The Water Diviner

by Andrew Anastasios

  Ayshe screams. ‘You will never have him. You will never have me or this place!’

  ‘You think you are too good for me and my home?’ Omer spits. ‘You are no better than the slut upstairs!’

  Years of accumulated anguish and grief explode in the pit of Ayshe’s stomach. She strikes Omer on the cheek with the flat of her hand and shrieks, ‘That is why Allah never gave you a son!’

  The sound of raised Turkish voices finds its way into the salon. Connor stands and moves towards the doorway, unsure what to do. There’s no doubt at all that Ayshe is in distress, but she’s in the kitchen with her brother-in-law; it’s a family matter. Connor knows from bitter experience he can expect no thanks for interfering in private affairs. He is standing awkwardly in the hallway, hands buried in his pockets, when Orhan barrels into him.

  ‘Steady on, mate! What’s the matter?’

  Orhan flings his arms around Connor’s waist and buries his face in his shirt. Connor encircles the boy in his arms, patting his back. In the kitchen, the barrage continues. Connor can’t understand exactly what’s being said, but there’s no mistaking the fury and vitriol in their voices. Orhan covers his ears, trying to block out the hate.

  The stinging sound of a slap rings through the hotel, followed by a scuffle, pots falling to the stone floor. Connor can no longer restrain himself. He squeezes Orhan’s shoulder. ‘Stay here, son.’

  He marches into the kitchen in time to see Omer bring an angry open palm down on Ayshe’s face. Her knees give way and she slumps to the floor, one hand clutching the side of her face. Her brother-in-law has her by the arm, his thin fingers digging into her soft, white forearm, as he raises his other hand to slap her again. Hot rage explodes behind Connor’s eyes. He propels himself forwards and swings the crook of his elbow around Omer’s neck, dragging him away from Ayshe and flinging him to the floor. Shocked, the Turkish man kneels on the tiles. With two hands, Connor grabs his collar and lifts him to his feet. He clenches his calloused fist, readying to strike, but before he can draw back his arm, Ayshe pushes her way between the two men and holds out her hands, pressing against Connor’s chest, restraining him.

  ‘Stop! Stop! You fool. This is not your business!’

  Relinquishing his grip on Omer’s crisply starched linen shirt, Connor stares at Ayshe, perplexed.

  Fists raised, Omer squares up to Connor and glares venomously at the Australian, veins throbbing at his temples and the tendons in his neck strung out like piano wires as he grinds his teeth in fury. Without glancing away, he lashes out at Ayshe .

  ‘Now I see. This is what you want. The enemy.’

  Ayshe snaps back. ‘It has nothing to do with him.’

  ‘I have eyes. You were seen together at the cistern. My brother was a fool.’ Omer spits a thick nugget of phlegm onto the floor. He straightens his collar and smooths down his heavily pomaded black hair, scornfully taking in Connor’s well-worn work boots and labourer’s hands. Omer continues his tirade.

  ‘This donkey’s son knows not one word of our tongue. And you? You disgrace this family.’ Turning, Omer stalks out of the kitchen.

  When Ayshe whips around to face Connor, he sees she is enraged. ‘Go! You have offended his honour!’

  Connor is confused by her reaction, and attempts to explain himself. ‘He struck you.’

  ‘Yes. But I hit him.’ She scoffs. ‘You understand nothing! You will never understand.’

  ‘I thought it was the right thing to do.’

  ‘Yes, you and your sons and your armies – all doing the right thing. Was it right to push us to war? Was it right to invade us? All you did was rob Orhan of a father and leave me with impossible choices like this.’ She is deflated; grief-stricken and lost.

  ‘Then please let me help.’ Connor is taken aback by his own offer. He has been doing his best to suppress the growing attraction he has for this woman, the intoxicating rush of adrenaline that sparks in his blood when he catches sight of her. He isn’t too sure what he means by his offer of assistance. But there is one thing he knows – at this moment there is nothing he wouldn’t do to help Ayshe and her son.

  She looks at him, aghast. ‘So now you will rescue us?’

  Connor stammers, ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I raised three boys . . .’

  ‘And where are they now? This is not your world. Go home, Mr Connor.’

  Lost for words, he leaves.

