by Sara Pascoe
‘Yes, Istanbul – the village of a million people,’ he said.
Tahir was gracious, but not at all pleased to see Raya in such a wonderful dress that was not from his shop.
‘Actually, this dress is too fancy for me, but Macide the very kind woman who runs the han where we stay, lent it to me while the one from your shop is in the laundry. In fact, that was one reason I’ve stopped by today,’ she said and pulled out her coins. ‘I don’t know if this is enough, but I’d like to buy my auntie another dress.’
‘Ach, your money is no good here,’ Tahir said, and summarily brushed that spoiled blob of a cat, Melek, off a pile of folded dresses. ‘These are your auntie’s size. Pick one, I insist.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t.’ Raya stopped when she could see Tahir would be insulted if she didn’t accept. What is this with everyone getting insulted if you don’t take their stuff for free? Just a TAD different than home. She looked through the dresses and quickly settled on a deep-blue one with turquoise beads at the neck and wrists.
Tahir nodded approval. ‘Yes, that will go nicely with her auburn hair,’ he said. Then he bustled to another part of his shop and pulled out two small items and bundled them together with the dress. ‘Don’t forget the veil and headscarf,’ he said.
‘Thank you, they’re lovely, and it’s so kind of you – once again.’ She picked up the bundle and readied to leave.
‘I assume you’ll go say hello to your friend, Musta, Mustafa bin Abdullah.’ Tahir rocked back and forth on his heels in emphasis. ‘I’m sure you don’t want me to tell him you came all this way and didn’t bother to see him?’ Tahir crooked an eyebrow on his large kind face.
Raya got a flash of Pavel’s face when she remembered this Musta – the most intriguing of everyone that day. She figured that was a good sign, the way she’d got images (and smells) of Ian cooking his vegetarian chilli when she thought about Macide. This Musta must offer similar things as Pavel – and was probably also someone she could trust.
* * *
Raya followed Tahir’s directions passing a few other coffee houses by the time she reached Musta’s favourite at the edge of a mosque complex. She stopped in the doorway, unsure if she was allowed in. There were only men inside, except for a woman doing something like a fully dressed belly dance on a small platform at the centre. It was another white masonry building, offering some protection from the heat and glare. It had high ceilings and large, arched windows. Otherwise, it was like stepping into a jewellery box – the walls and ceilings completely covered with painted geometric designs and tiles. The dancing girl just added to the effect – Raya wondered if she’d flop down, inanimate when the doors closed. The men sat at wooden tables with their small cups of coffee, and long pipes, or lounged on richly upholstered couches. Music played. The hip coffee shops in London didn’t come close. She didn’t see Musta. She fingered the coins in her pocket she’d earned at the bath house and had an idea.
She’d seen women coffee cup readers at work in a couple of the other coffee houses she’d passed, so she asked the waiter, a fit young man without a shirt, as he rushed by, a tray over his head.
‘Is this the coffee house Mustafa frequents? He thought you might be able to use a coffee cup reader.’
The young man looked puzzled. ‘Do you mean Mustafa bin Abdullah, the one they call Kâtip Çelebi, or Mustafa bin Ibra…?’ he said.
‘Yes, yes, the first one.’ Raya cleared her throat, hoping she remembered correctly.
‘Oh…’ the young man said, looked around, ‘…well if he recommended you. He isn’t here yet, although he usually is.’
This was easier than she’d expected. She figured, in for a penny, in for a pound as far as being in any trouble once she got home. And now that she was away from Bryony, she realised being around her amplified her stress and worries about their situation. It was nice to have a break.
The young man and an older man, who looked like he ran the coffee house, arranged a small table with two chairs next to the door.
The older man asked how she wanted to be addressed.
‘Um, yes, please call me Rachel of London, uh… with the Light Eyes,’ she threw in, recalling her recent experience at the baths.
The man made the announcement over the din of the coffee house. Raya sat at her table and waited.
Eventually a few men came forward to have their cups read.
