by Jenny White
Your devoted servant,
Detective Inspector Joseph Ormond
Leader, Special Antiquities Unit
Criminal Investigations Division
Metropolitan Police Force
Great Scotland Yard
Hamdi Bey and Ismail Hodja were expected to lunch as well, but Kamil was early. Feride met him in the entry hall. As he kissed her cheeks, he found himself looking over her shoulder for Elif. He had seen a length of cobalt brocade in a tailor’s shop and had wondered whether she would like a vest made from it.
“Where are the girls?” he asked.
“They’re taking a nap. Now that Elif is gone, it’s so quiet here. You should bring Avi with you sometime.”
“Elif is gone?” Kamil asked, startled. “Where?”
Feride tapped his face gently with her fingertips. “Not far, brother dear. Don’t worry. She has her own apartment now in Pera. Isn’t that wonderful? I’ve just been to visit.”
“She never said anything to me,” Kamil protested, then realized how ridiculous that sounded. Why would Elif have told to him?
“It’s really lovely,” Feride prattled on. “It’s in the new Camondo family building, the one on the hill. You should see it. Her windows open right onto the sea. You could throw yourself into the blue. Oh, I’m so happy for her. Huseyin offered to pay rent, but the Camondos wouldn’t take it. They said they were proud to have such a famous artist as their guest.”
They arrived at the sitting room and Feride settled herself comfortably on the sofa. Kamil remained standing.
“How does she know the Camondos?” They were a wealthy and very distinguished Ottoman Jewish family.
“Hamdi Bey arranged it. She’s going to start teaching at the academy, and well, we are a bit far away out here in the suburbs. She needed a respectable place to live. The Camondos have taken her under their wing. She’s painting again too.” Feride’s excitement had taken on an element of wistfulness.
Kamil was speechless. Elif had leapt suddenly from Feride’s dining table into a full-blown life of her own.
Feride said, “She left something for you. I’ll go and get it.”
When she was gone, Kamil pulled out his amber beads and walked aimlessly about the room, calming himself with the rhythm of the beads as they slipped one by one through his fingers. It wasn’t like him to be set adrift by a passing swell.
Feride came back with a thin parcel and handed it to him.
“Thank you, Ferosh.” He sat and rested the parcel against the chair, intending to open it later, in private. He wished he could leave now.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Feride demanded.
It seemed somehow indecent to open it in front of Feride, yet he acknowledged that he could not focus on lunch until he did. Setting the parcel on his lap, he untied the string and removed the paper wrapping.
It was a watercolor. He recognized the image right away. “Orchis pinetorum,” he exclaimed. The pure white blooms flashed across the page like an arc of tiny startled birds. He felt her exhilaration there, her vulnerability. There was also a tensile strength in the arc that surprised him.
HALF AN HOUR later, Ismail Hodja and Hamdi Bey arrived in the same carriage. They greeted Kamil and their hosts effusively. They seemed in excellent spirits and the conversation at lunch was lively.
“It’s too bad Elif Hanoum isn’t here,” Hamdi Bey said as the servants took away the soup bowls. “But I take full blame. She’s needed at the academy.”
Kamil listened, but ate little. His headaches had returned. He planned to ask Courtidis for more Balat Balm. He hadn’t liked the hallucinations and emotional untethering—he assumed they were side effects—but it had cured his headache, at least until Remzi hit him on the head and Owen put a bullet through his shoulder.
“The Proof of God should remain in the museum,” Hamdi Bey was saying, “where it can be copied and studied. Above all, where it can be guarded. I’ve taken a look at that flimsy prayer hall in Sunken Village. An artifact of this historical value needs to be preserved and protected. Saba Hanoum is welcome to come to the museum to look at it whenever she likes.”
Feride nodded and looked interested. Kamil had told her and Huseyin only that the Proof of God was an important sacred object and that people had tried to steal it. He wondered what they made of the conversation.