  With a tear-stained face and puffy red eyes, Orhan keeps vigil at the door of the hotel, watching Connor as he treads carefully down the narrow staircase and into the foyer, carrying his small brown suitcase, broad-brimmed hat on his head.

  Connor sees the boy, but keeps silent. There is nothing to say.

  Ayshe is nowhere to be seen. Connor takes his room key and places it carefully on the front desk. Without glancing back, he steps out into the cobbled street and the warm, spring sunshine.

  The sudden impact of a wooden club against his spine sends Connor flying forwards. Another swing takes his legs out from under him. His knees crunch into the stone paving and he falls onto his hands, the pain shooting from his wrists and exploding in his shoulder sockets. An unseen assailant wrests his suitcase from beneath him, tossing it back onto the hotel’s stoop where it pops open, its contents spilling in a cascade down the steps. Out of the corner of his eye, Connor sees Orhan rush down to gather his possessions – he is relieved to see the boy tuck Art’s diary safely under his arm.

  Hands hoist Connor to his feet – two men, one at each shoulder. Omer stands before him, wielding a club. He holds it by the end, drawing it back behind his shoulder before swinging it with full force into Connor’s guts. The air driven from his lungs, Connor doubles over. A clenched fist swings up and catches him on the cheek, splitting the skin. He feels the warm flow of blood and tastes the iron tang on his lips. Another solid thwack hits the back of his head and he finds himself splayed on the street, face down, sharp-edged gravel digging into his cheek. Bruising blows from multiple sets of boots pummel his ribs; he curls into a ball to protect his midriff.

  Inexplicably, the assault ends as suddenly as it began. Connor opens his eyes to find himself inches away from a pair of highly polished black riding boots.

  Connor looks up, temporarily blinded by the late afternoon sunlight. He squints, confused. An imposing figure turned out in an impeccable uniform stands beside him, hands on hips. Connor focuses, shading his eyes from the harsh light with an upraised hand. There’s no mistaking Jemal’s hawkish nose and heavy brow.

  The Turk shoots him a half smile. ‘You missed a step, Connor Bey.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  He is outnumbered. But Jemal has never been one to be intimidated by a superior force. He stands with his arms akimbo, coolly calculating the odds of success should he be compelled to take on Connor’s assailants.

  Omer is flanked on either side by two burly men eager for a fight. Jemal decides it could go either way. There’s no doubt the well-dressed Turkish man is livid. His eyes are murderous pitch-black obsidian blades that flick between Connor and Jemal. The Turk can see that Omer is infuriated by his arrival and eager to resume his assault on the Australian. But the authority vested in Jemal’s Ottoman army uniform and its impressive array of medals makes him hesitate.

  ‘You know him?’ Omer spits. ‘This man has dishonoured my family.’

  Jemal raises an eyebrow, unperturbed. ‘My orders are to take him to Major Hasan.’

  Stepping forwards aggressively, Omer prods Connor in the midriff with his club. ‘First we will teach him about honour.’

  Connor smacks the stick aside with the back of his hand.

  ‘All three of you will teach him – together?’ Jemal scoffs. ‘Why don’t you leave questions of honour to those who fought for this country?’ He bends and offers Connor his hand, helping the bruised and bleeding Australian to his feet. The two men turn to leave, and Jemal serves up one last parting shot for Connor’s assailants. ‘If you’re looking for a figh
t, do something useful for your country. Join the Nationalists.’

  Connor hesitates. ‘My suitcase.’

  Looking back over his shoulder, Jemal sees Omer pacing at the entrance to the Otel Troya. He puts a hand at Connor’s back, urging him forwards. ‘Connor Bey, I think it is better we leave now. You get your things later.’

  Glancing back at Omer, Connor nods in agreement. Then, walking gingerly, Connor allows Jemal to lead him down the cobbled street.

  ‘Maybe you should have been a diplomat, Connor Bey,’ the Turk observes with a wry smile. ‘Come. I take you to Major Hasan.’

  Steam billows heavenwards, roiling languidly around the small, enclosed dome. Sunlight shines through coloured glass discs set in the ceiling, forming hazy columns of light. In each of the four alcoves branching off the central room, elaborately carved marble fonts are set into the wall. Steaming water gushes from ornate brass taps into the basins and cascades in sheets across the grey and white marble floor.

