The Water Diviner

by Andrew Anastasios

  Hasan indicates a dish of nuts sitting on the table. Connor smiles tightly. His misgiving is plain to see as he gingerly picks a whole pistachio from the bowl and pops it into his mouth. Before Hasan can stop him, Connor crunches down on the shell, wincing as it shatters against his tongue.

  ‘It is called an antep fıstık. But you must open it first. Like this,’ Hasan explains, picking a nut from the bowl as Connor spits the shards from his mouth. The Turk digs his thumbnail into the tiny split between the two shell halves and pops the pistachio open. Connor makes another, more successful, attempt and pops the nut into his mouth. Surprised, he smiles as he bites down on the sweet and fragrant nut.

  ‘This isn’t bad. Delicious, really.’

  Hasan watches the Australian, who wears his unease like an ill-fitting suit. Connor flinches and starts, his eyes darting from one side of the room to the other, totally at odds with his environment. But Hasan can tell that he is a man not easily diverted from his course.

  In the hamam Hasan didn’t have the heart to tell Connor the news from Anatolia. Every day, survivors flood into Constantinople, fleeing the massacres. They carry with them tales of atrocities and brutality that beggar belief. As the Hellenic army makes sorties into the Turkish countryside from Smyrna, Turkish and Greek neighbours turn on each other, and centuries of festering acrimony accrued for real and imagined episodes of dispossession and dishonour incite men to rape and disembowel; to tear flesh from bone. It’s inconceivable to Hasan that anyone, least of all a foreign prisoner of war, would willingly remain in the midst of such mayhem. But he can’t find it in himself to shatter what remains of Connor’s hope.

  Jemal staggers over to the table, wielding a bottle of raki like a weapon. He slops a generous serve of the clear liquid into three glasses, and adds a dash of water from a jug that sits by Connor’s elbow, turning the alcohol a milky white.

  ‘Now, raki becomes aslan süt – lion’s milk!’ Jemal extends one of the glasses to Connor. ‘Drink, Australian!’

  Connor lifts the glass to his nose and sniffs. ‘That smells good. Like liquorice.’ He takes a large sip and the air is driven from his lungs. He coughs, eyes watering.

  Having taken a deep draught of his own raki, Jemal stands in the centre of the room, head tilted to the side and both arms held at shoulder height, one palm facing upwards to the ceiling, the other turned down towards the dusty floor of the meyhane. He begins to spin, clumsily and slowly.

  ‘Outside, all is madness. We are drunk with it. Defeat. Pain. Grief. Inside – in the middle, all is quiet.’ Jemal lowers his finger to his lips. ‘Shh.’

  Hasan shakes his head. ‘Now he’s a Sufi. He always finds religion in raki.’

  Just as suddenly as he started, Jemal stops spinning and stands stock still in the centre of the floor. The men gathered in clusters around the room pay him little mind, remaining deep in conversation, brows furrowed and hands gesticulating emphatically. Jemal shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. He begins to sing in a voice that is surprisingly melodious for such a bear of a man. He sways in time and claps the rhythm on hands held high. Faces turn towards him, smiling, recognising the tune, transported to the distant pine-clad mountains in the Anatolian hinterland through the force of Jemal’s lyrical warbling. They begin to join in, tapping bottles and glasses with metal spoons, drumming on the tables and slapping their thighs. Jemal warms to the attention, begins to dip and dance as he sings. The song catches the room like a brushfire and other voices join his as he lifts the tempo, now stomping and chanting towards a crescendo. Men sway together, arm in arm.

  Jemal spins back to where Connor sits with Hasan and pulls back a chair, collapsing into it. Hasan leans forwards, shouting to Connor above the din.

  ‘He is an enthusiastic singer but the worst sergeant in the whole Ottoman Army. Three times I have saved this man’s life. Never once in battle!’

  Spilling more raki into their three glasses, Jemal affectionately goads Hasan.

  ‘Look at him. Like a peacock with a big moustache and gold buttons . . . “I love my wife, I love my children, I have a big stick up my arsehole”.’

  Despite himself, Connor laughs.

  Jemal turns towards Connor and whispers conspiratorially, ‘Tonight we kill this man together, yes? You and me. We kill him with lion’s milk. Şerefe! Forget!’

