by Elif Shafak
Midway through, Balaban’s uncle began to sing; his voice – rough and hoarse but mellow – carried in the breeze. One of the boys produced a reed pipe from his sash and picked out the melody.
When Jahan asked what the song was about, Balaban said in a whisper so quiet that Jahan had to crane forward to hear him, ‘This man goes to a wedding. Everyone is happy, dancin’, drinkin’. So he dances, too. He cries.’
‘Why does he cry?’
‘’Cause he loves the girl, dolt. And she loves him. They are marrying her to another fella.’
Jahan’s chest felt heavy as the music subsided – first the lyrics, then the tune. The gloom must have been contagious. An awkward silence fell. Close to the port, on a lush hill, the carriages came to a halt.
‘We’ll drop you here; better this way,’ said Balaban.
One by one, they hopped down. Jahan took off the cloak he had been wearing to hide the Italian garments underneath. He hugged each of them, kissing the hands of the elderly and the cheeks of the children. Balaban, meanwhile, didn’t budge, leaning against the cart, chewing a straw. When Jahan had said farewell to all, he strode towards Balaban; then he noticed the Gypsy had something in his hand, round and blue as a robin’s egg.
‘What’s this?’
‘An amulet. Daki dey made it for you – to protect you from the evil eye. Wear it upside down on the sea; and the right way up when you reach the shore.’
Jahan bit his lip to choke back the sob rising in his throat. ‘I’m grateful.’
‘Listen, about the harlot … We made inquiries. Seems there were eight women in that hamam of sorrows.’
‘Right?’
‘Well, there’re still eight, I hear. No one left, no one came.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m sayin’, there was no funeral. Something’s queer. I don’t want you to suffer all your life. Maybe you didn’t kill anyone, brother. It was a fraud.’
‘But the dwarf lady …’ said Jahan. ‘She was on my side.’
Balaban sighed. ‘Sad you’re goin’. Glad you’re goin’. You are too trusting to survive in Istanbul, brother.’
Clumsily, the Gypsy chief pulled Jahan close and punched him teasingly on his stomach, brother to brother. Balaban said, ‘Who am I goin’ to save from trouble now?’
‘You can save Chota’s son. Will you take care of him?’
‘Oh, don’t you fret. We’ll tell him what a great pa he had.’
While Jahan fumbled for words that didn’t come, Balaban jumped on the carriage, grabbed the reins, his eyes cast down. His men followed suit, patting Jahan on the shoulder. Once they had settled, the carriages sallied forth. Everybody waved – but Balaban. Jahan waited for him to turn and glance back one last time. He didn’t. His long, dark hair flapping in the wind, the Gypsy chief stared ahead. As they were about to round a bend, the carriage stopped and Balaban peered back. Although it was too far away for Jahan to be able to tell, he thought he saw the trace of a smile on the Gypsy chief’s face. He raised his hand in valediction. Balaban did the same. Then they were gone.
Pain surged inside Jahan, sharp as a knife thrust into his flesh. He sat on a tree stump, thinking. He did not know what Providence had in store for him, and once again he was diving into it with the recklessness of the ignorant. Even so, there was no going back. As the sun made its way up, he, too, set forward on his way.
As always, the harbour was teeming with voyagers, seafarers and slaves. No sooner had he stepped on to the wharf than its vibrancy and vastness swallowed him. It was one of the best ports, they said. Ships could get in without having to use their oars or pray for the winds to fill their sails. Captains could trust the current to bring them in. The two opposite tides of the Bosphorus, unlike the city itself, were predictable, dependable. On this day, there were plenty of vessels about, though only a few kept their sails ready-rigged. There was a three-masted carrack, sleek and majestic, that was destined for Venice. That was the one Jahan was aiming for.
Now that he was an Italian artist, he stared with fascination at each curiosity and doffed his hat at every woman – nun or damsel. He saw pilgrims, Jesuit priests with hair shirts and cowls, and dignitaries with the permanent stain of ink on their fingers. There was a scribe sitting behind a makeshift desk. People had gathered around him, watching his plume compose magic. Jahan struck up a conversation with an Albanian vendor, from whom he bought honey sherbet. A man was trying to lead a hooded horse – a thoroughbred black stallion – up the ramp from shore to ship. Where were they taking the animal, Jahan wondered, and would the beautiful creature survive the voyage.
