The Water Diviner

by Andrew Anastasios

  Orhan reaches the foyer just as the front door yields to the British assault and its lock is wrenched from its mount. Brindley steps through the breach followed by half a dozen soldiers who stumble around trying to get their bearings in the half-light. Brindley spots Orhan standing at the bottom of the stairs, skinny shanks sticking out from beneath his white nightshirt.

  ‘Where is Joshua Connor?’

  ‘You want room, mister?’

  ‘Quickly. The Australian. What room is he in?’

  ‘Very cheap. Hot water. No Germans.’

  Brindley is in no mood for Orhan’s banter. He grabs the hotel register and begins flicking pages.

  ‘Australian? Connor Bey? He is on the first floor. I will show,’ says Orhan.

  Brindley pushes past the boy and mounts the staircase two steps at a time. He summons his men, who scuttle up the stairs behind him.

  ‘Upstairs. Check every room!’

  Natalia hears the tumult from her room and springs out of bed in a panic to pull a gown over her nightdress. The sound of slamming doors in empty guest rooms is unmistakable as the soldiers work their way down the hall towards her.

  Still half-asleep, she is overcome by an irrational and uncontrollable fear. Although Natalia knows that she is in Constantinople, the drumming of hobnailed boots on the floorboards drags her back into the darkest, most desperate recesses of her memory. Before the revolutionary guard came banging on their door in St Petersburg, Natalia begged her husband to flee. As a businessman he presumed he could negotiate with them. He was beaten to death on his own doorstep in full view of the neighbourhood as Natalia and her baby daughter, Elena, hid beneath the bed and listened to his dying screams. The bloodied, hobnailed boots thumped through their home until eventually they found them and wrenched them from their hiding place. As Natalia shrieked, holding her baby to her chest with one hand as she clawed desperately at her assailants with the other, Elena was torn from her grasp and thrown like a discarded toy out the second-storey window. After hearing Elena’s cry trailing away to nothing, she was inured to the Bolsheviks’ depravations. Nothing they could do to her could be worse. That was two years ago, and here again on her doorstep are the boots.

  A fist hammers on her door.

  ‘Connor. Are you in there?’

  The door bursts open and two young British soldiers appear, cocking their rifles and shouting. Expecting to face down a reluctant Australian farmer, they are taken aback to find Natalia standing before them in her vermilion silk gown, surrounded by the trappings of an Imperial Russian salon. She stands stock still, petrified, with her eyes lowered, expecting the worst. Almost apologetically the soldiers step into the room to check under the bed and behind the door.

  Her voice quavers, fat tears of fear welling in her eyes. ‘Take what you want. Don’t hurt me, please,’ she cries in English. ‘I have my papers. They are here. You want?’

  Another soldier, one of higher rank, Natalia suspects, steps into her room, his meticulously groomed moustache bristling.

  ‘Captain Charles Brindley, ma’am. I’m looking for Mr Joshua Connor.’

  Orhan pushes past the British officer and stands in front of Natalia, hands planted firmly on his hips. He juts his chin forward, challenging the soldiers.

  Brindley sighs. ‘I just want Connor.’

  Then, from above their heads comes the unmistakable sound of footsteps, followed by a scraping sound and the crash of a terracotta roof tile on the street below. The soldiers run from the room.

  Ayshe stands on the terrace that overlooks the peaked rooftops of Sultanahmet. Connor has straddled the balustrade and stands on the edge of the roof. The indigo night sky is now in full retreat as a halo of orange light appears over the top of the city wall, tinting the sandstone blocks amber and pink.

  Blind to the dramatic skyscape, Connor takes Ayshe’s hands and kisses her gently. With his rough, stubbled cheek against hers, she whispers a line of poetry in his ear, in Turkish.

  ‘I shall wait. Will I ever know another night like this?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  She responds in English. ‘I said, “Don’t crack any more tiles”.’

  They hear the British pounding down the hallway towards them and steal another hurried kiss before Connor turns to scale the hotel roof. He scrambles up the steep incline towards the summit, the rounded red tiles crunching and shifting under his boots.

