The Water Diviner

by Andrew Anastasios

  ‘I’m not here to sightsee.’

  An awkward silence descends, which Ayshe breaks by beating a hasty retreat from the room. As she leaves, she speaks without glancing up at him. ‘You should make time for the Blue Mosque at least. Even in my “wretched city” it is a beautiful place to find God.’

  He may well be in desperate need of divine intervention, but Connor has neither the time nor the inclination to seek God on these shores.

  ‘I didn’t come for Him either,’ Connor grunts. ‘I am on my way to Gallipoli.’

  Ayshe stops in the doorway, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing. Just the sound of the word seems to harden her.

  ‘You mean Çanakkale, Mr Connor. We call it Çanakkale. There is nothing there but ghosts.’ She composes herself and leaves, calling over her shoulder, ‘My son cannot help you tomorrow. I need him here.’

  Connor watches Ayshe stride towards the stairwell, holding her head aloft and arms swinging. As he closes the door, he is uncomfortable, confused by the Turkish woman’s coolness and undisguised disdain. If he needs to stay in Constantinople for any length of time he might have to look for another hotel.

  Connor removes his shirt and singlet and dips his cupped palms into the water basin. The steam rises up and wets his cheeks. He realises it has been weeks since he has had hot water to wash in, and relishes the moment. He brings his hands up slowly and feels the wave of heat on his eyelids and lips. He rubs his forehead all the way to the hairline, the sides of his nose, the inside of his ears and the back of his neck. To his surprise he finds red grit from home still lodged in places that he would swear were clean. I’ll always wear the mark of where I come from, ingrained, no escaping it.

  Long after the water in the basin has turned cold, a paste of olive oil soapsuds and dirt clinging to the sides, Connor awakes with a start. He has fallen asleep face down on his map, allowing every contour to project itself on his mind. The evening prayer call, shriller and more urgent this time, exhumes him from a deep slumber and discombobulates him. Where is he? What is the time? Where are they, where are his sons?

  The farmer gathers himself on the side of his bed as his mind slowly finds its way through the fog of lost sleep, along an outback rail line, a turbulent sea and through the labyrinth of Constantinople. A glance out the window tells him the city is lurching towards the end of the day, like a runner chesting the tape. The afternoon has sprinted by.

  Connor sniffs and confirms he needs a bath. He needs to be at his best tomorrow. He gathers his towel and his flat leather toiletries bag, and steps into the hall, careful to lock his door behind him. You never know with these Arabs.

  He makes his way along the low-lit corridor, looking for a bathroom sign. He rounds a corner and sees a distinguished Turkish gentleman sitting on a bench beside a closed door, several bathroom towels stacked beside him. The older man nods and smiles at Connor, politely letting the Australian know he must wait his turn. Connor returns the nod and sits, ramrod rigid with his towel on his lap. He doesn’t have to wait long before the door handle rattles from inside the room and a sheepish-looking Turk appears. The man hurries off, pushing his fez down on his head and buttoning his coat as he goes. Right behind him is a woman.

  Connor’s jaw drops. He has never seen a woman dressed, or undressed, like this; not on his wedding night, and certainly never since. He wants to fix his gaze on the floor but his eyes betray him and dart upwards. The woman is dressed in a red silk robe over lace underwear, and wears a long black wig that drops over her shoulders in the shape of a heart. In spite of his searing discomfort, Connor steals a glimpse at her shiny red lips, the line of her full bosom and the curve of her hip.

  The enthusiastic suitor sitting next to Connor springs from the bench and greets the woman with a formal bow. He says something to her in Turkish and Connor catches her name: Natalia.

  She smiles, opens the door wider and guides the man into her room. Over his shoulder Connor sees not a bathroom but a bedroom. On the dresser sits a mute audience of wig stands, each modelling a different colour of styled baroque wig. Elegant brass candlesticks and a samovar stand on a small dresser in front of a silver icon of Saint George lancing a dragon.

  Natalia finds and holds Connor’s gaze with a provocative smile. He fights the urge to let his eyes roam and feels himself blush. She seems surprised but pleased – about what, Connor can’t fathom. Her eyes move to Connor’s towel and shaving kit and the penny appears to drop. She smiles and says in heavily accented English, ‘He spend twenty minutes complaining about wife, then five minutes later, he finish. You have bath and come back?’