  Connor raises his glass and takes a tentative sip. ‘Şerefe.’

  Shaking his head, Jemal reverts to Turkish.

  ‘I don’t trust him. He doesn’t drink like a man.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The night is still and the air heavy. Connor finds his way along darkened streets; only a few lanterns glow in the windows of the terraced buildings he passes as he labours up the steep incline towards the crest of a hill. Shadows shift and melt as low-slung clouds of sea mist scud across the face of the moon. The tread of his heavy work boots rings and ricochets along the alleys, inciting a chorus of stray dog calls. He pauses, listens, certain he is being followed.

  A single light still burns in the foyer of the Otel Troya. Connor can’t see any movement on the ground level; it is late, and the household sleeps. He quietly mounts the steps, embarrassed by his furtive approach. This is not his way. He tries the lustrous brass door handle, polished to a rich patina by many years of frequent use. To his relief, it is unlocked and gives way, allowing Connor to push the door open. If the front door had been locked, he wasn’t sure what he would have done – he probably would have had no choice but to wake Ayshe or Orhan, the thought of which mortifies him.

  He edges into the foyer, looking around for his suitcase. Moving towards the front desk, he notices a light on in the salon.

  ‘Mr Connor?’

  In the half-light, he can make out Ayshe seated in one of the salon’s high-backed brocade armchairs. He draws breath. She is beautiful.

  ‘I am so sorry I disturbed you. I’m just here to pick up my bag . . .’

  Ayshe stands and crosses into the foyer, hand outstretched in protest.

  ‘No, I’m glad you came. I was waiting, hoping you would return. I wish to apologise for all I said. I was angry. I meant none of it.’

  Given the terms on which they parted company, this is not the reception Connor was expecting. He is struck with remorse.

  ‘It is I who must apologise. I presumed too much . . .’

  ‘It is difficult – even for those of us who live here.’

  ‘You were right. I filled my sons’ heads with heroic nonsense . . . God, King and Country . . . my rowdy, wilful and loving sons.’ Uncontrollable grief wells up from a dark place. ‘It was my job to steer them to manhood, and I failed them.’

  She gazes up into his eyes. ‘I measure a man by how much he loves his children, not by what the world has done to them.’

  They both fall silent. Neither knows what to say.

  Connor breaks the impasse. ‘Well, if you can just direct me to my suitcase, I will bid you good night. I’m sorry again for troubling you . . .’

  ‘But where will you stay tonight? You are leaving on the British boat tomorrow, yes? Omer won’t return before then. You may have your room until the morning comes.’

  Having resigned himself to the necessity of an uncomfortable night spent propped up somewhere down on the docks waiting for the sun to rise, Connor is relieved.

  ‘Thank you. You are very kind.’

  Ayshe moves towards the reception desk. She gestures apologetically at the mortal remains of Connor’s suitcase, which sits on a small desk.

  ‘Orhan and I tried to fix it, but the latch is broken. Tomorrow morning I will give you a rope to tie it closed before you leave.’

  Crossing to where it lies, Connor lifts the lid, and relief floods through him when he sees Art’s diary and the copy of The Arabian Nights sitting on top of the neatly folded but dusty clothes. He takes the diary and slips it carefully inside his breast pocket. Then he holds The Arabian Nights out to Ayshe.

  ‘I won’t need
my guide book anymore. Do you think Orhan would like it?’

  ‘I know he would,’ she replies, taking the book in both hands and smiling wistfully.

  Connor gathers the broken suitcase under his arm. ‘Thank you again.’ He moves towards the stairs. ‘They will be here for me in the morning to make sure I’m on that boat. Good night to you.’

  ‘Mr Connor?’

  He halts.

  ‘Before you go, may I ask one small favour of you?’

  Connor sits at the long stone bench that runs along the wall in the kitchen. Atop the chipped and pitted surface is an array of small dishes, some glazed and shimmering like gems, embellished with fluid brushstrokes of turquoise, emerald green and carmine red, others formed from rosy sheets of copper engraved and stamped with geometric patterns. Each dish contains something different and, presumably – hopefully – edible. Tiny purple cubes glisten, sprinkled with a finely chopped green herb; a swirl of buttery yellow is topped with a puff of rust-red powder and drops of a shiny green oil; bright red paste is flecked with orange flakes. Connor recognises an ingredient or two here and there, but he can’t put a name to any of the dishes.