  Hasan, lounging along the low step that runs round the marble-tiled walls, wears nothing but a fine silk peshtamel secured around his waist. He dips his hand languidly into the basin to test the temperature. He retrieves a copper dish that floats in the basin and scoops up some of the warm water, pouring it over his head and rubbing his face and short-cropped hair with his other hand as it courses over his skin. Hasan offers the dish to Connor, who shakes his head with a tight smile.

  The Australian sits self-consciously, ramrod straight, beside the Turkish officer. When he arrived at the bathhouse with Jemal, he was ushered into a small, timber-lined changing room and given what he assumed to be a flimsy towel. When he stepped out of the booth clad only in his long johns, the hefty attendant clicked his tongue disapprovingly and took the towel from Connor’s hands, manhandling him like a doll and wrapping it around his waist. And so Connor finds himself in the bathhouse clad in sagging, dripping wet long johns, with a checked red and white cloth wound awkwardly about his midriff.

  On the enormous heated marble platform at the centre of the room, Jemal lies prostrate, his modesty barely preserved by a patently inadequate peshtamel, his limbs extended and his skin as pink as a pomegranate where a wiry masseur has pummelled and pounded his weary muscles. He groans. ‘I need a woman.’

  Hasan laughs. ‘Your wife is in Erzurum!’

  ‘Do not talk of my wife when I am thinking of sex.’ Jemal rolls onto his side and sighs. ‘My poor manhood. I used to have balls like a bull. Now they are dried chickpeas.’

  A waft of cold air blasts clear through the vapour. The three men fall silent and look towards the opposite side of the room where the timber door has swung open to admit two figures who inch slowly towards an adjacent alcove. An elderly man with silvery hair and shoulders like chicken bones has one arm encircling another, much younger man, who leans heavily against him. Connor watches as the two men settle themselves beside the font; the greying man guides his youthful companion so tenderly he can only be the boy’s father. He picks up the copper dish and sluices hot water across the young man’s chest. The youth’s vacant eyes are black pools. Connor gazes at them absently, averting his eyes suddenly when he registers the angry red stump at the boy’s shoulder socket where his right arm should be.

  Jemal’s expression is now sombre. He turns to Connor. ‘I found your son’s name on a list of wounded. They sent him from Çanakkale to a camp at Afion Kara Hissar.’

  The purpose of Connor’s audience with Hasan has, until now, been unclear. The longer Connor spends in this country, the more accustomed he is becoming to the protracted Ottoman way of conducting business, traversing a route as circuitous as a goatherd’s track. Issues are rarely addressed directly, and resolution is never immediate. Any discussion is preceded by a frustrating and extended round of social niceties and the drinking of hot beverages. For Connor, who has never had any time, far less talent, for small talk, it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.

  This visit to the hamam is the worst example yet. But it seems that the expected protocols have been observed, and he will now find out why he has been dragged halfway across the city to sit here in wet undergarments.

  ‘Afion . . . what?’

  Hasan elaborates. ‘Afion Kara Hissar. A town in Anatolia. It means “Opium Black Castle”.’

  ‘After Afion, we don’t know. Winters there are hard.’ Jemal groans as he rolls to the edge of the platform and swings his legs out to sit up on the edge of the heated marble slab.

  ‘So he died there?’ Despite the cloyingly humid air in the hamam, which sends sweat running in rivulets down his back and beading across his brow, Connor feels a frigid explosion of dread in his gullet.

  Jemal wiggles the fingers of both hands and blows a puff of air from distended cheeks. ‘From there, he vanished. I cannot tell. No more records. We are Ottoman, not German.’

  Connor persists. ‘Could he still be in Afion?’

  Since learning of Art’s capture at Lone Pine, Connor has held on to a gossamer-thin shred of hope that his son has emerged from the abyss and survived, but found himself lost, adrift. Connor has run through all the possibilities in his mind – there are so many reasons why Art may not have been able to return. Most of them are utterly implausible, yes. But in Connor’s dreams, Art is well. He is alive.