Ismail Hodja told Huseyin that Saba was keeping up the tradition of Malik’s ecumenical dawah.
“Ecumenical dawah?” Huseyin asked.
“Theological calls to discussion across religious lines,” Ismail Hodja explained, setting aside his fork. A servant whisked his plate away and replaced it with a clean one for the next course.
“I’ve taken the liberty of convening a discussion group made up of my Jewish, Muslim, and Christian colleagues, all scholars of the highest caliber. I reached out to as many denominations and sects as I could. We had our first meeting last night,” he added. Kamil could hear the excitement in the sheikh’s voice.
Huseyin was uncharacteristically silent and Kamil found himself feeling sorry for his brother-in-law, who, on this subject, was clearly out of his depth. Kamil wondered what Feride thought about her half sister being the leader of a religious sect. She had wanted to meet Saba, but Kamil wasn’t ready to let her into their lives just yet. His feelings about Saba were too confused, wrapped up in some way with that profoundly disturbing dream and his father’s betrayal.
Huseyin set to cutting up his meat with great concentration.
Hamdi Bey asked, “Will Saba Hanoum attend these meetings?”
Ismail Hodja nodded. “I asked her to come to the meeting last night. There was some resistance to having a woman in the group. But after I explained that Saba had authored some of the calls and was leader of her own sect, the others agreed that she should join us. They call her Sheikha Saba. Do you know what she told them? She said all the Prophets point in the same direction, and if we look to where they point and go there, we all end up at the same spot. Remarkable insight for someone so young.”
“What is a sheikha?” Feride asked.
“A Muslim woman who is a spiritual leader,” Ismail Hodja explained.
“I didn’t know there was such a thing,” she exclaimed.
“One of the most famous is Rabi’a al-‘Adawiyya, who lived about two hundred years after the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon his name, in the city of Basra. She was a servant of poor origin, but one night her master woke to see the light of saintliness shining about her head and illuminating the entire house. He released her and she went to live in the desert. She debated highly esteemed Sufi leaders, but outshone them all with her intellectual forthrightness and spiritual powers. It is said that one such leader, Hasan al-Basri, became envious and approached her as she was sitting on the bank of a stream with some of her followers. He threw his carpet on the water, sat on it, and called to Rabi’a to come and converse with him. Do you know what she did?”
Feride was rapt with attention. “No, what?”
“She stuck a knife in the inflated sheepskins he was using to hold the carpet up,” Huseyin suggested, eliciting a scowl from Feride.
Ismail Hodja laughed. “Excellent guess, but no. She threw her carpet up in the air, sat on it, and said, ‘Well, Hasan, come up here where people will see us better.’”
Feride laughed in delight.
“Hasan couldn’t do it, of course. And Rabi’a told him, ‘What you did, a fish can do, and what I did, a bird can do. The real work to be done lies beyond both of these.’”
“A very wise woman,” Hamdi Bey applauded.
Huseyin tore off a hunk of bread. “Thanks be to Allah, women can’t be politicians.”
They laughed.
“The Quran doesn’t forbid it, you know,” Ismail Hodja commented, his fork pausing in midair. “In verse twenty-three of the Sura of the Ants, the Queen of Sheba is described as a mighty ruler who, although she consulted with men, made all the final decisions. It i
s her ignorance of the true faith that is faulted, not her inability to govern.”
Feride said tentatively, “I remember something about the Prophet’s wife Aysha riding into battle on a camel.”
“And his first wife was a rich merchant, wasn’t she?” Huseyin asked. “Smart man.” He nodded approval.
Kamil leaned over to Ismail Hodja and asked softly, “Have you told this ecumenical group about the Melisites or the Proof of God?”
“Unfortunately, the world isn’t ready to become one nation,” Ismail Hodja responded. “We need to plow the ground first before we plant the seed. The Proof is safe in the museum. I go there every day to copy and study it. It’ll be my life’s work. I can’t think of anything more important. Hamdi Bey has kindly put a private room at my disposal where I can work on it undisturbed. It has to be handled with the utmost care, as you can imagine. At the moment, I’m preparing a report for the Azhar Archive. A most auspicious day, Kamil. I praise Allah that I should live to see it.”
