The Water Diviner

by Andrew Anastasios

  Beside each castle or city are wandering gold lines that make up their Arabic name, plus the small sign giving their English translation. Connor spots Constantinople, then quickly finds Baghdad, Damascus, Aleppo and Jerusalem. It dawns on him that renaming the locations is the first step on the way to controlling them.

  Brindley continues with his lesson in local politics as a corporal arrives, snaps to attention and hands Brindley a large brown envelope.

  ‘The Bolshies want the Black Sea; the French and the Italians want the Aegean.’ He moves to the centre of the map and stabs at it with a blunt, well-manicured forefinger. ‘And here in Anatolia, where, incidentally, the prison camps were, the Greeks are turning the place into a bloodbath that makes Gallipoli look like a rugger match. Where, pray tell, in all this would you like us to start looking for your missing son?’

  Connor’s attention is piqued by Brindley’s mention of prison camps. He steps forwards and starts running his index finger in a circle over central Anatolia.

  ‘So, you say the prison camps were in this area here? Would the Turks have records? We could ask.’

  Brindley loses his temper, shouting now. ‘The camps are gone! All gone. He’s gone, and so are you.’

  He thrusts the large envelope into Connor’s hands. ‘This is your ticket for a steamer to Brindisi on Thursday morning, compliments of the British Government. Make sure you’re on it!’

  Taking control of himself, Brindley adds a hollow, ‘Good luck,’ as an afterthought. He calls to the corporal who now stands in the doorway. ‘You! Show Mr Connor to the gate, and assign a guard to his hotel. Make sure he doesn’t miss his steamer on Thursday.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘And if he puts a foot outside Sultanahmet – arrest him.’

  The corporal marches over to Connor and begins to lead him by the arm. As they pass Brindley, the officer puts his palm flat on Connor’s chest and leans in so that their hat brims almost touch.

  ‘Say by some miracle, your boy, Arthur, is alive,’ Brindley speculates. ‘Have you bothered to ask yourself why he has chosen not to come home?’

  After a moment of frozen silence, Connor shrugs himself free of the corporal and storms out, and Brindley feels a momentary pang of regret. Brindley is not a cruel man but he knows he has been reduced to his absolute worst by Connor’s stubbornness and unrelenting optimism. In difficult times, personal traits such as these are exasperating indulgences.

  The truth is that Connor is in the worst hell already – forced to leave Constantinople without knowing the fate of his son Art.

  That reality is far worse than anything Brindley could say to him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Thursday morning. Bright and early,’ says the corporal as he marches Connor towards the main gate of the War Office. As an afterthought, he adds a gentle warning. ‘He’s a stickler. He means it.’

  Connor drops his shoulders, defeated and deflated. He knows that when he boards the ferry, the blast from its horn as it leaves port will signal the end of any hope he might have of finding his missing son. The thought of returning home not knowing what has become of Art has already begun to eviscerate him.

  As he is nudged into the street Connor notices that the rallying crowd has started to disperse. Their anger is still palpable as small clusters of men make their way down the hill towards the city wall, waving their arms and arguing impotently amongst themselves.

  Connor pulls his hat down over his brow, thrusts his hands into his coat pockets and fixes his gaze on the stone road under his feet as he picks his way from Topkapi. No man built like Connor, or dressed as he is, is going to simply blend in here. He has never felt more foreign or vulnerable. Connor curses himself for not bringing Orhan to help him find his way back to the Troya.

  In the distance he sees Major Hasan’s familiar woollen hat weaving its way through the crowd of fezzes and crocheted skullcaps. The Turk is the only person – out of all his own countrymen and supposed allies – who has seemed willing to help him. Perhaps, away from the War Office and the watchful eyes of the British, the major could be convinced to tell him more. One thing is certain, Connor has nothing to lose.

  Hasan moves through the crowd easily as Turks step aside for him, occasionally taking his hand and kissing it or exchanging the poetic greetings that are a central part of public life in Constantinople.

  ‘Peace be with you.’

  ‘May peace, mercy and God’s blessings be upon you too.’

  During one of their lengthy walks around the city, Orhan had attempted to translate some of these greetings for Connor, and tried to explain the protocols.