‘Whatever you believe is fair’ became her standard response when they asked her fee. The coins were piling up. Certainly she would have enough for a pair of those wonderful yellow shoes she’d seen on her first day.
Time was going by and she knew that coming home too much later was not a good idea, so she said she could only do one more.
‘Read mine, please, before you depart, Miss Rachel of London,’ a sonorous voice said as an arm reached across the others and placed an overturned cup on her table. Only his turban and the top left quarter of his face were visible from behind another man.
‘Kâtip, Kâtip Çelebi, don’t torture the girl, show yourself,’ another man said. Others agreed.
‘In good time, my friends, in good time,’ said the voice.
Raya didn’t miss a beat. ‘Sir, did you only drink from one side?’
‘Yes I did,’ said this Kâtip Çelebi.
‘And after that, did you put the saucer on top, make a wish, and turn it anti-clockwise, holding it at chest level?’ Raya realised she was showing off, but couldn’t help it.
‘Yes,’ said the hidden man. ‘I know how this works. Please, this is your payment.’
The coin was larger and heavier than any of the others she’d received. ‘That is very generous, sir.’ She turned the cup upright and went through the motions of looking at different quadrants of the cup and saucer until her visualizations began.
She saw a green field encircled by woods. In the centre was a small stone house with a thatched roof. Smoke puffed out of the chimney. All of a sudden she was right in front of the door to this cottage – it took up her whole visual field. A pair of small birds with bright blue breasts and yellow feathers on their heads swirled from behind her carrying a ribbon. They tied it on the door handle and then perched on the lintel and chirped. They were inviting her to open the door. But when she tried, the doorknob moved to another part of the door. She smiled. Kâtip shushed the nosey, noisy men. Her visualization continued.
In her imagination, she reached for the doorknob again and again, but every time it slid to another part of the door. The birds held their bellies with their wings, laughed, and flew off. The visualization stopped.
She handed the man in front of this Mr Kâtip Çelebi the hefty silver coin. ‘Please tell your friend Mr Çelebi that I cannot take his money; I cannot “get a handle on him”.’ She smiled at the visual joke. Kâtip Çelebi stepped into view and looked at Raya sternly. Musta.
After studying the girl’s eyes, a look of recognition softened Mustafa’s, Kâtip Çelebi’s expression.
‘Hi, Musta. I had stopped by Tahir’s shop and he said I should be sure to stop and say hello to you, too.’ She felt shy, nervous and excited to be in his company. But she also felt immediately drawn and comfortable around him – the comparison her head, or was it her heart, had made with Pavel. She looked away, fought sudden tears. She missed Pavel and the gang. Had the briefest thought about Jake that she brushed away like a moth.
Musta had been watching her face, or more precisely her eyes. ‘Yes my dear “niece”.’ This seemed a polite explanation for their relationship, Musta, or Kâtip, appeared to be the type that didn’t like a lot of prying and the coffee house looked ripe for gossip and teasing. ‘Why don’t we take a walk?’ he said as he ushered her out of the coffee house. Raya scooped up the nice little pile of coins as she left.
Raya spilled over in telling Musta about all she’d seen and done so far. She told him about Bryony’s jinn riddance business, about her ability to read coffee cups, and about Macide and Abbas’s generosity in let
ting them stay at their han.
‘This Abbas, was he a janissary, injured fighting and walks with a limp?’ Kâtip asked. She nodded as she prattled on, and he steered her in the direction of the han.
It turned out he was a professor or writer or something and the ‘science of magic’ was one of his specialities. No wonder he reminds me of Pavel.
When they reached the entrance to the han, Raya finally stopped talking and looked up at him.
‘Why do they call you Kâtip Çelebi? I thought your name was Mustafa?’
‘It’s a nickname. But you can call me Musta,’ he said, ‘Uncle Musta is fine.’
The guard at the gate looked suspiciously at Kâtip just as Abbas strode over, grinning with his robe billowing out behind him.
‘Mr Kâtip Çelebi. To what do we owe this honour? I certainly hope she hasn’t caused any trouble. We’ve been worried,’ Abbas said. He seemed nervous around Musta, like he was someone important.