  ‘No boiled egg, then?’

  Ayshe laughs. ‘No. None at all. Close your eyes.’

  Connor obliges. She places something in Connor’s fingers. ‘Try this.’

  He pops it into his mouth and chews. It’s creamy – yoghurt, perhaps? But the sharp tang of pungent garlic is utterly unfamiliar to his palate, and the dried mint, though fragrant, is unexpected.

  ‘It is called cacik.’ Ayshe wants his verdict. ‘So?’

  ‘Yes. Well.’ He swallows. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘I learned to make this from my grandmother using yoghurt from sheep’s milk.’

  ‘Are there no cows in this country?’

  ‘None that I have seen,’ she adds dryly, handing Connor what feels to him like a small cigar. ‘Now try this.’

  He bites into it and the deep-fried silky-thin yufka pastry disintegrates in his mouth. At its centre is a warm and tasty filling of tart cheese and chopped parsley. ‘Oh. This is quite good!’ he exclaims, surprised to find he likes it. Connor smiles, opening his eyes. Ayshe returns the smile, and her green eyes glint. She’s enjoying this.

  ‘Sigara börek. It is my speciality. And Orhan’s favourite.’ Next, she hands him a fork. ‘Now, dessert.’

  Connor peers suspiciously at the malformed piece of fruit dripping syrup into the dish. ‘And what is this, then?’

  ‘Poached figs in rosewater with pistachio and spices. Smell the cinnamon, the way it warms you.’

  Obediently shutting his eyes again, he takes a bite. ‘Oh, my word. That is delicious. What’s in it again?’

  ‘A thousand years of loving food.’ She hesitates. ‘How is it that a man who can feel underground rivers cannot see what is before his eyes?’

  Connor opens his eyes and looks at her. ‘I see well enough.’

  Ayshe holds his gaze and feels herself dissolving. ‘Today, you did not presume too much.’

  Her soft hand rests on the bench, fine fingers splayed out on the marble. Reaching out, Connor places his weathered hand on hers.

  Ayshe lifts Connor’s palm to her lips and kisses it, then places it gently against her cheek. Her heart races. She has never touched any man other than her husband in this way. But the sensation of Connor’s skin against hers makes her want to arch her back, to yield.

  ‘I have no room in my heart for two men. Since you have arrived, he is fading, and it scares me.’

  Connor stands and gently turns her to face him. He bends his head and touches his lips to hers, wrapping his arms around her waist and drawing her towards him. Ayshe tilts her chin and returns the embrace, lips parting slightly, softly.

  Connor feels the soft pout of her breasts pressing into his chest, and the dip at her waist where his hands rest. Desire and passion are useless indulgences in the Australian outback, and Connor has never had the time or the inclination to succumb to either. But he wants this woman with an intensity that terrifies him. It rises from his abdomen up his torso, filling his chest and making it hard to breathe.

  Ayshe takes his hand to lead him from the kitchen. ‘Come.’

  The only light in Ayshe’s room is the pale blue moonlight that floods through the lace curtains. It whispers across the starched white sheets and pools on the two figures that lie, outstretched, on the bed. On the floor, one pair of worn leather boots are cast aside, removed hurriedly with clumsy fingers and tossed onto the rug. Tucked neatly beneath the fringed edge of the woollen bedspread, the finely tooled burgundy court shoes are placed side by side, small leather buttons unfastened carefully, deliberately.

  Ayshe and Connor lie facing each other on the small French bed, her head resting in the crook of his arm and her hand on his ribs. Beneath the crisply starched cotton of his shirt, she can feel his heart pounding, his breath racing. She shifts towards him and presses her cheek to his chest, tucking her head under his chin. She can smell him, warm and smoky, and feel his breath in her hair as he lowers his head to kiss the crown of her head. Inching her hands towards his waist, she slides her fingers along his smooth leather belt, searching for the buckle. Finding it, she fumbles.

  ‘My fingers have forgotten.’

  Connor takes her hand from his belt and lifts it to his lips.

  ‘Please, we don’t have to do anything. I am content to look at you.’

  Although he desires her so much he can scarcely breathe, he knows it would be improper to push.