41
THE LIVERIED GUARDS saluted Kamil as he passed through the main gate into the courtyard of the Camondo Apartments. The building was shaped like a U, with one side of the courtyard open to the sea and sky. Built into the side of a steep hill, it seemed to float above the sparkling water. On three sides rose walls studded with French windows and balconies.
Elif was waiting for him in the courtyard, outlined against the immense cobalt sky. She wore a brown tunic over loose trousers, a coral-colored vest, and a long, matching brown jacket. Her head was bare, her blond hair still short as a boy’s. Her clothes were neither those of a man, nor those of a woman; perhaps different enough to avoid condemnation, he decided. He wondered if she had designed them herself.
“Kamil,” she breathed. “I was so happy to get your message. Thank you for coming.” She looked like a figure from classical antiquity, yet more present than any woman he had ever met.
“Are you well?” he asked, although he could see the answer. Her eyes were still troubled, but her face had lost its hollows and her cheeks radiated health.
“Come. I’ll show you.” She took Kamil’s good arm lightly. They entered a grand entry hall and she led him up the marble stairway. Two well-dressed women stopped for a moment to greet her.
“We’re off to the Café Lebon,” the younger woman said. With a curious look at Kamil, she added, “Join us later, if you like.” The women continued down the stairs, their hats bobbing.
On the next floor, Elif pushed open a double door and stepped inside. Kamil followed. They entered a bright, high-ceilinged room, which ended in a set of large windows and French doors leading to a balcony. The walls were so alive with light, Kamil was momentarily blinded.
Then he saw the canvases. One was on an easel, others were stacked in a corner of the room. He walked up to the easel. It was an oil rendering of the French doors, open to the sea, but defined by light and color rather than any realistic detail. It evoked exactly the same feeling he had had when entering the room, of falling into a brilliant sea of blue.
“Remarkable,” he said. “You have enormous talent.” He felt humbled by it, and eager to support it in whatever way he could. He let his eyes follow the delicate curve of her head. He thought of her bravery and humor. She was unusual, eclectic, still wounded, but recovering. A strong woman. Remembering their intimacy by the fire, he wondered what it would be like if they were married. He imagined her in the winter garden, painting, then thought of his orchids, endangered by drafts and continual traffic.
“Elif,” he began awkwardly. “Have you thought any more about your future?”
“Well, I love teaching,” she responded. “I’m terrified, of course. But the students are talented and so kind. It’s wonderful that Hamdi Bey has art classes for women at his academy. You know, it’s so rare, even in Paris. I wouldn’t have been able to get anywhere without the support of people like Mary Cassatt. I’ll repay her by teaching these girls everything she taught me.”
“They’re lucky to have you as their teacher.”
She flushed and lowered her head at the praise.
Kamil’s heart caught at the sight of her slight smile.
“Have you thought about getting married again?” He could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
Kamil was suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment. Who was he to ask Elif such a personal question, especially if he was not prepared to follow through himself?
She went to the window and looked out at the sea. “I’m not ready yet,” she said softly. “You know some of the reasons. There are others.”
“You don’t need to tell me. I understand.”
“Do you?” She looked up at him. The blue of her eyes shot through him. “It wasn’t just my husband’s death and then,” she paused and he could see her struggling with herself, “my son’s death. There were other things, things I thought I had to do but that, in the end, changed nothing. Except me. They changed me.” She laid her fingers on his arm, her eyes willing him to understand. “I can’t.” Her voice broke and she looked away. “I just can’t.”
Elif walked to the easel and regarded the scene from the window in the painting.
Kamil followed.
“Elif,” he said softly, “I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was, it created the woman standing before me for whom I have all the love and respect in the world.”
She nodded. Tears spilled over her cheeks.
