The Water Diviner

by Andrew Anastasios

  ‘I miss my husband. That is different.’

  ‘Would your husband want you to wither and weep and marry into misery? Is that who he was?’

  The women watch Connor as he gently directs Orhan and heaves the pieces of timber into place, his strong chest straining against his shirt.

  ‘His equipment is all there, Ayshe Hanim. In need of practice, but all there . . .’

  ‘Enough, Natalia,’ Ayshe retorts. ‘Too much. Go and eat your breakfast.’

  ‘He is cut, too.’

  Ayshe claps her hands over her ears in mock horror. Glancing into the courtyard, she sees that Connor and Orhan have finished their work. They turn to walk back into the hotel, stopping at the trough to wash the sawdust from their hands.

  ‘Shush, you disgraceful woman. They’re coming.’ Ayshe hurries Natalia from the kitchen; the Russian woman sashays out, hips wiggling.

  Orhan bursts through the door, blurting out in Turkish, ‘Mother, Connor Bey is coming with us to the cistern. He wants to see it!’

  Ayshe looks into Orhan’s upturned face, alight with anticipation. Shaking her head, she addresses him in Turkish. ‘No. It is just you and me today. Special treat.’ Ayshe turns to Connor and reverts to English. ‘I am sorry, Mr Connor. This is not possible.’

  Connor nods his head in understanding.

  ‘It would not be proper,’ she adds.

  ‘Of course. I am going to the Red Cross this morning anyway.’

  Ayshe feels a small hand in hers, senses Orhan’s disappointment. His excited expression has imploded into one of utter dejection.

  ‘Little one, it is not possible.’ But as she says it, Ayshe’s will breaks.

  ‘Well . . . Mr Connor, where we are going is near the Red Cross. Perhaps if you were to follow – perhaps twenty paces behind. Then there would be no shame.’

  The boy whoops with delight. ‘Come, come, Connor Bey. Come get your hat. We go. We go now.’ Orhan leads Connor from the kitchen by the hand, the big man following awkwardly but willingly in the child’s wake.

  Ayshe can’t see any real harm in allowing him this one, small indulgence. The boy’s world is going to be shattered soon enough.

  A war veteran, still clad in the well-worn but patched and clean remnants of his Ottoman uniform, sits at a spinning whetstone, pumping the treadle to keep the glistening disc whirling. He lays the edge of a wooden-handled knife against the stone, sending sparks flying. Connor pauses to marvel at his adroit handling of the razor-sharp blade and notices the recent nicks on the man’s fingers. Finished, the veteran brings the knife up to his ear, flicks the blade with his thumbnail and listens to it like a tuning fork. Perfect. He calls out the name of the knife’s owner and looks up, and Connor sees a burn scar melting down the man’s face and two milky, sightless eyes.

  Along the wall of the busy alley, a gaggle of shopkeepers sit in a row on low, rush-bottomed stools beneath the eaves of their stores, inhaling deeply on their cigarettes and gossiping. As Ayshe moves past them she joins in the banter; although Connor has no idea what she says, the tone of her voice and the gales of laughter that follow her leave little doubt that she is popular in her neighbourhood. One of the men stands and, doffing his cap, bows theatrically. Ayshe curtsies and laughs easily, continuing on her way with Orhan in her wake.

  The lane is steeper here, and a narrow flight of wide steps makes negotiating the slippery cobbles less perilous. Connor walks a short distance behind the woman and her son, an unwitting voyeur. He can’t tear his eyes away from her; he finds it impossible not to be entranced by Ayshe’s elegant curves and the fluid and graceful way she moves. Her head is held high on a ballerina’s long neck, and she places her feet daintily as she walks. Mounting a step, she lifts her skirt slightly, offering Connor a glimpse of her lithe lower leg and delicate ankle. He feels the unfamiliar thickness in his throat that accompanies desire. Connor’s encounter with Natalia has sparked something within him that has lain undisturbed for what seems like an eternity.