It was as he was standing there watching the scene that Jahan noticed, at the periphery of his vision, Davud’s two deaf-mutes. They were wending their way through the crowd, coming in his direction. Jahan held his breath, sipping his drink. They passed by, paying him no attention.
A moment later the shrillest scream pierced the air. ‘Stop, you bastard!’
That magnificent horse had risen up on its hind legs and knocked the page straight into the water. Laughter rippled through the port, quickly muffled by yells and cries as the horse, still hooded, cantered down the ramp, running headlong into the spectators. Blocked by bodies and boxes on every side, he was not able to bolt as freely as he could have wished. Still, unwilling to stop, he trampled whatever was in his way.
The page, saved from the water and dripping with fury, was shouting orders and curses. Jahan caught up with him. ‘What’s the horse’s name?’
‘What the hell you askin’?’
‘Tell me its name!’ Jahan said, losing patience.
The man raised his eyebrows. ‘Ebony.’
Jahan scurried after the horse. The hood had slipped off but seeing its surroundings had only increased its panic. ‘Ebony,’ Jahan called, over and again, keeping his voice as level as he could manage. Horses did not exactly recognize their names. Yet they could catch a familiar tone when they heard one, just as they could perceive the intention behind it.
Hemmed in, the stallion was revolving, neighing and tossing its head nervously. Jahan stood in front of it, showing his empty hands. He approached step by step, one soothing word after another. Had it not been tired, the horse would not have allowed him to get near. But it was. Grabbing it by the reins, Jahan caressed its neck tenderly.
On an impulse, Jahan turned back. There, only a few yards away, stood the deaf-mutes, staring at him without so much as blinking, their expressions impossible to read. Were they suspicious or simply intrigued? Having glanced once, Jahan dared not do so again. A knot gripped his chest. A trickle of sweat rolled down the nape of his neck. His clothes felt ridiculously heavy as it occurred to him what a nuisance they would become should he need to make off quickly. He had two pouches, one inside his robe, the other sewn into the hem of his shirt – courtesy of Balaban’s wife. If he were to run now, the coins would jingle, adding to his discomfort.
It was as he was contemplating his options that the crowd, as if slit from side to side by an invisible knife, parted. The French ambassador was coming. The man who had dissected Chota’s body with a dispassionate curiosity. Beside him was his wife, attired in an embroidered jacket-bodice and the greenest velvet gown, holding a handkerchief to her nose against the stench, her eyebrows puckered. They sauntered by without recognizing him, heading for the ship he had set his sights on. A flock of servants were at their heels, carrying boxes and cages in which hissed, cooed and squawked creatures of all kinds. Monsieur and Madame Brèves were returning to France, taking their private menagerie with them.
There were peacocks, nightingales and parrots, their feathers bright as springtime. There was a falcon, a hawk and an exotic bird with an enormous beak – a gift from the Sultan. But it was the monkeys that everyone was jostling one another in order to see – a female and a male, dressed as a miniature noblewoman and nobleman. Clad in silk and velvet, the two monkeys were watching the crowd with partly frightened, partly mirth
ful eyes. The female monkey bared her teeth from time to time, as if she were laughing at the humans the way they were laughing at her.
Taking advantage of the commotion, Jahan slipped away, setting a steady, swift pace. Not once did he glance back. He steered a zigzag path through crates, ropes and planks, amid sailors, porters and beggars. There was another carrack far ahead. He had no idea where it was bound, but he felt pulled towards it. It occurred to him that Davud might have guessed his intention to go back to Rome, and advised his guards to keep a close eye on all vessels to Italian ports. It would probably be wiser to take a ship in a different direction. He could then disembark at the first port and make his way to Michelangelo’s land. With this conviction he reached the carrack and climbed up the plank.
‘We don’t take on strangers,’ said the Captain after listening to him. ‘How do I know you’re no criminal?’