  ‘A man riding a horse should greet a man walking, but a man walking should greet the man sitting down. If they are in groups, the smaller group greets the larger one. If you are entering a house you should give the greeting too. It is in the Koran. And when you meet someone who has had a haircut or a shave, you give the blessing that you hope it lasts for hours. If someone gives you food, they wish you good eating, and you wish health on their hands.’

  Suddenly to Connor his regular ‘Hello. How are you?’ and ‘Good, and how are you?’ seemed thoroughly inadequate.

  Further down the street, Hasan moves briskly and with purpose under the shop awnings that line the pavement. He curses as he steps over the filth mounting in the gutter, including a putrid dead dog, and crosses to the other side. The British and French are having a pissing contest over who is in charge of Constantinople’s municipal services: the sanitation, the fire fighting and policing. Meanwhile the rubbish clogs the streets in fetid piles and waterways, and fires sweep through entire neighbourhoods of wooden homes until they burn themselves out. Half the population sees the Christians as saviours. But history shows that will only last as long as it takes for children to start dying from cholera or burning in their beds.

  Hasan passes a wall and reads the question painted in Turkish across it. ‘Where are they?’ Below are the names of prominent politicians, army officers and newspaper editors – all well known for their Nationalist loyalties. Hasan has heard that many have been exiled to Malta. Others have simply disappeared. There are persistent rumours of British soldiers knocking on doors in the middle of the night and taking these men away. Worse, there are whispers that the Sultan’s advisors are compiling the lists of ‘agitators’ – selling out their own citizens to maintain the status quo. Hasan would never dream of doing such a thing but still he feels compromised. Peaceful cooperation and reasonable discussion have not brought the Turks any closer to securing their country. The Allies have mistaken this collaboration for weakness and have run roughshod over Turkish aspirations for nationhood. So the time for compromise has passed.

  Hasan turns sharply into a narrow lane. Connor reaches the corner just in time to see the Turk disappear down a short flight of steps that lead to a basement door. Hasan raps on it with his knuckles and slips in. Connor darts across the road and stands at the top of the stairs, weighing up his options. Suddenly he feels a muscular arm go round his neck and a sharp object press into his side. He recognises Jemal’s menacing rumble in his ear.

  ‘So I get to kill you after all.’

  ‘I need to speak to Hasan Bey. I know he is here.’

  Without a word, Jemal pushes Connor down the stairs and holds him against the wooden door. He knocks three times with the hilt of his knife and Connor hears the turning of the lock. Jemal forces Connor through the half-open door, knocking a young Turkish man on the other side onto his backside. Jemal roars at him in Turkish. Connor finds himself in a small windowless basement with a vaulted stone ceiling. The room is scattered with tables and chairs where men sit in clusters, reading papers and drinking coffee. Cigarette smoke is trapped in the airless room and hangs like a fog above the tables. Connor’s appearance takes the Turks completely by surprise. Their robust chatter stops abruptly as they spring from their seats, grasping for knives and guns. Chairs are overturned and rock back and forth on the uneven st
one floor. Water sloshes across the tabletops and a coffee cup falls and shatters on the flagstones as its saucer is kicked under a nearby table. Connor sees that the men surrounding him are wearing civilian clothes but have the scars and dead eyes of soldiers.

  Before Connor can even begin to guess who these men are, Jemal kicks him behind the knees and the Australian drops to the floor. Connor feels a sudden, violent tug on his hair from behind and a cold blade across his throat. Finally, after years of despatching animals on the farm, he finds himself on the wrong end of the knife. Every creature dies differently: sheep bleat and then lie down in resignation, chickens scratch and claw to the last, and rabbits, perhaps because they are born wild and innocent, look at you with genuine confusion and surprise. He thinks he knows himself but Connor has often wondered whether, come his time, he would die a sheep or a chicken.

  He is surprised to realise he is not afraid. He knows that if Jemal wanted to kill him he would already have felt the burning line across his throat and the warmth of his own blood running down the inside of his collar and mingling with his chest hair. From his prone position he scans the desperate faces of the twenty-odd men in the cellar. There has been plenty of talk of Nationalist rebels. He presumes that is what unites this group of men. But Connor is surprised; Hasan has been cooperating with the occupying forces. It makes no sense that he would throw his lot in with the freedom fighters.