‘No, no trouble at all. We bumped into each other in the coffee shop. Actually, this was the second time we’ve met. I thought it best I walk this young lady home,’ Musta said.
‘Well, if it isn’t Mr Kâtip Çelebi in the flesh!’ Macide said, rushing up. ‘Please come up to our flat and have some refreshments.’ Macide turned to Raya. ‘Rachel, please go to the kitchen and ask for a pilaf, some fresh böreks and whatever else looks nice.’
Raya rushed off to the kitchen. Relieved to avoid Bryony even a little longer. Musta was accompanied upstairs, despite his polite protests.
* * *
It was a heady evening, as cosy as a lock-in at the Cosmic Cafe but even more interesting. Musta knew about so many different things, and Abbas and Macide were right in there with him, as was Bryony who had started to understand some of the Ottoman Turkish. ‘Understanding can come on for co-time travellers, too. It’s like a cross between meditation and getting used to an accent. Although speaking is a different matter – a lot harder.’
Raya nodded to indicate she understood then responded through head chat, ‘Should I keep translating what you want to say to them, then?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
They talked about politics, religion, art, even engineering. They ate delicious hot spinach and cheese böreks, pilaf, salad and fruit, and just when they all thought they’d burst, one of the kitchen staff came up with a tray of baklava fresh from the oven. It smelled amazing, like Emma’s buttery croissants.
Bryony took a deep sigh, and Raya could tell, even without being a witch, that she couldn’t avoid talking about what happened today any longer. It was as though Bryony had waited until everyone was at the coffee stage, had let them all have a nice evening together before bringing up the hard stuff. Or rather, asking Raya to say it for her. But she had no idea how much of all this, transporting, and what about time travel – she should talk about with Macide, Abbas and Musta. She looked at Bryony.
‘It’s OK – Abbas and Macide are both quite open to the idea of transporting. We talked about it before you got home. Or rather, I listened and they talked with the carriage driver after we returned. He’d rushed in to see what was wrong when he heard the grandmother screaming after you disappeared, leaving a puddle of clothes on the floor. We’ll see what this Kâtip Çelebi thinks about it – but he’s clearly a real forward thinker,’ Bryony reassured her. ‘But I agree – let’s not talk about the time travel. One thing at a time.’
Raya balked. Bryony nodded encouragement, then said aloud in English, ‘Go on, Rachel, tell them what happened today – how you managed to leave your clothes in a pile on the floor and vanish.’ She was even smiling a little.
Raya retold the story, including her getting the sad visions about the granddaughter dying and how this set off a series of strong and complicated emotions she couldn’t deal with. She included Rebecca West’s story – remembering that they were supposedly from this same time in England, so it was OK. Musta leaned forward, interested. Abbas and Macide nodded, confirming they’d discussed much of this before.
‘I thought the poor grandmother might have a heart attack – she was convinced the jinn took you. So I reassured her they’d surely have enough of you and bring you back home soon,’ Bryony asked Raya to translate this for her. She did with a roll of her eyes. The adults laughed. Very funny.
The other three had been talking amongst themselves. Macide smiled the way she did when she complimented her on her Turkish. ‘Rachel, you’re so talented. This is amazing, what you can do!’ She beamed.
Musta nodded sagely. ‘I would be honoured if you would allow me to study this phenomenon. After all, we cannot merely stare at the world like cows,’ he said between mouthfuls of baklava. ‘This is a wonderful opportunity to learn more about the science of magic.’
‘Yes, we thought you could practise this magic transportation of yours from the han to the Grand Bazaar, where you’d check in with Musta, of course,’ Abbas was glowing with excitement.
‘With your permission, once we know more about it, I’d like to write about this for other scholars,’ Musta added.
Raya was speechless. She looked from Abbas, to Macide, to Musta – all of them with warm expectant faces. Bryony looked tired and worried – nothing new there.
‘Don’t look so shocked, Rachel,’ Abbas said. ‘We know amazing things can happen. After all, if a man can fly over the Bosphorus Strait on wings he made himself, who knows what’s possible?’