  ‘No.’ Hasan speaks softly. ‘There is much fighting in central Anatolia. No one would choose to be there right now. If he could leave, he would have gone already.’

  Connor’s shoulders melt, his strong spine sags. The sound of rushing water fills his ears; everything else dulls to a faint buzz. His heart stops for a moment, and then jolts in his chest. Steam fills his lungs. He is drowning. The evanescent hope that has been sustaining him since his trip to Gallipoli dissipates in the plumes of mist that fill the room.

  Feeling his desolation, Hasan reaches out to rest a hand on Connor’s shoulder.

  ‘In the morning you are returning to Australia. But tomorrow we travel east to Ankara. Mustafa Kemal is gathering an army there . . .’

  Jemal shoots his commanding officer a wary look. It is clear to Connor that he still thinks the Australian poses a grave danger to the two Turks.

  Hasan ignores his friend and continues. ‘We pass through Afion. If it has not been burned to the ground, I will ask if anyone remembers your son.’ Hasan looks down at his feet, watching the streams of water that pool behind his heels and run between his toes. He watches it funnel into channels carved into the marble and disappear into the pipes running beneath the hamam’s floor, flowing as it has for centuries. ‘But as a soldier and a father, I tell you – it is past praying. He is lost.’

  Connor sits slumped forwards over his knees on the low bench in the narrow changing booth, forearms leaning heavily on his naked thighs. His hands hang, impotent, between his legs; broad palms, strong, flat fingers, all riven with deep creases permanently stained with the red dirt of home.

  Where to now? Is this really the end?

  He seems to have exhausted his alternatives. The British are desperate to see the back of him, and with the way he left things, he can hardly expect a welcoming committee at the Otel Troya – the one place in this overwhelming city where he was beginning to feel comfortable. Worst of all, if Hasan and Jemal are right, there seems little hope of finding Art still alive.

  The walls press in on him. The sound of incomprehensible babbling comes from outside the door and echoes around inside his head. The room is muggy and smells musty, heavy with the stench of wet skin, sweaty feet and damp hair. He shuts his eyes and transports himself to his dusty red plains, the vast sky an impossible blue and air so hot and dry it sears the lungs. The windmill turns with a hypnotic rhythm.

  On his farm Connor knows and accepts the way of the land – doesn’t fight it, instead submits to its sovereignty and marvels at its fickleness. He has no choice. Nature wreaks havoc on his small community – droughts that last so long that young children are terrified when they first see rain falling from the
sky; fires that consume every living thing in their path, leaving fields of charred, contorted carcasses, blackened tree stumps and stubble where before vast plains of whispering wheat grew. But those disasters are familiar to him; they are old friends in adversity, even.

  He wonders why he finds everything here so difficult, why he cannot bring himself to accept what seems obvious to everyone else. His boys are all dead. God knows it would be a relief to stop pushing, even for a moment, and just accept the truth.

  But if Art died, terrified and alone, in a camp far from his brothers, his bones now lie in alien soil too, except they are untended and unmourned. The thought makes Connor feel bereft – physically ill, and quite desperate. He must find him.

  A sudden, sharp rap at his door. ‘Connor Bey?’

  ‘Yes, Hasan?’

  ‘Jemal has told me of the situation with the men at your hotel. Now we are dining at the meyhane you followed me to. Perhaps you should join us and return for your things later.’

  Connor shuts his eyes. ‘Thank you. Yes.’ In the absence of anywhere to sleep that night, it was his only real option.

  ‘The invisible wind carries us throughout the world. Remember God so that you forget yourself . . . Mustafa Kemal!’ Jemal bellows, butchering Rumi. His eyes are closed, one hand upraised, clutching a tall, narrow glass filled to the brim with a cloudy liquor. The other men in the room, all huddled around small, marble-topped tables, raise their glasses and echo Jemal’s raucous toast.

  ‘Mustafa Kemal!’ As one, they throw back their heads and down their drinks in a single hit.

  ‘Who is he toasting?’ Connor asks.

  Hasan observes his sergeant fondly.

  ‘Turkey’s future.’

  He offers the Australian a dish glazed with a foliate blue pattern that contains salty dried black olives. Connor shakes his head. ‘No, thank you. Not to my liking, I’m afraid.’