. Chota, too. The elephant spent the days staring ahead with fixed eyes, as though he wished, with all his being, to be beyond the walls of the barn he shared with his enemy. Two weeks into this torment Jahan came up with a plan. By then the weather had become colder, and the summer was drifting away. Balaban’s Gypsies, recently back from Thrace, would soon be heading southwards. Jahan decided to visit them before they left.
They welcomed him like a long-lost brother. Tamarind sherbets were served, mouth-watering aromas surrounded them – sour-grape molasses, goat’s cheese, spinach pide, roasted meat. Children ran about, women smoked, grannies laughed toothless laughs. As they stuffed themselves, they inquired about the Sultan, eager to hear the latest palace gossip. Jahan explained how he’d had to give the guards a backhander in order to sneak out and that he had to return before the evening patrol.
‘So what brings you here?’ Balaban wanted to know.
‘I need help,’ Jahan said. ‘Can we talk alone?’
‘No need. This is family,’ Balaban said, opening both hands.
Leaning closer, Jahan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Is there something that would make a male burn for a female?’
Balaban grinned. ‘Aye, it’s called love.’
‘Not like that. For … mating. A powder or a drink that makes one desire.’
Balaban stopped chewing and regarded Jahan. ‘You sick?’
‘Not for me. For an elephant.’
‘That beast needs no boost. What do you have against poor Gulbahar?’
‘Oh, it’s not for Chota!’
Jahan told him everything – how he had lost his peace of mind because of another elephant and another mahout. He expected Balaban to make a wisecrack at his expense, but when he finished the Gypsy nodded solemnly and said, ‘Don’t sorrow. We’ll help.’
Jahan took out the pouch he had brought and put it on the table.
‘Is that from the Sultan or from you?’ Balaban inquired.
‘The Sultan knows nothing about this. He shouldn’t.’
‘Then keep it,’ Balaban said in his crisp, jovial way. ‘Now go. We’ll find you.’
Jahan returned to the menagerie. In his head a witch’s brew fermented – shame, hope, guilt. Two days later a boy came looking for him, carrying a jar. ‘Somebody sent you this.’
Jahan studied him – the bright black eyes, the dimpled smile, the olive skin. No doubt he was related to Balaban. Inside the jar there was a powder the colour of turmeric. He dipped in the tip of his finger and tasted it. It had a mild flavour, a bit salty. It could blend into anything.
Smuggling pomegranate sherbet from the kitchen, he mixed it with a spoonful of powder. The moment Buziba left he gave the drink to his elephant, who guzzled it happily. Not a thing happened. Next day he tried again, increasing the dose. Again, naught. He poured the entire powder into Mahmood’s rice gruel and watched the elephant cram it all down.
As luck would have it, that night Sultan Selim appeared with his companions, eager for another session of merrymaking.
‘Mahout!’ the Sultan exclaimed.
Jahan bowed. ‘Yes, my Sultan.’
‘Where is the other mahout?’
Buziba came running, his face drenched in sweat. ‘Your Majesty, the elephant is unwell. I beg you to forgive us for tonight.’
‘What’s wrong with the beast?’ the Sultan demanded.
As though in response a terrible sound came from the barn, followed by a crash. The Sultan headed towards the noise, the others following.
It was the strangest sight. Mahmood, in his frenzy, had rammed into the wooden panel on the side of his stall and one of his tusks had got jammed in the plank. He could move neither forward nor backward. His male organ was swollen, dripping. He bellowed – more with rage than with exasperation. No one dared to go near, including Buziba.
That was the end of Mahmood. Though he was released from the wooden plank, his fury and frustration did not subside. Eventually he had to be fettered. He broke his chains, knocked down the walls, charged into trees. Worse were the sounds he made – trumpeting, wailing, bawling. Before the month was over, Mahmood and Buziba were sent to the old church near the Hagia Sophia.
No one suspected anything – save Olev. ‘It was you, right?’ he asked, his eyebrows moving together.
When Jahan, already filled with remorse, did not respond, Olev went on, ‘I remember the day you arrived. Your elephant was an infant; so were you. I remember watching you and thinking to myself, how will he survive in the palace, a lad so good-hearted and gullible. Whereas now, look at you! You’ve become one of us, more’s the pity.’
Jahan glanced up. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means you fight battles that aren’t needed,’ said Olev. ‘You are stronger. Beware, though. If you carry a sword, you obey the sword, not the other way round. Nobody can hold a weapon and keep their hands clear of blood at the same time.’
