The Water Diviner

by Andrew Anastasios

  What the devil is he doing?

  The realisation comes to Connor before the question has even properly formed in his mind, an overwhelming sense of loss sweeping over him as he watches his son embrace the sky.

  ‘No! Art . . . No, son! Please! I beg you . . . You mustn’t!’

  Connor runs towards the turret, coming to a halt once he is within reach of his son, fearful that he might startle him. Art hears the fall of his father’s boots and turns to him.

  ‘Henry died without a word. Just a shot and then suddenly he was still. Nothing. His head blown away. Eyes empty.’ Art lowers his head. ‘Then I put Ed down like a dog, Dad. Right between the eyes . . .’ He sobs. ‘If only I’d waited. I told him, Dad. I did . . . I promise I did. “Someone will come get us,” I said. And they did come. The Turks would have picked him up too. He’d be here too. If I’d waited.’

  Art’s admission cleaves Connor’s heart in two, bleeding not for Ed, or Lizzie, or even Henry, but for Art himself. Connor cannot imagine the rings of hell his eldest boy has had to pass through since he left that cursed battlefield. The pain etched in his eyes and the black shadow of guilt that stalks him suddenly make all the sense in the world.

  Connor cannot speak. Instead he clambers up onto the turret and picks his way towards his son, blistering wind whipping his face. His boot slips on a loose piece of shale. Flinging his arms back, Connor rights himself. Looking down and watching the stone bounce and shatter on the rocks hundreds of feet below, his head spins.

  He looks at his son, toes hooked over the edge of the abyss and teetering on the brink of oblivion.

  Art turns towards his father, confused and conflicted.

  ‘Get down, Dad! Go home! You’ll get yourself killed!’

  Connor smiles madly. Mimicking his son, he lifts his arms. ‘You’re all that’s left to me, Art. If you’re not coming, I have nowhere left to go.’

  ‘Dad, don’t do this,’ begs Art.

  ‘You’re the only thing left of your brothers, Art. They are alive in you. In your memories. In your blood. You want to take care of them? You want them to live on? Then get down off the bloody wall and come home.’

  Suddenly an artillery shell crashes into the turret, tearing a gaping hole in the wall and spraying stones and debris skywards. The impact knocks Art backwards onto the rampart. Connor is closer to the edge now, closer to danger. A sheet of shale drops out from under his feet and he begins to slip down the face of the tower in a tumble of rubble and dust. As Connor scrambles for purchase, Art’s instincts kick in. He throws himself forwards on his belly and locks onto his father’s arm.

  Connor hangs out over the ancient wall, his feet kicking and scraping for a foothold between the stones. He looks up at Art and stops.

  ‘Let me go.’

  ‘What? No!’

  When Connor sees the confusion on his son’s face he tries to pull his arm free of his grip.

  ‘If you’re not coming home with me, then let me go.’

  Art shakes his head, grips harder.

  Connor swings out, kicking against the wall. ‘I’ve come halfway round the world, another hundred feet isn’t going to kill me!’

  As Art takes in the absurdity of Connor’s last remark there is the hint of a smile on his lips, a hint of the old Art.

  ‘I reckon it might,’ he quips, and begins to pull his father to safety.

  The pair scramble back up onto the rampart, chests heaving and muscles screaming from the effort. In the town below they see houses burst into flame as the Greek soldiers overrun the streets and alleys like black ants over a sheep’s carcass. Connor recalls Hasan’s warning. He turns to his son, still panting from their exertion. ‘We must find somewhere to hide. The Greeks won’t leave anything standing.’

  Art thinks for a moment. ‘Come on,’ he says, tugging at his father’s arm and leading him along the wall. They stumble down a stone stair and into an open court, both crippled and sore, supporting each other as they weave across the paving.

  ‘Over there . . .’ Art points to a low structure covered with a partially demolished dome. ‘The castle cistern. No one will bother with this.’ The plastered exterior has decayed with time and the friable dome looks bruised and on the brink of caving in. Art finds a small doorway. He slides the rusty bolt across and pushes it open.

  Inside it is cool and pitch black, but Connor catches the light from the entrance reflecting off the rippling surface and can smell the sweet water. They pull the door shut behind them and fumble in the darkness to secure it with a flimsy latch. Three steps down and Art and Connor immerse themselves waist deep in the cistern, the ice-cold water filling their shoes and soaking through their clothes.