  ‘I never thought I would lie with another man. But I can . . .’ She hesitates. ‘I can tend to your needs.’ Turgut had been virile, and it hadn’t always been possible for her to serve him as a wife should. It had been Natalia who had spoken to her of the other ways a woman could bring a man pleasure.

  ‘Not if I can’t tend to yours.’

  She wrestles with her conscience and resists. ‘I must not.’

  Connor tries to hide the disappointment in his voice. ‘Good. So we lie here.’

  She turns her face up to his and kisses him tentatively as Connor presses his hand against the small of her back, drawing her hips to his.

  Needing to feel his skin on hers, Ayshe reaches up to the tiny pearl buttons that hold her long-sleeved shirt closed. Fingers quivering, she pops them one at a time until the turquoise-blue silk falls open. As she exposes her perfect ivory skin, the curve of her breast, Connor is captivated. His voice catches in his throat, thick and husky.

  ‘Oh . . . You are beautiful.’

  He strokes her breast with his weathered, square fingertips, and Ayshe moans involuntarily. Opening her emerald-green eyes, she gazes at Connor as she lowers her hand and presses it against his groin, feeling him stiffen beneath his coarse cotton pants.

  They lock eyes, hands now still. Ayshe breaks the silence.

  ‘We should sleep now. It will be light soon.’

  Connor kisses Ayshe lightly on the lips.

  ‘Yes, we should.’

  He lies back on the pillow, watching her as she closes her eyes. The moonlight skims the dip of her waist and the swell of her breast as she lies beside him. He wants to be with her, to tend her. But she is strong, so strong, and caught between two worlds, neither of which he can hope to understand.

  Ayshe senses Connor’s gaze and opens her eyes.

  She kisses him and smiles.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  She rocks and grinds against him as he bucks beneath her.

  His broad hands encircle her tiny waist. She rises and falls astride him, one of her hands resting against the hard muscle of his lower belly. She fingers the serpentine trail of short, dark hairs that cover his abdomen, feeling the sinews in his pelvis contract as he thrusts hard inside her.

  A blinding flash. The deafening roar of artillery unleashed. The burning slash and splatter of shrapnel embedding in mud and flesh.

  He looks up at her face. Hair falls across her brow, shie
lding her features from his gaze.

  Another blast; the ground rocks beneath them. She doesn’t flinch, is deaf to the mortal sounds of battle around them. Wet, persistent, she continues to slide along him. She bends forwards, then throws her head up, flicking her long hair back.

  ‘Edith?’ Through the haze, he is confused. Edith is in Rainbow. Edith should not be here.

  He feels blood – hot, wet – coursing down his face. Raising a hand to his brow, he feels the wound: ragged, deep. Bone through mangled flesh. The apparition that is Edith continues to ride him. He is rising, swelling inside her as bullets and shells whiz by.

  Turn to the left. ‘Is that Henry?’ His head is cleaved in half; the one, remaining bright blue eye is blank. Dull. Dead.

  A cry. To the right. Ed. Gouts of blood oozing through his tunic, running in a sheet down the left side of his head. Not long for this world. Ed lifts a hand, beseeching, pleading.

  Art turns away, fixes his eyes on the figure astride him, feeling himself pulsing, bursting. She lifts his bloodied hands to her breasts and he releases inside her, climaxing with a groan.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The woman lowers her skirt and dismounts the young man who lies prostrate on a soiled and frayed divan. The low bed is protected from general view by a crudely fashioned curtain made from a rough sheet of old hessian that she now draws back. She wanders off, disappearing into the darkened depths of the labyrinthine building.

  Swaying, disoriented, the man swings his legs to the edge of the bed and waits for his head to stop spinning. He sits up, fumbling as he closes the front of his trousers and slides his feet inside a pair of worn leather slippers. He reaches for a faded khaki tunic emblazoned with A.I.F. regalia where it hangs on a peg. Clumsily putting one arm then the other into the jacket, he attempts to stand, tripping on one of the figures that lie supine at his feet.

  The timber-panelled room is dimly lit, its floor a jumble of stained old mattresses and cushions and worn kilims. It is difficult to see through the haze from the opium smoke, which rises in rings and whorls from the pipes that rest in the insouciant fingers of the men who sprawl on the floor in a tangle of limbs.