  Ayshe hears frantic shouting from inside the Troya, ‘Stop now! Stop him!’ and turns to see a British officer barrelling towards the doorway, pistol in hand.

  A soldier follows in his wake calling, ‘Captain Brindley, sir, the roof!’

  Cursing, Brindley marches the length of the hall, clearly determined not to let the Australian get the better of him. Ayshe slams the door shut and presses her shoulder against it but before she can turn the lock, Brindley crashes through and knocks her against the balustrade. He scours the roofline and spots the silhouette of his quarry straddling the peak of the roof, the distinctive wide-brimmed hat set firmly on his head. Brindley raises his gun and aims.

  ‘Stop, Connor. Or, God help me, I will shoot!’ His cry ricochets over the rooftops, startling sparrows from beneath the eaves and shattering the tranquillity of the streets below, still quiet in the early dawn. Ayshe hears the false bluster in his words as they rebound, echoing through the narrow laneways and bouncing off timber terraces. He lowers his gun. Brindley may be sorely tempted to pull the trigger, but he has no intention of shooting the Australian. Instead he watches him clamber over the apex of the roofline and drop from sight.

  Brindley turns on his men in a rage. He points at the nearest private.

  ‘You! Get up there! After him!’

  As the soldier makes a half-hearted attempt to clear the balustrade, Ibrahim appears from a nearby bedroom, wearing a long nightshirt and clearly disoriented by the turmoil.

  ‘Has there been another coup?’ he asks his daughter.

  Brindley pushes past the old man and sticks his finger into the breastbone of his corporal.

  ‘This isn’t the end of it. I want Connor on that boat! Today!’

  Connor slides down the reverse side of the hotel roof, clutching at the dry moss and the ends of the tiles and finally sticking a boot against the fascia board to bring himself to a stop. He takes a breath and leaps the small distance to the next roof, feeling the tiles snap under his boot as he lands. He scrambles up the next valley and over the roof ridge, his hands now red as the Mallee with tile dust.

  He finds himself at the end of a narrow wooden gangway that joins the surrounding homes, built a century ago for bucket brigades to pass water along whenever house fires threaten to engulf the neighbourhood. Frantic voices shouting in English echo up from the street below as Brindley and his men pursue Connor at ground level. He jogs into the sun and notices the tiled roofs giving way to hewn sandstone blocks. Suddenly he finds himself running along an ancient rampart, the broken teeth of the city’s crenellated wall beside him.

  Connor stops, sucks in the fresh morning air and surveys the emerging cityscape to get his bearings. He singles out the towering minarets of the Blue Mosque and the succession of domes at Topkapi Palace. During his desperate dash across the rooftops, Connor’s mind has been working clinically, measuring his options. Until a moment ago he had no idea where he was going. Now, no matter how he looks at it, there is only one place that makes any sense. But it is a path fraught with danger.

  Shimmying hand over hand down a drainpipe, back braced against the adjacent wall, Connor finds his way down to street level from the dizzying heights of the ruined city wall.

  Heart pounding and with a singularity of purpose, he straightens his collar as he merges with the people starting to move through the market. He dips his head and hunches his shoulders – a feeble attempt to blend into a crowd in which he could only ever stand out. He feels eyes burning into him as he tries to move quickly through the streets, sure that at any moment a voice will cry out
, signalling his presence to his pursuers.

  From the corner of his eye, he sees figures jostling, hears raised voices. He clenches his fists, his nerves tense as he anticipates a shout of recognition. Or perhaps Brindley, spying his distinctive hat across the heads of the shoppers. Connor resists the urge to run, knowing it will only attract more unwanted attention. He steals a glance towards the source of the hubbub. A rush of relief. It is only two stallholders squabbling.