  Gradually adjusting to the dimness, Connor smiles as he sees a hint of the old sparkle in Art’s eyes, the life reappearing in his face. He dips his hand into the water and splashes it onto his face, washing away the dust from his eyes and the caustic shadow of despair from his soul.

  Outside, the din of battle subsides like a train rattling into the distance.

  They are in for a wait.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ‘I’m beginning to feel almost human, Dad.’

  Connor glances warily over his shoulder towards Art, careful not to disrupt the barber’s concentration as he runs a diamond-sharp cutthroat razor in long sweeps down his neck. His son reclines, long legs extended, in another barber’s chair beside him, eyes closed and strong chin covered in thick, white lather. The man ministering to Art holds his nose to one side and scrapes the blade carefully across his cheek.

  It’s difficult to fathom the physical transformation Art has undergone since their reunion. In the church at Afion, Connor had salvaged a dying whisper of the young man he had sent to war. When he’d embraced him, feeling the sharp ridges of his ribs and shoulder blades through the thin fabric of his shirt, Connor had known that life had lost hold of his son. His face had borne the ravages of addiction and deprivation, sharp cheekbones protruding above sunken jowls, haunted eyes recessed in bruised sockets. But now, as the barber goes to work on him, Art’s skin glows pink, the lines of his features now strong and rounded rather than gaunt and spectral.

  Connor lies back, gazing at the strip of blue sky visible between the uppermost terraces of the tall timber houses that line the street. The cries of the gulls and swallows and the sound of feet ringing on shiny cobblestones conjure a warm and comfortable familiarity within him. What once was alien and disorienting now feels akin to a home.

  When they had disembarked from the Black Sea passenger ferry in Eminönü, exhausted and bedraggled, Connor had one destination in mind. But prior to that, there was work to be done. He knew from past experience that facial hair was not something to be treated lightly in Constantinople. As the two men negotiated the thronging crowds on the docks, their bushy and unkempt beards attracted scornful and unapologetic stares. Before doing anything else, Connor knew that he and Art needed grooming. He’d found his way to the row of street barbers in the narrow lane just below the Otel Troya, and the two men had taken their seats, the barbers draping crisp white smocks across their chests with a flourish.

  Connor inhales the invigorating tang of the citrus cologne being splashed liberally on the cheeks of the Turkish man sitting in the chair beside him. The barbers exchange pleasantries, gossiping quietly as they ply their trade. During their journey across the Anatolian interior, Art had begun to teach his father smatterings of Turkish. Although much of what’s said is still obscure to Connor, it gives him a strange rush of pleasure to be able to recognise some words and phrases as the barbers chatter away.

  He lies back and shuts his eyes, trying to keep in check the tide of excitement that rises within his chest when he thinks of where he plans to go next. Connor reminds himself that it’s something of a miracle that he’s here at all. Many were the times during their arduous journey from the heart of Turkey that the thought of reaching Constantinople became a distant and quixotic pipe dream
. Surprisingly, their escape from the cistern in Afion had proved less difficult than he’d imagined as he’d stood in the frigid water as the Greek troops razed the city above their heads. But as the invaders focused their efforts on Afion, Connor and Art had been able to make their escape relatively easily.

  At first they’d moved by night, wary of the Greek forces that continued to ravage the countryside. The two men were careful to avoid busy roads, instead following silvery moonbeams through poppy plantations and golden wheat fields and salvaging what food they could from abandoned farms, villages and orchards. But within days of leaving Afion, as the opium accumulated in his bloodstream began to dissipate, Art was seized by the violent and aggressive symptoms of withdrawal, and the men were forced to find refuge in a small, deserted stone farmhouse.

  As Art lay on a rough timber pallet that Connor covered with a makeshift mattress cobbled together from empty hessian sacks and straw, his frail and brittle body was racked by brutal convulsions and teeth-shattering tremors. He developed an incandescent fever that caused sweat to pour improbably from skin that looked too desiccated to contain any fluids. Watching his son turn grey, his breath rattling and catching in his hollow ribcage as he was pursued by night horrors and waking phantasms, Connor thought he would lose him. Feeling utterly helpless, he carried buckets of icy cold water from a spring-fed trough set in the centre of the farmyard and bathed his son’s face and twig-like, wasted limbs, attempting to quench the fever that ravaged him. As Connor passed the cloth across Art’s brow, it tugged at skin stretched taut across his bones and as transparent and insubstantial as yellow cellophane.