  Connor realises his mistake and is thrown. Instead of retiring into her room, Natalia leans against the doorframe, a grin on her face. Mortified, Connor cannot bear the indignity any longer. He stands and scurries away, tugging at an imaginary hat brim and apologising, though for what he is not sure.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Early morning light streams over the terracotta-tiled rooftops as the cries of gulls and kestrels echo through the cobbled streets.

  Connor stands on the marble stoop of the Troya, watching the city wake from its slumber. Two men struggle to control a rickety handcart laden with fresh bread still steaming from the oven as they attempt to negotiate the steep street. On the opposite corner, a stone fountain deeply etched with garlands and grapevines spits sparkling, clear water from an ornate copper spigot. Connor resists the urge to cross the street and dip his cupped hands into the basin to taste the water. A gaggle of women cluster about the well, chattering like sparrows as they bend to fill their buckets with water for their households. In procession, they disperse through the streets, carrying two buckets apiece at each end of a brace balanced across their shoulders.

  A small child – no older than ten, and most likely considerably younger – walks past the hotel, carrying on his head a tray of the same circular bread rings Connor saw on the docks yesterday.

  ‘Siii-miiiit!’ the boy cries, looking at Connor expectantly. He slows. ‘Siiiii-miiiitttttt!’ The smell of the fresh bread has set Connor’s stomach rumbling.

  ‘How much?’

  The boy looks at Connor, confused. ‘Sii-miit!’

  Connor raises his voice, thinking that perhaps the boy hasn’t heard him. ‘How much? For the bread? Money? How much?’

  The boy smiles crookedly, embarrassed.

  For goodness’ sake. What does he think I’m saying?

  ‘Sir, Connor Bey!’

  Orhan appears round the corner, from the courtyard at the back of the house.

  ‘Connor Bey. Is simit. Bread. You want?’

  ‘Er, yes. I am feeling a little peckish.’

  ‘Peckish? What is peckish?’

  ‘Hungry. Yes. I would like a . . . smeet, you say?’

  ‘Si-mit.’

  ‘Simit. Yes. How much is it?’

  ‘I pay now. You pay later.’

  Orhan darts into the hotel and reappears with a coin. He gives it to the simit vendor and takes two from the carefully stacked tray balanced precariously on his head.

  ‘Here, Connor Bey. Eat.’

  Connor takes the bread ring, still warm and covered in golden sesame seeds. He bites into it – the centre is soft and slightly sweet.

  ‘Delicious.’

  ‘You like, Connor Bey?’

  ‘I do. It is good. Thank you.’

  Connor and Orhan sit in silence on the top step eating their simits.

  ‘Last night your mother told me that you cannot take me to the War Office. Can you show me which road I need to take to get there?’

  Orhan looks over his shoulder into the hotel foyer.

  ‘Mother said that? No. It is all right now. I can go. Lots of roads to get to Topkapi. You will get lost. I show you.’

  ‘Good. No time to waste. Let’s go.’

  ‘Yes. I am good guide. Come!’

  Connor brushes the sesame seeds from his chest and lap, sets his hat atop his head and strides down the hotel
steps in Orhan’s wake. Rested and recalibrated, he has found his purpose again. Now he knows exactly what he must do.

  As they round what seems like the hundredth corner, Connor has absolutely no idea where he is. He’s always had a good sense of direction, an instinct for the right bearings. At home he can navigate by the sun and stars, but here in the opposite hemisphere he feels disoriented and off beam. Right now, he wouldn’t even be able to point north, far less find his way back to the hotel they left only minutes ago. The network of tiny alleys and lanes that wind up then down and round these hills seems planned only to confound travellers. Orhan was right. Without his assistance, Connor would have been irretrievably lost in this labyrinth.

  Somewhere nearby Connor can hear raised voices, furious chanting, and the ringing sound of many feet running along cobbles. He looks downhill along a narrow street in the direction of the uproar, and catches flashes of an angry mob rushing along an adjoining street. They are some distance away but there’s no mistaking their fury. Men stop and shriek at something hidden from Connor’s view. Some join arms and surge together, only to be pushed back by unseen forces.

