The Water Diviner

by Andrew Anastasios

  He hears the sound of boots scraping the ground outside and quickly pushes the photo into Art’s diary and shuts the case. Hasan appears in the doorway and Connor immediately takes a step back.

  ‘Please forgive my intrusion, Mr Connor.’

  ‘Yes, what?’ Connor is defensive, unsure why the Turk has appeared in his tent, and is expecting the worst.

  ‘What is the name of your eldest son?’

  ‘Connor. The same as mine.’ He is annoyed.

  ‘We have no family name in Turkey,’ explains Hasan carefully. ‘What is his first name?’

  ‘His Christian name is Arthur,’ says Connor.

  Hasan ignores the implied slight. He has seen more than his fair share of religious and cultural persecution in his thirty years as a soldier; certainly far too much to be bothered by such a distinction.

  ‘And how do you spell this?’ he asks.

  ‘A–R–T–H–U–R. Arthur.’

  Hasan follows the spelling, comparing it with something written on the paper he is holding in his hands. He looks up, a disappointed look on his face.

  ‘I am sorry I have troubled you. I thought . . . Please travel with God.’

  Hasan turns to leave and Connor stops him.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he says stiffly. ‘For my outburst yesterday.’

  ‘There is a Persian saying,’ Hasan says, ‘which translates as, “May you outlive your children.” It sounds like a blessing, but it is the worst curse one can place on the head of a man. You would not even wish it upon your enemy.’

  Hasan pushes the flap aside, but before he can clear the tent Connor asks, ‘Why did you ask about Arthur?’

  Looking uncomfortable, Hasan holds up the telegram, which contains a list in Ottoman Arabic. He explains, ‘I had this list sent from Constantinople. There is a name here that is your family name. But the first name – the Christian name – it is another man. I am sorry. I did not mean to raise your hopes.’

  ‘What is this list? What other man?’ Connor must know.

  ‘There are three initials. None of them ‘A’ for Arthur. They are R – F – R.’

  ‘R – F – R . . .’ Connor plays with the sounds. Surely not. It’s too much to hope for.

  ‘Ar – F – ar. Ar – Far! That’s it. Arthur! That’s him! It has to be him!’ he exclaims. ‘That’s his name. Tell me – what is this list?’

  There is a long, considered pause as Hasan looks directly at Connor and chooses his words very carefully. ‘If this is your son . . . If . . . then we took him prisoner. He did not die here.’

  The news hits Connor like an uppercut to the solar plexus. He gasps, scarcely audible, ‘Oh God. What?’

  ‘He left Çanakkale alive.’

  Connor is so overcome he cannot speak. Hasan pushes through the doorway, leaving the father to contemplate the possibilities alone. Connor steadies himself against the tent pole, his reality turned upside down in a heartbeat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The trill and wail of a ney flute penetrates every corner of the Troya, vying with the forlorn sounds from the strings of the kemençe and oud. A group of earnest musicians is perched on worn, bentwood chairs arranged on the small bandstand in the corner of the salon. They wear brocade, embroidered vests, sashes round their waists shot through with gold thread, and red fezzes on their heads, the tassels swinging in time with the music.

  Ayshe and Natalia have scrubbed every corner of the room and aired and washed the old lace drapes until they are closer to white than they have been for many years. It has been a very long time since the hotel has hosted such a large gathering. The sound of the music and chatter streams out to the darkening street through open windows and a balmy, soft breeze enters the room, carrying with it the smell of pollen and the sweet scent of Judas Tree blossoms.

  Against one wall is a low, timber daybed bedecked as if for a sultan. Cobalt-blue, carmine-red and ochre motifs shimmer on a rug so finely woven it folds and billows across the platform as if it were a sheet of satin. Plump cushions made from brightly coloured kilim fabric are stacked in a pyramid and threadbare gold curtains festoon the daybed frame. At the centre of the tableau sits Orhan, resplendent in a white satin suit with a broad red sash diagonally across his chest, clutching a silver-topped sceptre and reclining regally against the cushions. Despite the prestige of his central position in this large gathering of family, friends and neighbours, he shifts and fidgets in some discomfort.