  Until, one morning, he woke after another night spent sleeping fitfully by his son’s side and found Art gazing at him over the edge of his cot. His face was drawn and haggard, but the light of life glinted in his eyes, reflecting the bright beams of the morning sun shining into the room.

  They had remained at the farm while Art built his strength, until he was ready to move on. Connor had fashioned a trap from abandoned farm machinery and every other day he went out into the fields where he caught rabbits that he cooked on a spit over glowing coals. Connor knew his son was going to live when he saw Art licking his fingers as he pulled the tender meat off the bones and ate until his emaciated belly swelled beneath his ribcage like a child’s balloon.

  To the south, they watched as the dull glow of flames left in the partisans’ wake slowly disappeared, and the two men knew they were safe. They moved to the east and then headed north through small hamlets where families tended their fields and led their herds into the hills to graze each day, blithely unaware of the conflict that was so close at hand.

  Art had tried to explain to his father that they needn’t worry; that the people they would encounter were duty-bound to give them succour. It was inconceivable to Connor. If two strangers were to appear on a doorstep in Rainbow, particularly two foreign strangers as moth-eaten and down-at-heel as Art and Connor, they’d be given short shrift. But Art had been right. There wasn’t a village they passed through from Afion to the Black Sea where their arrival was not heralded by a rag-tag parade of children and a feast hosted by the mukhtar, or mayor, of the settlement. Many was the night that Connor lay beneath a rough woollen blanket, his belly full of rice, marvelling at the largesse of these people who gave without question. When Connor and Art traversed the wide Anatolian plain and passed through the towering forests and craggy mountains that plunged down to the inky depths of the Black Sea at Zonguldak, they did so without exchanging a single coin for the food and comforts that ensured their safe passage back to Constantinople.

  The barber dips a towel in boiling-hot water, flicks it and deftly places it on Connor’s face, swathing all but his nose under a soft cotton cloud. Connor’s reverie is broken as he submits to the ritual. He inhales, feeling plumes of fragrant steam fill his nostrils.

  ‘Hey, Dad! How are you doing under there?’

  ‘Dunno, mate. You tell me.’

  His son laughs as the barber removes the towel. ‘Barely know you without the beard.’

  Connor reaches up and feels his warm, smooth chin. The barber stands before him, splashing cologne into his palms. Connor braces himself as the Turk vigorously slaps his cheeks and chin, the chilly, fragrant balm making his skin burn.

  ‘I need to sort out some accommodation for us, son.’ Just the thought of it makes Connor’s heart race.

  Art looks up the hill to where the turrets and domes of Topkapi soar into the cerulean-blue sky. ‘I hear the Sultan’s palace is available.’ He smiles to himself. ‘Tell them the harem can stay.’

  Connor feigns an untied bootlace as an excuse to halt in the shadows and gather himself before they round the corner and begin the approach to the pink mansion on the hilltop. Adrenaline courses through his veins and he struggles to control his breath, every cell in his body urging him to run; which way, he’s not entirely sure.

  ‘C’mon, Dad. Pick up the pace a little. I’m dying for a little shut-eye.’ Art is impatient, eager to settle, take some time to stop and breathe.

  ‘Just a minute, mate. Be right with you.’

  Although he has told Art about the Otel Troya and the woman and young boy he met there, he hasn’t spoken of the love that blossomed in his heart for Ayshe. The sense of loss Art feels for the death of his mother is still raw, and Connor has no wish to complicate that by revealing his feelings for the Turkish woman. So he has been unable to release the pent-up anticipation that has been building in his gut since they stepped onto the ferry at Zonguldak on the Black Sea coast. It was only then that the sickly feeling of dread and loss that had haunted him throughout their travels began to abate, and Connor allowed himself to entertain the thought that he might, one day, see her again.

  He stands, takes a deep breath.

  ‘Up here, is it, Dad?’ Art is racing forwards.