‘I’m an artist,’ Jahan said and, fearing he might ask him to paint his portrait as proof, he added, ‘I draw landscapes.’
‘Funny trade you’ve got. You get paid for that?’
‘If I find a generous patron –’
‘Fancy that!’ the man remarked dourly. ‘Some of us break our backs. You live a dainty life. Nay, you can’t come. You’ll bring us bad luck.’
‘I bring good luck, I can assure you,’ Jahan said. ‘To prove my trustworthiness, allow me to offer this.’
Taking out his pouch, he emptied it on the table. The Captain’s eyes glinted; he reached out for a coin and bit its edge. ‘Fine, get a move on. Stay in the hold. You may eat with the men. Make sure I don’t see you around.’
Jahan gave a tight nod. ‘I promise you won’t.’
They were not raising anchor for another day. Jahan spent this time waiting below in an airless cabin. Only when they set sail did he muster the courage to go upstairs. The city glimmered in the distance – the bazaars, the coffee-houses and the graveyards with cypress trees and upright stones with turbehs. The place where he had learned to love and learned never to trust love. He saw the minarets of the Suleimaniye and the Shehzade mosques, the father and the son. He saw the dome of the Hagia Sophia, a glint on the horizon. And he saw Mihrimah’s Mosque, as secretive as the woman it was named after.
Putting his right hand on his heart, Jahan saluted them, acknowledging the sweat and the prayers and the hopes that had gone into building them. He hailed not only the people but also the stone, the wood, the marble and the glass, the way his master had taught him. The seagulls followed them for a while, shrieking their goodbyes. When the gusts blew more strongly, they returned to the city. Strangely, their leave-taking felt as gloomy as his own.
The curse … How could she call it such when it was a gift, Jahan thought at the beginning. Gradually he would recognize how life had outwitted him. What he had taken to be a gift he would learn, later on, was a scourge; what he had received as a bane he would come to see as a blessing. But back then, following dada’s advice, he was thinking, who among all the artists and architects in the world would not wish to live a hundred years or more, never fearing that time would come to an end in the midst of a new work, which could, for all one knew, turn out to be the best he had ever done. Without fear of death, Jahan was spared fear of failure. Exempt from such apprehension, Jahan could design more, design better, perhaps even surpass his master. Determined, excited, he travelled to one port after another. He went to Rome, France, England and Salamanca, where he expected to find Sancha, but there was no trace of her.
That he worked hard and asked for little money, together with his knowledge, kept him in demand. Although he was no member of any guild and could not be employed, he was able to ply his trade indirectly, sketching for other architects, always underpaid. It troubled him slightly that the spell, though it gave him strength and additional years, had not made him look a day younger. While he showed no sign either of debility or of senility, he visibly carried his age. People, sensing something unusual, something dark, asked him how old he was. When Jahan said he was ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight … they stared at him wide-eyed. A glint of suspicion flickered in their eyes, as they wondered whether he had made a pact with the devil – albeit only once had he heard anyone voice this aloud. Whichever way he travelled, south or north, it was the same: human beings sharing a lack of trust, if not a lack of sympathy, for anyone who lived beyond the allotted number of years.
That was when Jahan began to think maybe the witch was right. Maybe his master had made a pledge with her. Sinan had lived longer than every major craftsman in the empire. He had raised more buildings than any mortal could ever have dreamed of raising. At some point, he must have smelled like Hesna Khatun’s herbs, though, no matter how hard Jahan racked his brains, he could not recall this. Then, having tired of everything, he must have asked for it to be brought to an end. Shortly before his death, he must have visited the witch. For the last time. If so, there must have been a way to break the spell, and by leaving Istanbul Jahan had lost this chance.
Years passed by. Almost a hundred, he took a ship to Portugal, from where, he had heard, one could sail to the New World. One sunny afternoon, on the front deck, he noticed a man – willowy and slender. His heart leaped. It was Balaban, sitting between a coiled rope and a cleat. Unthinking, he lunged forward, chuckling, until he noticed, too late, that it wasn’t him.
‘I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.’