  He has a sense now of the chaotic rambling of the lanes that wind up and down the hills of Sultanahmet, leading him one way and then the next. He has learned that the best way to negotiate the labyrinth is to follow landmarks. And so Connor peels off the main street and passes the row of barbers plying their trade before turning left at a three- storeyed mansion with an elaborately designed wrought-iron gateway. Every step he takes, he listens for the ominous sound of boots ringing on the cobbles behind him. The street dips down then branches into two, a marble-faced fountain at the intersection spurting water into a carved basin and running over onto the paving stones. Connor steps over the channel of water and takes the right-hand laneway.

  A narrow strip of light is all that penetrates into the alley from between the uppermost levels of the terraces, tendrils of ivy hanging in curtains from the iron grilles that cover the bay windows. Connor sees the place he’s looking for at the end of the lane. Set below street level, a haphazard row of timber steps – barely more than a glorified ladder – leads down to a basement door. A narrow strip of dusty glass barely a hand-span wide runs along either side of the worn timber door and emits a dull glow from a flickering light source burning within.

  Yes. This is it. I’m sure of it.

  Connor glances around him, fairly certain now that he isn’t being followed. He carefully descends the stairway, standing at the bottom for a moment to gather himself and contemplate his next move. It’s not too late to change his mind. He could still make his ship. Brindley wouldn’t be too pleased, but what he is about to do will make the captain apoplectic.

  The vision that came to him this morning is still clear, still palpable and still very real. Connor knows that if there is even the slightest chance that Art is still alive he must knock on this door. He takes a long deliberate breath. Then he raps on the door quickly with the back of his hand and braces himself for what he expects will be a less than welcome reception. After a pause, the door opens with a creak and is held ajar by the proprietor Connor recognises from the previous evening. His dark eyes register surprise to see the Australian standing there. He is wary, and silent.

  Connor is at a loss; he has no idea what to say. In the end he utters the one thing he can think of that may gain him entry to the meyhane.

  ‘Mustafa Kemal.’

  The doorkeeper raises his chin and steps back from the entrance, allowing Connor to enter the smoke-filled room. Jemal is in a corner, nursing a raki. He looks up and glares at Connor, eyes flashing.

  ‘You, Australian! Can’t leave us alone, eh?’

  Hasan steps forward and stands before Connor, arms crossed at his chest. His Ottoman uniform has been replaced with a peasant’s baggy woollen trousers, cotton shirt and embroidered vest. He gazes at Connor dispassionately, saying nothing.

  ‘He is alive. I know it,’ Connor rasps. ‘So kill me – or take me with you.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘The train will slow for us.’

  Connor kneels beside Hasan, Jemal and thirty or more of their Nationalist comrades behind a bank of long reeds just past the outskirts of the city, sharp pieces of flinty grey gravel digging into his knees.

  At the top of the ridge where they lie in wait, the railway runs along a steep embankment. Further down the hill towards the port and the ramshackle hovels that cling to the outermost edge of the city like barnacles, a train approaches through a steep cutting, thick plumes of black smoke and white steam billowing into the sky.

  There had been a moment in the meyhane when Connor was certain Hasan would give the order for Jemal to slit his throat. The mood in the room was grim and resolute, and he had braced himself for the worst. With the warped perception that comes at such moments, to Connor it seemed that hours, rather than seconds, or minutes at the most, ticked by as Hasan contemplated him coolly. But a brief flicker in the Turk’s eye betrayed his decision, and Hasan’s face softened in line with the slight relaxation of his military bearing.

  Everything moved at breakneck pace after that. The men listened gravely as Hasan outlined a precise plan for reaching their rendezvous point. They departed the meyhane in small groups, leaving at random intervals; Connor had been assigned to a group of four that included both Hasan and Jemal. Jemal didn’t hide his displeasure and distrust of Connor from his commanding officer, muttering under his breath in Turkish as they prepared to leave.

  Ignoring his sergeant, Hasan brusquely explained the plan to Connor in English before they left the basement room. As he stood at the door, he turned to the Australian.

  ‘You are not to speak as we move through the city. We will be doing our best to avoid British soldiers. But if we do pass any, do not converse with them. If you try to draw any attention to us, I will have no hesitation in giving Jemal permission to execute you.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘As you have surely noticed, he is eager for the task.’