  The music changes tempo; fingers plucking the strings of the kanun resting on one musician’s lap begin to move at an impossible speed and the man slapping out rhythmic beats on the kudum drum with the palm of his hand picks up pace.

  Ayshe twirls to the music, smiling, as her father Ibrahim guides her around the dance floor. She moves adeptly, head held high and feet intuitively following the rhythm, vestiges of many hours spent in her husband’s arms a lifetime ago. Many eyes follow her as she whirls around the room. Her chartreuse chiffon dress skims her slim frame and falls in soft folds about her legs, its hemline rippling to expose her delicate ankles. At her throat she wears a double strand of pearls – all that remains of her mother’s once opulent collection of jewellery. Whenever Ayshe lifts it from its velvet-hinged box and feels the satiny orbs between her fingers, she recalls helping her mother clasp them about her neck as she and Ibrahim prepared for a grand ball.

  The music builds to a crescendo, then ends. Ibrahim bows formally and extends his arm to his daughter to lead her to where her son sits. A queue of people waits to greet Orhan, showering him with gifts, which he places on the daybed beside him. One old man holds his hand over his heart and nods his head, sagely. ‘All is over and done. It will grow better by God’s will.’

  Ayshe leans towards her son and cups her hand beneath his chin. ‘Look at my little man. You are a miniature version of Turgut. Just as cheeky, and every bit as handsome as your father.’

  At the opposite side of the platform, Omer asserts his role as benefactor in the proceedings, one hand tucked into the pocket of his vest, the other resting proprietarily on the edge of the daybed. As the guests file past his nephew, Omer greets them and nods gravely, accepting their good wishes and extending due acknowledgment for their attendance at this important family gathering. Between greetings, he conducts a covert conversation with the imam who stands beside him.

  ‘Of course, my irresponsible brother made no provision for the sünnet – so again it falls to me.’

  The imam nods sympathetically. ‘Allah sees your goodness. Even in this time of strife this does you credit.’ He looks at Ayshe standing proudly beside her son.

  ‘Why is she still not wearing the clothes of grief?’

  ‘She still pretends he is alive. God give him peace.’

  Shaking his head, the imam continues. ‘The boy needs a father. Especially now he is a man. He needs guidance and he needs to know the truth.’

  ‘I have made it clear that I am prepared to take her as my second wife and become the master of this house. Fatma agrees. I can afford it.’

  ‘It would be the best outcome. The boy carries your blood.’

  Omer raises his eyebrows, looking pointedly towards Ayshe’s father. The imam follows his gaze.

  ‘Ibrahim Pasha’s fortune is gone along with his mind, and this place groans under the weight of debt. Allah willing she will soon see reason.’

  The imam places his hand upon Omer’s forearm. ‘God will show Ayshe her duty. Inşallah.’

  The rush of heady anticipation that hits Connor at the sight of the pink hotel on the hill surprises him. Since learning that Arthur might have survived he has felt as if he could walk on water from Europe to Asia. But this nervous flutter in his gut is something else, something inexplicable. He can’t remember when he last felt this childlike excitement.

  The setting sun is kind, casting the Otel Troya in a flattering light, disguising the peeling paint and disintegrating plaster. Despite a few wrong turns he was set straight by local
s who pointed him in the right direction, and eventually he managed to find his way up the hill through the labyrinthine network of lanes and alleys. He hadn’t even thought about how to find the hotel on the long trip back to Constantinople; he’d assumed that he’d run into Orhan waiting at the wharf to pick up affluent and eager new arrivals. He hadn’t realised that the boy timed his recruitment drive at the dock to coincide with the disembarkation of ships from abroad, summoned by the expectant horn that signalled their arrival in port. The British military supply ship, by comparison, represented slim pickings for the touts, who gave it a wide berth, so he was left to find his own way back through the spice market to the hotel.

  He hesitates now, unsure how he’ll be received after his last visit. But this place is all he knows in this foreign city. He steels himself and climbs the front steps.