‘And that was twenty years ago,’ Musta added. She could see him already writing up the first draft of his esteemed report, in his head.
But it wasn’t their open-mindedness, their willingness to help, or even their possible over-keenness to be part of this ‘discovery’. It was something else, something she hadn’t felt for a long time. It felt like a strong, soft cloth that would catch her if she fell, and would also polish her to make her shine. Cherished. That’s what it was. She felt an avalanche of old, unmet yearning. All the times she’d seen the ‘real’ kids in her foster placements get these looks, this sort of love, while she stood on the sidelines not knowing where to look or how to plug the jagged hole in her heart. Sometimes she wondered if having that early taste of it – from her grandparents and even her mum before she went whacko – made it worse. Every cell in her body knew what she was missing and screamed out for it, like a junkie needing a fix. But she was supposed to be leaving here, too, and returning to modern-day London. This was getting confusing, it was starting to feel awfully nice here, awfully quickly. But she’d only been here a few days. Bryony kept telling her this was the ‘holiday effect’ – that she needed to wait longer to know for sure. But long enough to know was likely longer than they had.
It was time for Musta to leave, and everyone was tired. They said their goodbyes and goodnights, with the promise that Raya would start this exciting scientific study with them tomorrow.
Back in their room Raya gave Bryony the blue dress with turquoise beads. She flushed. ‘Thanks, Raya, that was really kind of you.’ She beamed in a way that told Raya she didn’t get a lot of presents. She didn’t have the heart to tell her she got it for free.
Bryony put the dress on a shelf. ‘Raya, we’ve got to talk about your transporting.’
‘I SAID I was sorry – it wasn’t on purpose,’ she said defensively.
Bryony sat down on her bed and lifted the cat off the floor onto her lap. ‘Raya, I’m not mad at you. Well, let me put it this way, it’s not about you being “naughty”. It’s about you learning as quickly as possible how this skill works so you can get us home. We only have ten days left, and it’s not a lot of time, especially if your transports are still so out of control.’
Raya’s cheeks flushed with anger.
‘Look, I’m really not telling you off. This rate of learning would be fine, excellent even if you were simply in witching academy.’
‘There’s such a thing?’
‘What? Oh, yes, and you’d be a great candidate, but let’s talk about that la
ter – when we’re home. Like I was saying, it will help if we really understand what transported you – so you can learn to harness it, that’s all. We’ve got ten days left, Raya. It’s not a lot of time.’
‘Oh. OK.’ The fight was out of her. She did understand.
‘We’ve got to help you miss home, really yearn for it,’ Bryony offered.
The girl witch nodded.
‘Well, do you? Do you think about it, miss it at all?’
She shrugged. ‘A little, I guess.’
The next morning, Bryony left for her jinn work after breakfast. It was their fifth day in old Istanbul. She looked small and alone as she made her way across the courtyard towards the exit, her new blue dress billowing as she walked. Abbas had arranged for a dragoman – a translator – to let Raya practise transporting. She was to transport herself twice within the han and courtyard, then twice again with Oscar, to practise taking someone with her, before transporting back to the Büyük Çarsi – the Grand Bazaar – again with Oscar. She was to go the coffee house, meet up with Musta then return to the han and visualize home, or ‘home-home’ as she now referred to it, finding herself calling the han home more and more.
At first, Oscar had refused, ‘I TOLD you – I’m outta the game, sister. Nothing but a cat’s life for me now.’ Then Bryony reminded him he was already bearing the weight of what happened to Jake on his conscience. ‘It’s not just about me, Oscar – this is about another young person too, remember.’
The transports in the han by herself were a snap. Although she did startle Macide when she suddenly appeared in her sitting room while she was doing some needlework. In her second transport with Oscar she landed in what she thought was an empty stall, not realising a camel had been brought in earlier that morning. She landed inches from the camel’s hindquarters scaring her more than the beast who continued chewing in that sideways circular way that they have while giving her the once-over with a big long-lashed brown eye.