  ‘Yep. That’s it, son. Just round the corner.’ Art disappears up the lane, Connor in his wake.

  There. There it is. Unchanged. A closer look. The façade looks less shabby than he remembers, the paint and plaster fresher; the garden brought to order. Then again, he thinks to himself, perhaps he’s romanticising it. A thousand questions tug at his resolve.

  What if she’s not here? What if Omer is running the hotel? What if she has remarried? What if she no longer wants me?

  Connor curses himself silently, despising his self-doubt. He hesitates, momentarily entertaining the thought that he should turn, leave, hold on to the precious memories and walk away.

  ‘Dad! C’mon!’ Too late. Art has bolted up the street, already has a foot on the stoop. There is no avoiding it. Connor steels himself and mounts the steps. His heart warms as he hears Orhan’s lilting patter from within, attempting to recruit another paying customer: Art.

  ‘You want room? Clean sheets. Hot water . . .’

  Connor steps into the foyer and finishes his sentence, ‘. . . and no Australians?’

  For a moment, Orhan is rooted to the spot, dumbstruck. Then, his face splits into an enormous smile and he shrieks with joy, racing across the foyer and flinging his arms around Connor’s neck. ‘Connor Bey! You came back for me!’ Connor laughs and wraps the boy in a bear hug, smelling the wood smoke and cinnamon in his hair.

  ‘Orhan, this is someone I’d like you to meet. It’s my son, Arthur.’

  The boy turns, his face now solemn. He nods his head earnestly, playing the host. ‘Good day, Arthur. It is a pleasure to be meeting you. Welcome to Otel Troya. You will be our guest.’ Orhan extends his hand.

  Connor ruffles the boy’s hair as he shakes hands with Art. ‘So, you are the patron now, are you?’

  A rippling sound comes from behind Connor as a beaded curtain is pulled aside. His heart leaps and he turns. No. It is not her, but Natalia. She is dressed modestly in a simple, waisted burgundy dress with her hair tied back in a floral scarf, her cheeks lightly powdered and a gentle blush-pink colour on her lips. ‘Yes, now he is little patron.
I his assistant. Welcome back to hotel, Mr Connor.’ She catches sight of Art, who is standing to one side, amused by his father’s familiarity with these people and this place. Her eyes widen. ‘Your son?’

  Connor nods. ‘Yes. This is Art.’

  The Russian woman smiles. ‘So handsome.’ She opens the ledger on the front desk and writes Connor’s name against one of the room numbers, then turns and takes a key from its hook on the wall behind her. She hands it to Orhan. ‘Please show them to our best room.’

  Orhan bows. ‘It will be my pleasure.’ The veil of formality is lifted, and the boy laughs out loud, taking Connor and Art by the hand. ‘Come! I show you!’

  Connor hesitates. ‘You go ahead, son. Show Art the room.’ He turns back to where Natalia stands behind the counter. Before he can open his mouth Natalia nods her head and smiles gently. ‘She is outside.’

  Ayshe walks across the courtyard towards the kitchen, carrying a small tray. She swings the door open and enters, placing the silver salver onto the stone bench. She looks contentedly into the garden, where neatly set tables sit under dappled shade, a handful of them occupied by groups of travellers poring over maps of the city. Her father sits in a chair by the fountain, dressed in a three-piece suit and clutching his cane with both hands, gazing into the indeterminate distance and talking quietly to himself.

  She stands by the hot coals that glow orange in the stove, tending a tiny engraved copper pot as the silken coffee grounds froth and foam. She is miles away, marvelling at the events that have changed her fortunes. When she rejected Omer’s proposal, she was forced to face the prospect of losing the hotel and sending her family into penury. A timely approach from a representative of Thomas Cook & Son then led her to make a spontaneous, albeit desperate, decision. She scraped together enough money to buy an advertisement in Cook’s guide to Constantinople. Before the guide had even been published, the company started to recommend the Troya to travellers, and very quickly her investment began to bear fruit. Wealthy tourists from Britain and America were choosing the Otel Troya when they visited the city. Rooms were even booked by telegram and Orhan despatched to meet guests as they disembarked from vessels that moored at the docks, or alighted from the Orient Express at Sirkeci Station.