  Connor stands at the entrance to the salon, mesmerised by Ayshe’s incandescent beauty. She laughs loudly and surprisingly raucously as she shares an exchange with a woman of a similar age. Her hair is held back from her face in an elaborate chignon and pinned with a jewelled barrette, emphasising her high cheekbones and green eyes that gleam like gemstones.

  Realising belatedly that he has stumbled on a private party, Connor begins to back out of the room, but looking up from his makeshift throne, Orhan catches sight of him. Barely able to contain himself, he flings his hands into the air with excitement and beckons to Connor from across the room.

  ‘Connor Bey! I am man now! Come, join us!’

  As Connor approaches, Orhan leans towards him and whispers urgently, ‘Did you find my father?’

  ‘Sorry son, no luck.’

  Ayshe turns from her companion and locks eyes with Connor. Excusing herself, she moves across the room towards him. For his part, Omer observes the Australian’s arrival cautiously. His face reads like an open book: he doesn’t like the way Connor is staring at Ayshe, and he certainly disapproves of the looks she is giving him.

  Ashamed by his undisguised appraisal of the Turkish woman, Connor averts his gaze as she approaches, his expression apologetic.

  ‘I am intruding. Is it his birthday?’

  Ayshe smiles. ‘No. His sünnet.’

  Connor looks puzzled. Ayshe furtively makes a snipping action with her fingers. None the wiser, Connor mimics her gesture, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

  She nods. ‘Yes.’

  ‘A special haircut?’

  Ayshe shakes her head, surreptitiously pointing downwards. The penny drops and Connor flushes, embarrassed. A circumcision.

  ‘Ah. Right. Of course. Oh, bloody hell. It’s a private thing.’

  Ayshe is puzzled. ‘No, it’s a celebration.’

  He is awkward, uncomfortable. ‘I have had a long journey. I need to wash – if you are not full?’

  ‘We may have a room.’

  He nods his head, grateful. ‘Thank you. Good night, Orhan. Happy – ah . . .’

  Orhan pipes up, ‘Do you want to see my scar?’

  ‘No, mate. But thanks.’

  Ayshe struggles to conceal a smile as she escorts Connor into the foyer and fetches him a room key. ‘You found Çanakkale?’

  Since leaving the peninsula Connor has vacillated between elation and utter disbelief. On the one hand he doesn’t want to allow himself to believe what seems impossible; on the other he can’t fight the desire to submit to hope, knowing that he will overturn heaven and earth to find his son. The urge to share the news with this woman is overwhelming.

  ‘I have news – possibly good news – but I am not yet sure what to make of it –’

  Omer is suddenly between Connor and Ayshe, eyes flashing and mouth set in an angry line, interrupting their exchange. He turns to Ayshe and snaps something at her in Turkish. Then he spins on his heel and graces Connor with an obsequious smile. ‘Mr Connor. Welcome back to Stamboul. You are always welcome.’

  Mumbling a reply, Connor hurriedly excuses himself. Climbing the stairs, he unlocks the door in the narrow corridor and steps into the same room he stayed in before. He opens the drapes and unlatches the window, leaning out to hear the sounds of the city that he recognises with a new familiarity – street vendors crying out, the clip-clop of horses and asses on the cobbles, and the mournful calls of gulls soaring about the rooftops.

  He places his small, battered case on the bureau and opens it, taking Art’s precious journal from where it lies nestled carefully between his neatly folded clothes. Removing his boots and shirt, he lies down on the bed, ankles crossed, with the diary on his chest.

  The day Art was born had been oppressively hot, north winds blowing down from the desert to tear limbs from trees and set willy-willys spinning erratically across the Mallee. Connor walked up and down the verandah, waiting, pacing impotently as he heard Lizzie cry out. More than once he went to burst into the bedroom, needing to help, wanting to stop her pain. Each time, he stopped himself, until finally, with a blood-curdling wail, he knew his son had been born. Lizzie’s sister, Ivy, stepped out of the room holding Art, who was swaddled firmly in a cotton sheet, tiny fists clenched so tightly they were white, little face contorted, wrinkled and shrieking. She handed Connor his son, and in that moment he knew fear, awe and love with an overwhelming and unimaginable intensity. It was deep, all consuming and utterly terrifying. That feeling never went away, and when he and Lizzie lost their boys, he had thought his heart would stop.