  ‘Orhan, wait. What is happening down there?’ Connor begins to move down the side street, curious to see what’s going on.

  Orhan grabs Connor’s sleeve. ‘No, Connor Bey. It is better to stay here. These men are very angry.’

  ‘Why? What could make them so furious?’

  ‘The Sultan. The British. The Greeks. The war. Everything.’

  Connor wisely changes course, moving away from the riot.

  ‘Let’s keep going on our way then. That seems to be the best idea.’

  ‘Yes, sir. You come this way. We go to Topkapi up here.’

  They walk on in silence, the sounds of the clash receding into the distance.

  Orhan’s brow is furrowed. ‘Connor Bey, Ottoman people are good people. You do not worry. You are Australian. Not British. British and Australian are not same.’

  Connor pauses. ‘No. Not always, I suppose.’

  Connor and Orhan pass between a row of teetering, three-storeyed timber homes, garishly painted, with upper levels that peer out over the street like nosey neighbours. Towering above the rooflines on his left Connor can glimpse a monumental crenellated stone wall. Ahead he sees another long wall constructed of the same curious red humbug–style brickwork he had noticed the day before in the spice market.

  Orhan gestures beyond it. ‘There! Connor Bey! Topkapi Palace.’

  ‘What about the War Office?’

  ‘Yes, is here. Inside.’

  Stepping out into a broad plaza, Connor looks towards an ancient and fortified gateway at its apex. The entrance to Topkapi Palace is now guarded by sentry boxes occupied by soldiers wearing British Army uniforms. The modern military paraphernalia – rifles, ammunition, bandoliers, khaki jackets, armoured vehicles – strikes a discordant note against the white marble Ottoman entrance, set with emerald-green panels inscribed with ornate gilt Arabic lettering.

  Connor approaches the British guard. Ginger-haired, with peeling skin on his nose and a rubicund complexion, he’s not well suited to a Mediterranean summer. The soldier’s otherwise impassive face registers a wince of disapproval at the sight of Connor’s companion.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘I want to go to Gallipoli. I’m told I need a permit.’

  The soldier scoffs. ‘Don’t like your chances.’

  Connor hands the sentry his passport. ‘Where do I go?’

  ‘Worth a try, I guess. He won’t be going any farther, though.’

  For a moment, Connor is unsure who the soldier is talking about.

  The guard flicks a dismissive hand at Orhan. ‘No wogs.’

  Orhan is unperturbed. ‘I wait, Connor Bey.’

  ‘No, you have helped enough. Thank you. You go back home. Thank your mother for letting you come.’

  Orhan stands his ground. Connor is puzzled by his persistence until he remembers the question of payment. He fishes in his pocket for a coin and hands it to the boy. Orhan smiles.

  ‘I wait. You need guide for getting back to hotel.’

  ‘Fair enough. I may be a while.’

  ‘I wait.’

  Connor steps through the arched Topkapi gateway into an expansive courtyard. He stands, hands on hips, and does the reckoning in his head – big enough to fit twenty houses the size of their family home. Maybe more. In the centre of the courtyard is a lawn populated with a forest of exotic trees. Junior officers and clerks bustle along the paths that dissect the forecourt like spokes on a cartwheel. Once the imperial residence – the Sultan now prefers to live with his wives and concubines in the European-style Dolmabahçe Palace on the Bosphorus – this labyrinth of chambers, salons and reception rooms now serves as an impromptu War Office.

  A young uniformed British guard approaches, his hobnailed boots clicking against the flagstones like tap shoes.

  ‘Sir, can I be of assistance?’

  ‘Ah yes, I am from Australia,’ Connor begins.

  ‘From the colonies?’ the guard interjects, amusing himself.

  ‘Until you need us, then we’re all one Empire. Now, I want to go to Gallipoli. Who do I see?’

  Cheeks flushing, the guard replies, castigated. ‘You need a permit, sir. The Travel Permit Office is down there. One, two . . . eighth door on your right.’ He points Connor along a colonnaded verandah dotted with small wooden doors.