  Ayshe and Orhan turn into a dead-end lane and approach an enormous open doorway edged with an ancient mossy lintel and fluted columns. They slip inside and Connor follows. Immediately he is struck by a familiar and welcome sound. Water. Dripping, gushing, trickling, flowing water. And the smell: a dark, green scent that permeates the cool air. As his eyes adjust, he sees shafts of light penetrating the gloom from cracks and holes in the cistern’s roof. The beams of sunlight shine on an immense forest of massive columns as fat and tall as the oldest river gums back home. They glitter on a body of water that stretches back into the darkest depths of the cistern.

  He can’t help but utter an exclamation of surprise.

  Ayshe explains. ‘This is Orhan’s favourite place. It is Roman. And still the best water in the city.’

  The volume of water here is unfathomable. Connor picks up a shard of terracotta from the jumble of broken chunks of marble and shattered ceramic that crunch underfoot, and tosses it as far as he can into the vast pool. He can tell by the hollow plonk it makes as it strikes the surface of the water that the reservoir is very, very deep. He kneels by the edge and dips his hand into the pool, then lifts it to his lips. Like the water at the Blue Mosque it is sweet and cool.

  ‘It doesn’t come from beneath the ground,’ he observes.

  Bending, Ayshe uses a small pannikin to fill the large urn she has brought with her from the hotel.

  ‘No it comes from the mountains along the aqueduct of Valens that runs through Constantinople. It always runs, even in the middle of the hottest summer.’

  Connor turns to Orhan. ‘Do you know how to find water?’

  Orhan looks puzzled at what seems to be a patently obvious question.

  ‘When it rains, it comes from the sky.’

  ‘Where I’m from it’s like the desert, and sometimes it doesn’t rain for years. We have to find water that’s fallen through cracks in the earth. There are rivers and lakes under there. You have to find them’

  ‘How do you find it under the ground?’ Orhan looks sceptical.

  The Australian pauses. His strange gift seems so normal to him that he rarely gives it a moment’s thought. At home, his neighbours accept his ability to divine water without question. He can’t think of the last time he was asked to explain it.

  ‘That’s the trick. You have to feel it. It is like the earth talks to me.’

  Orhan’s brow creases.

  ‘First I look for clues above the ground – like old river beds or big rocks. If I see trees growing, then I know there must be water somewhere down there. Then I really start looking, and I use my hands. And it is like they can see underground.’ Connor struggles to think of a way to describe it to the boy. ‘When you are trying to find something in the dark, you use your hands, don’t you?’

  Orhan nods, transfixed by Connor’s every word.

  ‘It’s just like that. The things buried deep beneath the earth are sending me messages, and I can hear those messages with my hands. When I find the spot I dig down to the water.’

  ‘And you find water every time?’

  Connor laughs at the thought of the number of failed attempts he’s made over the years.

  ‘No. I’ve dug a lot of wells that just end up being holes in the ground.’ He steps behind the boy and rests his hands on his shoulders. ‘Here. I will show you. Shut your eyes.’

  Orhan obediently lowers his eyelids. Connor gently raises the boy’s arms so they are extended in front of him. ‘Now hold out your fingers and move slowly in a circle. That’s it. Slowly.’

  Watching from alongside, Ayshe is moved by the unexpected tenderness with which Connor rests Orhan’s hands in his own rough-hewn palms. He turns the boy’s hands over and runs his fingers lightly down the veins that pulse blue at his wrist.

  ‘Can you feel it here? Tingling?’ he asks.

  Sneaking one eye open to peek up at Connor, Orhan looks disappointed.

  ‘I cannot feel it. Just your hand.’

/>   ‘Come on. Close your eyes. No – don’t open them! Can you feel it now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No, Connor Bey. I feel nothing.’

  Connor bends and scoops some water into his hands, splashing it playfully into Orhan’s face.

  ‘Can you feel it now?’

  Orhan shrieks with delight and splashes Connor back. They go tit for tat until water drips from their hair and soaks their shirts. Eyes glinting, a mischievous idea strikes them simultaneously. Together they turn towards a grim-faced Ayshe.

  There’s no doubting their intentions. Ayshe stands firm and places her hands on her hips. ‘No! Absolutely not. That would not be proper.’

  Connor gathers himself, conscious of propriety and feeling like a clumsy oaf. ‘I am very sorry.’

  Out of nowhere a wicked smile flashes across Ayshe’s lips and she flings the pannikin of water into Connor’s face. She bolts back out of the cistern, shrieking with laughter, her son in hot pursuit.