  As they overcome their initial shock, the men relax and begin lowering their weapons. Hasan emerges from amongst them, bewildered.

  ‘It’s no accident that he’s here. He followed you all the way from the War Office,’ announces Jemal in Turkish.

  Hasan’s confusion transforms to anger. ‘Who sent you?’ he demands of Connor in English.

  Jemal tugs harder on Connor’s hair. ‘He must be a spy. Let me kill him.’

  With nothing to lose now, Connor speaks up, struggling to breathe as Jemal stretches his neck taut.

  ‘No one will tell me what camp they took Arthur to. I just need the name of the camp. Records . . . Surely your army has records.’

  Hasan stares at the Australian on his knees, wondering if he really has his measure. He looks deeply into Connor’s blue eyes, searching for a hint of guile or deceit. Connor stares back, and there is nothing but determination in his gaze. No matter how crazed and mulish he might be, somehow Hasan is sure the Australian is not going to sell him and his men out. Connor is just as furious with the British as he is. The Turk signals to Jemal that he should release Connor.

  ‘He will get us all hanged,’ spits the sergeant as he releases his handful of Connor’s hair in disgust and pushes the farmer forwards onto his hands and knees.

  ‘Please, Major Hasan, I am at a dead end,’ Connor beseeches.

  ‘Then we are in this same place together,’ Hasan replies. ‘Go. Now.’

  Connor struggles to his feet and steps backwards towards the door. The young Turkish guard holds the door open momentarily as Connor slips out.

  Inside, Jemal and Hasan watch Connor disappear.

  ‘I have fought beside you for over fifteen years but I do not understand this. What do you want from this farmer? Forgiveness? Redemption?’

  Hasan speaks in a low voice.

  ‘You were there. Some things should never be forgotten.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Kestrels dip and flit in the wake of the ferry as it cuts through the choppy waves and surging current that intersects the deep, shadowy waters of the Bosphorus.

  Ayshe sits on the long bench in the spring sun and idly tosses small fragments of simit to the wheeling birds that hover within arm’s reach, sparring to grab the pieces of bread from her hand. Receding in the distance are the spires, domes and bustle of Sultanahmet. Ahead are the forest-clad hills of the Asian side of Constantinople, a city split between two continents.

  Is it any wonder we forget who we’re supposed to be half the time?

  ‘The city is like twins, only with different parents,’ Ibrahim used to tell Ayshe when she was a child, years before his dementia set in.

  It is only a short ferry ride across the Bosphorus, but the other side is a world away. The last time Ayshe can recall visiting Asia was when Turgut was still alive. Omer and Fatma’s daughter, young Fatma, had just been born and they crossed the waters bearing neatly wrapped boxes containing sticky baklava from the Greek baker and opalescent green pistachio lokum dusted with icing sugar. Turgut passed the time telling stories. Ayshe could never tell if he was concocting a fanciful tale based on nothing more than his fertile imagination, or if he was telling her something that was true. It was one of the many reasons she loved him.

  ‘Ayshe, janim. Do you know why this is called the Bosphorus?’

  ‘No, Turgut. But I’m sure you’ll tell me.’

  ‘Well, it all began in an age long gone and forgotten with the ancient Greek god, Zeus. He was many things – King of the Gods, mightiest of all. But he also had an eye for the ladies . . .’

  Ayshe jabbed him firmly in the ribs. ‘Turgut!’

  ‘What? Don’t blame me! I can’t change history – who am I to argue with the gods? Anyway, Zeus had an eye for the ladies. One day he caught a glimpse of a beautiful, nubile nymph, Io, who was frolicking in the lush olive groves outside the walls of the city of Argos. She had soft, wide eyes flecked with gold, clear skin as white as freshly fallen snow and long, slender limbs. She was, dare I say, almost as beautiful as you, my wife.’