‘A friend, I hope,’ the stranger said. ‘Come, sit, enjoy the sun while it lasts.’
He rambled on about his troubles, his voice rising and falling. He claimed to have had too many sins from which to flee. He was going back to his family a wiser man. Tired of talking, he asked, ‘What is your skill?’
‘I build. I am an architect.’
‘You should go to Agra, then. Shah Jahan, your namesake, is building a palace in memory of his wife.’
Although he shrugged, Jahan was intrigued. ‘What happened to her?’
‘She died in childbirth,’ the stranger said sadly. ‘He was quite devoted to her.’
‘It’s not exactly my route.’
‘Change your route,’ he said. Just like that.
In the year 1632 Jahan arrived in Hindustan, in order to see what the plans for this palace, which everyone was raving about, were actually like.
Some cities you go to because you want to; some cities you go to because they want you to. The moment he set foot there, Jahan had the feeling that Agra had been pulling him, leading him all along. On the way there he had heard so much about the Shah and the city he wished to glorify that when he reached Agra it was almost as if he were returning to a place where he had been before. He wandered around, inhaling the smells, which were bountiful and pungent, the sunlight stroking his skin, the faintest ache on his scar.
Jahan went to see the construction on the bank of the Yamuna. There, with the help of a traveller who spoke a bit of Turkish, he was introduced to one of the draughtsmen. After hearing his credentials and seeing the seal of Sinan, the labourer took Jahan to their overseer. A strapping man with a protruding nose, bushy eyebrows and a bashful smile, Jahan instantly liked him. His name was Mir Abdul Karim.
‘Your master was a great man,’ he said in a voice strengthened from explaining things to people, inferiors and superiors alike.
He pored over the few designs Jahan had brought along, inspecting them with meticulous care. Placing a cup of honeyed milk and a set of quill pens on the table, Mir Abdul Karim showed him several drawings of the construction project, asking his opinion of each, which Jahan gave in earnest. The overseer said nothing, though a mirthful glitter in his eyes suggested his satisfaction at the answers. Next Karim asked Jahan to draw a floor plan based on the measurements he provided there and then. When Jahan had finished, the overseer seemed content. Taking a quiet breath, he remarked, ‘You cannot go anywhere before you meet the Grand Vizier.’
In this way, after another round of introductions, Jahan found himself summoned by
the Shah. Seated high on his Peacock Throne, his heavy-lidded eyes gleaming with loss and pride, his beard and moustache white with grief, and his attire devoid of jewellery and ornaments, he reminded Jahan, in more than one way, of Sultan Suleiman. The Shah sorrowed over the death of his beloved wife, Mumtaz Mahal – the Paragon of the Palace – the woman who had borne him fourteen children in eighteen years. Her body had been buried on the banks of the River Tapti. Now they were bringing her to Agra to be reburied for eternity.
He had loved her more than any woman and at the expense of his other wives. They said such was his devotion to, and confidence in, her that she would read all his firmans and, should she approve, put the regal seal on them. She was not only his consort, but also his companion, confidante and counsellor. In her absence he was inconsolable. He still visited her private apartments at nights, as though chasing her fragrance – or apparition – and when confronted with the emptiness of the chambers, he burst into tears.
A younger Jahan would have been nervous to meet the bereaved Shah whose name he shared. His face would burn, his palms would feel clammy and his voice would quiver for fear of saying something wrong. Not any longer. Having neither secrets nor expectations, he could stop railing at himself and be simply an observer, calm and unruffled – and free. Wherever this new temperament had come from, he wished, belatedly, he had attained it before, while standing in front of every Sultan, Sultana and Vizier who had appeared in his life. The placid humour of his master that he once so disparaged he now held dear.
The Shah inquired about Sinan’s works, of which, surprisingly, he was well aware. Each question Jahan answered briefly but candidly. Unlike the ruler’s ancestor, Babur – whose mother tongue was the same as Jahan’s – the Shah spoke no Turkish. They communicated with the help of a dragoman, who translated from Persian to Turkish, Turkish to Persian; words in common were captured and held, like butterflies caught in a net between them.