‘I can – don’t you worry for me,’ said Jahan. But as soon as he said this, he felt a sharp pang of regret, fearing that he may have tempted fate.
Since the day Selim had ascended the throne, whenever Istanbul crushed his spirits, which happened often, he took off for Adrianople – the city where he had spent part of his youth. There he could hunt, loaf and drink to his heart’s content, away from judging eyes and wagging tongues. Like every man who was aware of being widely disliked, the Sultan felt beholden to those who supported him – and the people of Adrianople always had. So several years into his reign Selim decided to reward this loyalty by commissioning a mosque, not in the capital, as expected, but in his sanctuary town.
The moment it was announced that the sovereign would pay for a splendid mosque, the backbiting began. They said there was a reason why Istanbul had not been chosen. Having never commanded the army on a battlefield, the Sultan lacked the face to order so grand a monument in the seat of the throne. How could Selim’s mosque be within close proximity to Suleiman’s mosque, when the son could not hold a candle to the father? That is why, they said, the new construction could only have been in Adrianople.
Words like black bile. Regardless, Sinan – and the four apprentices – laid the foundations for the Selimiye in April. The Sultan awarded his architect a robe of gold and silver, showing how much he trusted him. Everyone on the site – from woodworkers to the galley slaves – watched in anticipation, neither sanguine nor gloomy. Somehow they seemed to sense they were bringing into existence something unique. They laboured with this knowledge – and this fear. It was a sin to create anything this lofty, as though to rival the Creator. The imams and the priests and the rabbis might not like to hear it, but deep inside they suspected that, sometimes, even God got jealous.
The idea for a mosque had come to the Sultan in a dream. He beheld the Prophet Mohammed – recognizing him not from his face, since no earthling could see that, but from his aura. Selim promised him that should he conquer the island of Cyprus, he would build a fabulous Friday mosque with its spoils. The Prophet gestured to the angels waiting by his side. Gliding in the air, glowing like fireflies, they disappeared and returned with a scroll. On it was the design of the Selimiye.
Enchanted and excited, the next morning the Sultan did not want to wake up. When he ultimately did, he told what he had seen to his Grand Vizier. Sokollu, shrewd and sharp as he was, believed that a ruler’s dreams could be of two sorts: those he should not share with anyone, not even with his Grand Vizier, and those he should ensure were made known to everyone. This, he deduced, was of the second kind.
By midday, Sokollu broached the subject with the Nishanci, the Head of the Chancery. A ma
n with a sweet tooth, he mentioned it to the Head Halvah Chef, who, in turn, related it to the merchant responsible for the nuts used in the royal kitchens. In the afternoon, the story left the palace in a pistachio cart, reaching the outskirts of Istanbul. From there it reached the streets of wool-dyers and leather-tanners. By the time the evening prayer was filling the air, hundreds had heard about it. Before the week was over, the whole city, including the Venetian Bailo, had come to know that the Prophet had demanded that the Sultan save Cyprus from the Christian infidels.
Selim visited the tombs of his ancestors and the grave of Ayyub the Martyr. The spirits gave him their blessing to wage a war. Yet, when the time came to embark, he did not go with the navy. The conquest would be made not by the Sultan’s sword but by the Sultan’s dream. The rewards would be huge. Nicosia was conquered and sacked until little remained of the town it once was. Famagusta, after being pummelled for months, was taken next – along with hundreds of captives.
In the meantime, back in Adrianople, the Chief Royal Architect and his apprentices were working their fingers to the bone. Sinan regarded each task as a cocoon in which to take shelter from storms of all kinds: once he was within, he shunned the outside world. He had no interest in wars, much less in triumphs. Nevertheless, it was only after the capture of the island that the works gathered momentum. Tribute money poured in, bringing more workers, more materials.
Oddly, as the mosque built in his name rose higher and higher, the Sultan descended lower and lower. The two of them, the man and the building, were inextricably linked in a profound yet inverted way – like night and day. For one to exist the other had to perish. With every nail hammered, with each stone added on to the edifice, something was taken away from Selim – health, happiness, power and, ultimately, kismet.
While working on one of the eight massive piers of the Selimiye Mosque, one autumn afternoon, the master sent word to his apprentices that he wished to see them. Upon arriving at his tent, Jahan saw the others lingering by the entrance. He perched on a bench beside them, waiting for Sinan to end his meeting with some glass-makers.