  Fists tight, Connor follows the marble columns until they disappear behind a white stucco pavilion that reminds him of an oversized wedding cake. A sign on an open door reads ‘Travel.’ Connor pokes his head in apologetically but is greeted with a small, unprepossessing, windowless space that could only have been an Ottoman storeroom. In the centre is a simple timber desk holding up heroically under a hill of files. On top of the table a black metal fan turns, teasing the loose paperwork, the only hint that someone might be returning. A name plate reads ‘Lieutenant Sinclair Bryant.’ On one side of the desk stands an abandoned swivel chair with a cushion embroidered in a regimental flag and a lion. Connor smiles at the ignominy of someone resting their backside on the company colours.

  Against the wall are two uninviting wooden chairs that immediately remind him of primary school in the town of Birchip, on the very edge of the Mallee: twenty-four kids of all ages crammed into the timber schoolroom – the youngest up front, the eldest at the rear – and the balding Mr Dirk, who would make miscreants bend over with their palms on the seat of his empty chair while he whipped them across the backs of their legs. On what became his last day of school, twelve-year-old Connor caught the switch in his hand on the third lash and wrenched it from his teacher’s grip. He snapped it into four pieces before Dirk’s open palm struck him on the jaw. The next blow was a backhander that caught his nose and the classroom exploded in red. Connor recalls his father coming home after speaking to his teacher and not being able to hold his knife in his right hand at dinner.

  Connor sits on the edge of a chair and places his hat on the seat beside him. He leans forwards, his elbows on his knees, and lets the fan cool his sweaty hair. Three times he hears footsteps on the marble paving outside and stands to greet the lieutenant, only to see a blur of khaki pass across the doorway. On the fourth occasion Bryant appears, a tall and wiry man in his late twenties with hollow cheeks and an aquiline nose. He balances a tray with a teapot and milk jug in one hand and holds his walking stick in the other.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry. I had no idea anyone was waiting,’ he says as he puts the tray on the desk and offers a twiggy, ink-stained hand out to Connor. ‘Sinclair Bryant, Lieutenant . . . Tea?’

  ‘No, no thank you,’ replies Connor impatiently. ‘I want to go to Gallipoli, tomorrow.’

  ‘What for? There’s nothing to see there,’ says Bryant dismissively. ‘Did you fight there?’

  ‘My sons, my three sons,’ explains Connor. ‘They’re still there.’

  ‘Ah.’ Bryant ha
s no idea what else to say. ‘You do realise where it is?’

  Connor nods.

  ‘Unfortunately I can’t help you. I don’t have the authority to issue permits to civilians. Only military personnel, you understand.’

  Connor sits back in the chair and sucks in the still air through his clenched teeth.

  ‘So why in God’s name did they waste my time by sending me to you?’

  Bryant shrugs. ‘I can’t be sure. Possibly just trying to help.’

  ‘Some help. So can you tell me who I need to speak to?’

  ‘I’m not sure there is anyone,’ explains Bryant. ‘It’s an unusual request. Unique.’

  ‘There must be someone. Who’s your boss?’ demands Connor, rage and frustration building in his gullet.

  Bryant withers under Connor’s steely gaze. He scribbles a name on a piece of paper and hands it across the desk.

  ‘I would suggest you see Captain Brindley. He may be able to help you.’ He does not sound very convincing. ‘Across the quadrangle,’ he adds. Connor can see he has put a crease in Bryant’s day and the lieutenant is keen to be rid of him.

  Standing, Connor grabs his hat and points at Bryant’s walking stick. ‘I thought you might understand better than some.’

  ‘I’ll never understand, Mr Connor,’ says Bryant bleakly. ‘Ever.’

  Connor stands, grabs his hat and leaves Bryant to his tea and files.

  He is halfway across the vast courtyard, cursing under his breath, when he stops. He is suddenly aware of the midday sun beating down on his hat and shoulders, like a stinging slap on the back from a mate in a crowd. While everyone around him seems to be scurrying for shade Connor turns to feel the warmth on his face. He closes his eyes and opens his palms, grounding himself properly for the first time since he arrived. It is a relief to commune with something so elemental and familiar when he has done little more than slip on cobblestones since he arrived. A parade of British, French and Turkish soldiers pass by, most too preoccupied with the business of ruling to give him a second glance.