  After that, all the communications were in Turkish, with Hasan and Jemal giving Connor quiet instructions in English as required as they moved through the streets. When they rounded one corner and encountered a small British patrol, Connor’s gut dropped. He anticipated the worst, expecting the soldiers to be on the lookout for him. But he was relieved when the only attention he attracted was barefaced stares at the curious spectacle of a European man in league with three Turkish peasants, a scrutiny that was easily diverted when Connor smiled and tipped his hat.

  On the circuitous journey to the rail yard the quartet had passed under a mossy archway that cut through the Byzantine city wall. On the other side lay the stone-faced breakwater on the Sea of Marmara. As Connor made his way through the wall, he marvelled at the ingenuity of the fishermen who now made this place their home. Ramshackle huts made of driftwood and discarded sheets of metal had sprung up like weeds in the ancient breaches in the wall’s defences.

  It was on one of their first walks through Constantinople that Orhan had relished telling Connor that Mehmet the Conqueror had smashed his way through the city walls using cannon and driven the Christians into the sea. ‘And Mustafa Kemal will do it again,’ he’d added with a cheeky grin. Only now is Connor beginning to realise what Turks will risk in order to make Orhan’s bold declaration a reality.

  When they arrived at the wharf, Connor was surprised that the other members of the party weren’t waiting for them.

  ‘We are all leaving the city from different places,’ Hasan explained. ‘If we travel together, it will raise an alarm. The British do not want us to leave the city any more than they want you to stay.’

  A bent and weathered fisherman stood waiting for them by the dock. He led them down the pier towards a blue and white caique that was tied to a bollard, bucking against it in the heavy swell, the low edges of its hull perilously close to the waterline. A chilly wind blew to shore across the narrow strait, and sea spray misted against Connor’s face each time the waves slapped into the dock.

  Jemal, a superstitious man, rapped his knuckles against a timber upright. ‘Inşallah, it won’t be a bad crossing.’ His face was pale, his usually gregarious nature strangely diminished.

  ‘This man does not like travelling by water,’ Hasan laughed, slapping Jemal on the back.

  ‘It is not natural. Otherwise we would have scales and fins.’

  During the crossing from Australia, as they’d passed through the tropical regions, Connor had experienced some monumental storms. At times the boat had seemed to tilt from end to end in waves that loomed above the masthead, solid blue-black walls of water that had threatened to teeter and topple
onto the boat, shattering it into splinters and sending all on board to a watery grave. To a man whose entire existence had been earthbound, the mutability of life at sea was unsettling, the sensation of the deck constantly shifting beneath his feet more than mildly disconcerting.

  He smiled at Jemal. ‘I’m with you, mate.’

  As predicted, the crossing from the European shore to the dock at Kadıköy was rough. The wizened fisherman blithely clung to the tiller, standing on bowed legs in the stern of the boat. Connor clutched the smooth edge of the bench seat that spanned the boat, knuckles white and teeth clenched as he fought the hot rush of nausea that washed over him.

  Can’t have them thinking I’m weak.

  The passage seemed interminable. Each time he looked over his shoulder towards the Asian shore, they seemed to have made little or no progress. If Hasan was at all concerned by their circumstances it was impossible to tell; his face and carriage were impassive and unyielding. For his part, Jemal made no attempt to remain stoic; he spent most of the voyage bent double over the edge of the boat, dry-retching into the waves, all remnants of his breakfast long gone in a ghastly feast for the tiny, silver fish that darted about in the boat’s wake.

  When they finally made landfall, Connor clambered to shore with a conspicuous sense of relief. Jemal had all but fallen to his knees in thanks once he felt solid ground beneath his feet; he was so shaken by the crossing he felt a pressing need to down two shots of raki to steel his nerves. By comparison, the route through the streets of Kadıköy to their rendezvous point beside the railway line was uneventful.

  Crouching now behind the reeds and brush on the ridge, the group watches as cargo is loaded into the long line of carriages and the Ankara train begins to snake up the steep incline from the station below.

  ‘The sixth and seventh cargo carriages will be open for us,’ Hasan reports.