  Blinking, Connor wipes the water from his eyes and watches them leave, his hair dripping and his heart pounding.

  ‘I wish I could be of some help, but we only forwarded relief packages to the prison camps – with bars of soap, blankets and such. We didn’t have any direct contact with the soldiers. It wasn’t our war, you see.’

  The Red Cross nurse has overcome her initial surprise at Connor’s sudden entrance and very bedraggled appearance. Hair still damp and shirt and pants sodden from the water fight, he cuts an unconventional figure. He attempts to smooth down his hair with his palms, but the light brown strands stick up in errant, unflattering clumps.

  In a corner of the courtyard visible through the door of the old hospital a fire burns brightly in a huge metal drum, fuelled by a mountain of old manila folders and files fed into the flames by two Turkish workers.

  ‘We’re packing up here,’ she explains. ‘Heading home.’

  ‘But what about the prisoners of war?’ Connor persists.

  ‘To tell you the truth, sir, there weren’t many of those. And those who did come through here couldn’t wait to go home. Most of them hadn’t seen their families in years.’

  ‘Is there anywhere else . . . any other people . . . who might be able to help me?’

  The nurse sees the desperation in his eyes. She lowers her voice, speaking soothingly.

  ‘The ones who lived couldn’t get out of this place quickly enough. If your son hasn’t come back to you . . . well, I’m very sorry to say it, but it’s likely he didn’t make it. The camps were brutal places, I’m told.’

  Connor stares into the rising flames despondently, watching them consume page after page of military records, sending ash and black smoke billowing into the sky.

  He is overwhelmed, broken.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The coffee sits, muddy and unappetising, by Connor’s hand.

  I suppose in time I might acquire a taste for it. He takes a sip. Unlikely.

  Two solitary Turkish men sit at single tables in the salon. One reads the newspaper while absently fiddling with a lavishly coiffed moustache. The other gazes pensively out into the garden, tapping a manicured fingertip on the tabletop. With four guests in residence, including its permanent habitué, Natalia, the Otel Troya is busier than it has been in many years.

  Ayshe moves about the salon, serving her guests an afternoon tea of rosewater lokum, dusted with icing sugar on tiny silver dishes, and sweet Turkish coffee. Connor is consumed by his thoughts, trying to plan his next step. Ayshe returns to his table, pointing to the cup by his side.

  ‘Take good care. Your fate is in there, you know.’

  He lifts the cup and saucer, and offers them to her.

  ‘No one else has been able to help me. Maybe you can tell me what to do next.’

  ‘It is a silly peasant game.’ She laughs and hands it back to Connor.

  ‘And you have to drink it first! But make sure you only drink from one side of the cup, otherwise it will not work.’

  Throwing back his head, he grimaces as he consumes the thick, grainy coffee in a single gulp.

  Ayshe holds out her hand and sits in the seat opposite Connor. ‘Here . . . give it to me.’

  She places the saucer on top of the cup and slides it back across the table to Connor.

  ‘Careful. Hold the saucer on top and make three circles in the same direction as a clock turns. Like this . . .’ Ayshe mimics holding the cup, hands rotating at chest level. Amused, Connor plays along, following her instructions.

  She takes the cup back and quickly flips it so it sits, inverted, on the saucer.

  ‘Now we wait.’ She smiles. ‘You know, we decide everything here by coffee. Business, holidays, even our husbands.’

  ‘And that works?’

  ‘Of course, it is the best way. When two families come together to arrange a marriage, the young girl serves her parents coffee. If it is sweet, they know she approves of the match. If it is bitter – go away.’ She waves a dismissive hand. ‘The more sugar, the deeper her love.’

  ‘. . . And with your husband?’

  ‘I used the whole bowl of sugar.’ She laughs at the memory. ‘I thought my parents were going to be sick.’ Ayshe shifts in her seat, seeming suddenly conscious of the disapproving glares of the other guests.

  She changes the subject. ‘Now. Your coffee. What does it tell us?’

  Ayshe lifts the delicate bone-china cup and gazes at the smear of coffee grounds in its interior. ‘I see a stubborn man . . .’

  ‘No, you must have someone else’s cup,’ Connor retorts.