  But now there is hope.

  He shuts his eyes and dares to let it cradle him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sunbeams strobe on the two men’s faces as blades turn languidly in the bright morning light.

  Far below and beyond where they work on a precarious platform beneath the vast sails of the windmill, the boundless, barren land is flat and featureless, and overwhelmingly beautiful. The scale of this land – the clear sky that arches over the red soil like a dome – is expansive and at the same time oppressive; it makes the products of human enterprise seem feeble, inconsequential.

  The men work in silence, absorbed in the task at hand. Art spins a wrench to secure the bolt that holds the oily gear in place as Connor guides its teeth into alignment with the smaller cog.

  Heavy metal parts, a rickety timber perch teetering a bone-breaking distance from the ground. So many things can go wrong.

  Connor glances at Art. ‘You right with that?’

  His son smiles. ‘Yeah, I reckon I can handle it by now, Dad.’

  With the gear locked back into place, the pump rod resumes its perpetual motion, driven up and down by the movement of the windmill’s blades as they spin in the morning breeze. Connor and Art down their tools and sit on the edge of the platform, legs dangling side by side, Connor’s clad in his well-worn work pants, Art’s in new, khaki military-issue breeches and woollen puttees binding his leg from his ankle to just below his knee.

  Somewhere in the indeterminate distance, Connor’s property ends and his neighbour’s begins. He half-raises his arm and points off towards the horizon. ‘I’m thinking I might buy Clive’s place. He’s getting out. Give us plenty of land – so there won’t be any arguments between the three of you when I’m gone.’

  Art laughs. ‘We argue now and you’re still around. You’ll probably outlive us all anyway.’

  A voice from far below. Henry, eager to head off.

  ‘Oi! Come on, Art! You won’t win any medals up there!’

  Art draws a deep breath and turns to his father. ‘Time to go then, I guess.’

  Connor is silent. Yes. It’s time. He and his eldest son climb down the windmill’s frame, jumping to the ground at the bottom with a resigned finality. Connor shakes his boys’ hands, claps them on their shoulders. Ed and Henry are champing at the bit to head off. Art is less exuberant.

  They mount up and gallop towards the horizon at breakneck speed, one last salute as they disappear. Connor watches them till all that remains is the haze of dust left in their wake.

  Everything left unsaid.<
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  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Help! Help, please, Mr Connor!’

  Ayshe stands in the hall rapping on Connor’s door. She is still dressed for the party, but her hair is dishevelled, her eyes wide and terrified. She puts her ear to the door and listens for movement. Nothing. She knocks again.

  ‘Mr Connor! Please!’

  A key turns from inside and the door swings open. Connor appears in trousers and a singlet, shoving his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. He looks disoriented and confused, like he has forgotten where he is.

  ‘I thought I was dreaming. What is it?’

  ‘Please help! My father!’ Ayshe begs.

  Ayshe leads Connor along the low-lit corridor to the French doors that open onto the terrace. There they look towards Ibrahim who stands, swaying, on the very edge of the pitched tiled roof in his dinner suit, bellowing in Turkish at imagined foes in the street two storeys below. The only thing that stops him from toppling head first onto the cobblestones is his tenuous hold on a rusted pipe.

  He shakes his fist furiously as he shouts, tottering and swinging out over the street.

  ‘What have you done to my country, you fat, spoilt buffoons with your thousand wives and syphilis sores?’

  Ayshe is desperate. She leans over the balustrade, beseeching Ibrahim in Turkish and holding out her arms towards him. Eyes shut, head thrown back, his daughter’s pleas fail to reach him through the fog of delirium. She turns to Connor.

  ‘He’s too strong. I beg him – but he’s inside his head.’

  It is only a matter of time before her father loses his footing and falls. She watches as Connor assesses the danger. He swings his legs over the terrace rail and steps carefully onto the mossy, terracotta-tiled roof. As he transfers his weight, his boots slip suddenly, immediately dislodging two tiles that skate down the steeply angled incline and plummet to the street below with an ominous crash.