  Turgut did the unthinkable then, lifting Ayshe’s hand to his lips and kissing it gently. Other passengers sitting nearby clicked their tongues disapprovingly and turned away from this public display of affection. Ayshe blushed and died a thousand deaths inside, but she was also exhilarated by Turgut’s lack of restraint.

  She pulled her hand gently but firmly from his grasp.

  ‘You are just using this as an excuse to embarrass me, then?’

  Turgut bowed his head and held his hand to his heart.

  ‘Apologies, my lady. May I continue with my tale?’

  She nodded, smiling.

  ‘Zeus was transfixed by the bewitching young maiden and determined to seduce her. The one thing standing in his way was the rather inconvenient matter of his wife, the goddess Hera, who was jealous and vindictive and didn’t look too kindly upon Zeus’ dalliances.’

  ‘Understandably.’

  ‘Quite. Zeus – did I mention he had an eye for the ladies? – decided that the only way he could protect Io from his vengeful wife was to transform her into a heifer, which he did – a beautiful white heifer with a coat that glimmered like satin, and still with her gentle eyes flecked with gold. But Hera was wise to her husband’s ploy and set a trap for him. I would not recommend doing such a thing to a husband, but Hera did. She demanded the beautiful white cow as a gift, knowing that Zeus could not refuse without revealing his guilt, and then set a hideous monster with one hundred eyes by her side to watch over her. Zeus was not to be thwarted; he commanded his son, the cunning and swift-footed Hermes, to slay Hera’s guardian, which he did –’

  ‘Begging your pardon, oh great bard, but what does any of this have to do with the Bosphorus?’

  ‘Patience, janim. I’m getting to it. After Hermes killed her all-seeing sentinel, Hera was furious. She sent a gadfly to torment poor Io. The parasite pursued her from one end of the Mediterranean to the other, before she reached these shores and crossed from Europe to Asia, and eventually found peace. This is the very spot she passed from one continent to the other. So this is the “Bosphorus” – it means “cow crossing” in Greek.’

  He nudged Ayshe and indicated one of the women who had clicked her tongue at them.

  ‘Today we are re-enacting this historic moment. You see that old cow over there, with the sour face and black scarf . . .?’

  Ayshe smiles at the memory.

  As the ferry sounds its horn on the approach to the Kadıköy terminal, Ayshe reaches up to the silk scarf that lies across her s
houlders and is tied beneath her chin like a shawl. She unravels the knot and lifts it to cover her head and veil her hair and forehead, intertwining the ends behind her neck and draping it back across her chest. She fingers the embroidered edge of the fine fabric, feeling the intricate lace pattern she had laboured over under the watchful eye of her mother as she had prepared her trousseau. When the contents of her dowry chest were laid out for the inspection of neighbours, friends and her husband’s family in the week before she wed Turgut, the quality of her needlework was more than a reflection on her own suitability as a wife; it was a matter of family pride and a mark of her mother’s competence as a matriarch. A quietly petulant Ayshe had been compelled to unpick and redo countless lengths of lacing because her mother deemed it too clumsy or uneven. Ayshe had found the whole time-consuming process frustrating and pointless; she cared little for handiwork and had known that her inability to make lace would not deter Turgut’s stubborn determination to make her his wife.

  Sure enough, their life together had been full of laughter and joy, and very little needlework. Yet when he left her to go to war, to defend their homeland, he left her nothing. She has struggled for the last few years, trying to survive without him. Though she resists it, it is sometimes difficult to quell the resentment that rises at the back of her throat as she recalls Turgut’s spendthrift squandering of her father’s fortune. If he had been more frugal, given some thought to the future, she would not now be forced into this untenable situation. But in spite of everything, she finds it hard to be angry with him for long.

  The ferry bumps against the wharf and sailors leap from the deck to secure the boat. Ayshe stands with her fellow passengers and treads carefully down the steep stairway to the lower deck, where she waits for the crew to extend the gangplanks. Unlike the streets on the European side of the city, where people of many races and religions mingle and there is a quiet acceptance of a more liberal way of life, all the women waiting to board the ferry at Kadıköy have their heads covered, some with their faces completely veiled, and stand meekly behind their men, whether they be husbands, sons, fathers or brothers.