  ‘No, I see a farmer who eats only boiled eggs, even in a city where there is a woman . . . see, there she is,’ Ayshe points into the cup. ‘A woman who is the best cook in all of Turkey.’

  ‘That is a lot of detail in a very small cup.’

  Ayshe lowers her voice and leans in conspiratorially. ‘Everything is in the coffee. The cup never lies.’

  ‘Does it say if this cook is beautiful?’

  She flushes and leans back in her seat, her gaze darting to the two Turkish men in the room. The Australian locks eyes with her.

  ‘Tell me what it really says,’ he urges her.

  No longer playing, Ayshe peers intently into the cup. Suddenly she rises to her feet.

  ‘It is all peasant nonsense.’ She takes Connor’s coffee cup and saucer and walks quickly away.

  As she hurries towards the kitchen, Ayshe is alarmed to see Omer standing in the doorway. As promised, he has arrived to set things straight with her son. But the dark expression on his face tells her that he has witnessed her exchange with Connor, and he is furious. She pushes past him and walks quickly down the hallway, her brother-in-law following in her wake.

  Once they reach the privacy of the kitchen, Omer turns on her. ‘You are not dressed in black? Where is Orhan?’

  Ayshe slams the coffee cup down on the bench and spins to face him, arms crossed defensively across her chest. After a night of troubled sleep during which she picked and unpicked her options, she knew there would be no easy path for her or her family. But after watching her son at the cistern this morning and seeing how happy he could be, and knowing that a life with Omer and his wife would be constrained by duty and starved of love and levity, she has made up her mind.

  ‘Until I’m certain Turgut is dead, I can’t . . .’

  ‘Do you take me for a fool?’

  ‘No, and your offer is most generous.’

  Omer’s fury rises to fever pitch. ‘We both know – everyone but Orhan knows. My brother is in Paradise!’

  Ayshe’s voice lifts to match his, her fear and frustration building. ‘I am not ready to re-marry.’

  ‘You came to my house and we agreed. You would now humiliate me in front of my wife and daughters?’

  ‘I cannot be any man’s second wife.’

  ‘Then you will never marry again. Who else would take you as well as your father and son
? And you think only of yourself, but this marriage is not for you. It is for Orhan. He needs a father. He will become my son.’

  The grim expression of resolve on Ayshe’s face leaves Omer in no doubt that she is not going to change her mind.

  ‘I have a duty to my brother! It is our way!’

  Ayshe shakes her head. ‘No. It is your way.’

  ‘This charade can’t continue. It is wrong.’ Omer steps into the hallway and calls out to his nephew. ‘Orhan! Come!’

  Ayshe has done everything in her power to avoid this moment for the past four years. The thought of it – knowing what it will do to her son – makes her knees buckle. She whispers, ‘Please. Not this way. I beg you.’

  Omer glares at her venomously. ‘It’s your pride that has done this. Orhan!’

  Ayshe knows that Orhan always dreads heeding his uncle’s call – most of the time it is accompanied by a clip to the ear and a volley of stern words. And the scene he confronts when he arrives in the kitchen – his mother’s blanched face and eyes glistening with tears, and Omer’s mouth set in a grim line, black eyes glinting – doesn’t bode well. He moves to his mother’s side and takes her hand.

  ‘What have I done?’

  She looks down at him. ‘Nothing, cherub. Go away,’ she urges him. ‘Leave us.’

  Moving across the kitchen, Omer takes the boy’s other hand. ‘Orhan . . .’ He speaks gently, but with resolve. ‘Your father is dead. He has been dead for four years. Your mother has lied to you.’

  Ayshe speaks over Omer, attempting to drown out his words. She takes Orhan’s face in her hands and looks into his eyes. ‘Don’t listen, my darling boy. Don’t listen.’

  Pushing Ayshe’s hands away, Omer draws the boy to face him. ‘Do you understand?’

  The blood drains from Orhan’s face. ‘Mother? . . . Please?’ He searches his mother’s face, and can see from her grief that his uncle has spoken the truth.

  Omer continues as Ayshe grapples to put a hand over his mouth. He flings her aside.

  ‘Your father is a martyr, Orhan. Be proud.’

  His mouth wide with horror and disbelief, Orhan breaks away from his uncle and runs into the hallway in tears.