“May I visit again?” Kamil asked, wondering whether he was taking unfair advantage of her distress.
“I’ll send a message through Feride,” she answered without looking at him.
Trying not to let his disappointment show, Kamil turned toward the door. “I’ll go now. Be well.”
As he descended the stairs, he heard rapid footsteps behind him and looked back. It was Elif.
She bent her head to his and whispered, “My son’s name was Yunus.” Then she ran back up the stairs. He heard the door slam.
Yunus, dolphin.
She had given him the gift of her son’s name.
LATER THAT EVENING, Kamil sat in his bed, idly turning the pages of the Gardener’s Chronicle and Agricultural Gazette. He had propped Elif’s watercolor on the dresser. In the half-light, Orchis pinetorum came to life, its white-robed blooms whirling like dervishes across the page. In the background, a basketry of shadows, stems, bracts, and nodes. He stood and placed the book of poems by John Donne beside it, as if each might draw comfort from the other.
42
“HOW ARE YOU, brother?” Saba asked, pushing Amida’s hair back from his forehead.
He turned his eyes to her. “As well as can be expected,” he answered bleakly.
“Do you want to sit up?”
Amida nodded and Saba gestured to the servant waiting by the door to come and help her. Together, they tugged and lifted him into a sitting position. His legs were still limp, but he was getting stronger.
The night of the fire, Constantine, with enormous skill and concentration, had extracted the bullet from Amida’s back and closed the wound. He came by every day to check on his patient. Most evenings he and Saba sat together and talked. She found herself looking forward to his visits and relying on his advice.
“So, how does it feel to be in charge?” Amida asked her. She could hear a faint echo of bitterness that she knew Amida tried to hide.
“I’m not in charge of anything yet. The ceremony isn’t for another two weeks. There’s a lot to do.” After the ceremony that would make her priestess, they were planning an enormous feast for the Melisite community and several other important guests.
“Sorry I can’t help.” Amida grimaced, gesturing at his legs.
The ceremony should also be the initiation of the caretaker. She regarded her brother carefully. Should she include him or wait until he was better? Did they even need a caretaker anymore, now that the Proof of God had been found?
“You know,” he said, “you don’t need to walk to
be caretaker. It wouldn’t make any difference, would it? Malik could walk, but he never went anywhere.” Amida laughed, a desperate sound.
“You’re right. It wouldn’t matter.”
Amida looked relieved.
“There’s no rush, though,” Saba added, “now that the Proof is safe, there’s no need for a caretaker at the Kariye. It’s not there anymore.”
Amida was clearly unhappy. “How about caretaker of the Imperial Museum?”
Saba laughed to keep him company. “I think that job’s taken.”
“I can go through the ceremony,” Amida insisted. “I can sit in the chair.” He pointed to a wheelchair beside the bed. It was made of wicker and polished wood with a small chamberpot built into the seat.
Saba pictured Amida being wheeled in beside her on her day of triumph. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“Later, Amida. There’s plenty of time. Get well first.”
Amida closed his eyes and turned his head away. Tears gathered beneath his lashes. “Leave me alone now,” he muttered.
Saba turned and walked to the door. As she passed the servant, she told him, “Have him brought to the hamam this afternoon and make sure you find that special masseur Monsieur Courtidis recommended.”
“Yes, madam,” he answered with lowered head.
Since the day Saba had summoned the shocked servants to clean her room after Gudit’s attack, they had treated her with great deference. Perhaps, she thought with a tight smile, they were afraid of her.
Gudit hadn’t reappeared, nor did Saba inquire after her, but she learned with surprise and some satisfaction that the midwife had sought out Constantine Courtidis to tend to her wounds. Gudit would have to carry out the ceremony of accession. There was no one else. Then she would no longer be needed.
Saba opened the box and took out her scepter, which Kamil had returned to her. It would have been easier to establish her leadership, she thought angrily, if Kamil had done the right thing and given her the Proof of God. It belonged to the Melisites.