The Architect's Apprentice (15 page)

By the end of the summer a new disease was clawing at the Ottoman land. Blisters, vomiting, fever, death.
Sheitan’s spittle
they called it, those reddish spots. Many perished in a matter of days. Among them was Shehzade Mehmed, only twenty-one years old, son of Suleiman and Hurrem, the apple of their eyes.

The Sultan was devastated. Clad in coarse robes, refusing to see anyone, he devoted himself to prayer. Istanbul mourned with him. Lamps were dimmed, voices hushed. Stores closed early; weddings and bar mitzvahs and circumcisions were kept in abeyance. The fishing boats circling the Serai Gate passed by soundlessly, as if grief were a sleeping baby not to be awakened. The storytellers in the bazaars, the wandering balladeers, the hawkers on the streets, even the minstrels who went to bed with songs and got up with songs – all fell silent. The only thing that disturbed the quiet was the rain. It pelted down in such abundance it was thought the sky was shedding tears for all and sundry. It was on a day such as this that Chota and Jahan were, for the first time, honoured with a visit from the Sultan.

Sunken cheeks, sallow skin, drooped shoulders. The Sultan was so unlike the man Jahan had saluted at the Hippodrome that he might not have recognized him were it not for the guards on his heels. Hastily, he bowed down.

‘I remember you and your elephant,’ said the Sultan.

Blushing, Jahan flinched from the memory of that ominous afternoon.

‘How is your shoulder?’

‘It’s fine, my Lord.’

‘The beast, what does he eat? Tell me about it.’

This Jahan did. He raved about how Chota loved the mud, the water and the food, all the while sensing that Sultan Suleiman needed not so much the information as the distraction from grief. He said if
you wished to hurt an elephant you ought to go for the trunk. Having no bones, only muscles, the trunk was many things at once: a nose, an upper lip, an arm, a hand. Breathing, smelling, eating, drinking, sucking up water to shower themselves, scratching their ears, rubbing sleep off their eyes – there was no end to the things elephants could achieve with their trunks. Just as human beings were left- or right-handed, so, too, were elephants left- or right-tusked. Jahan concluded Chota was left-tusked.

‘Strange that an animal so majestic has a tail this flimsy,’ said the Sultan. ‘Do you think Allah is reminding us even the strongest have their weaknesses?’

Not knowing how to answer, Jahan fumbled for words. Mercifully, the Sultan went on, ‘The Chief Royal Architect told me you and the elephant would help him.’

‘That’s right, your Highness.’

‘Then be ready. You shall put the beast to work again.’

It was only later on that Jahan would find out what the Lord of the Land and the Sea had meant. He had commissioned Sinan to build a mosque for his deceased son. In a fleeting world, where everything was here today and gone tomorrow, the endowment for the beloved Prince would be of solid marble, solid stone.

And this is how, on the seventh day of September, an auspicious time set by the Chief Royal Astronomer Takiyuddin, Jahan found himself on a construction site, watching the first spade pierce the earth. Forty sheep and forty rams were sacrificed, their blood scattered on to four corners, their meat cooked in cauldrons and distributed among the poor and the lepers. Jahan noticed Ebussuud Efendi, with his high turban and flowing robes, in the crowd. Having become the Shayh al-Islam – the Chief Religious Officer – he carried himself with imperiousness. Seeing him up close sent a shiver down Jahan’s spine. He recalled with a lingering ache the heretic Majnun Shaykh – his
velvet voice, handsome face and unclouded gaze. He had not forgotten him.

Then they were gone – the Sultan, the members of the
diwan
, the onlookers. Only the labourers were left behind. Hundreds of them. Jahan realized there were two kinds of men on a building site: the ones who never looked you in the eye and the ones who, at times, did. The former were the galley slaves. Shackles on their ankles, whipped into submission. Sailors, peasants, pilgrims or travellers whose lives had been reversed so abruptly they could not tell whether this was a delusion or whether the past had been a dream. Surviving on dried biscuits and thin soup, these Christian slaves erected Muslim shrines from dawn to dusk.

Then there were those who, like Jahan, had volunteered. They were paid two aspers per day, given tastier food and were, overall, treated well. Masons, diggers, carpenters, joiners, smiths, glaziers and draughtsmen – each under his guild. Every expense was written down by a scribe and overseen by a foreman.

Everywhere he turned, Jahan saw a flurry of activity. Steel pulleys, windlasses, winches and hawsers. Earlier Sinan had the carpenters assemble a huge treadwheel crane. Groups of men took turns inside, at times walking, at times running, turning the wheel that hoisted the heaviest stones. Jahan thought there was something about a construction site that resembled the deck of a ship. In both there was the innate knowledge that any individual failure would be the failure of all. And success would be doled out in the smallest portions, shredded like the salted, dried meat in their soup. When putting up a building or sailing in the deep, you learned to watch over one another; an enforced togetherness emerged, a brotherhood of sorts. A tacit understanding ruled across the ranks. You accepted that the task at hand was mightier than yourself, and the only way to forge ahead was by toiling together as one. So you buried the dislikes and the fights, unless a mutiny erupted, in which case the world would be turned upside down.

Workmen were no less superstitious than seamen. One could not
whistle, whisper or curse while hammering a nail. All three were invitations to Sheitan, who, once his company was requested, never failed to make an appearance. Should the nail puncture the wall upon Sheitan’s arrival, his footprint would be embedded in the edifice till the end of time. It wasn’t only Muslims who adhered to these rules. So did Christians and Jews. To ward off the evil eye they left a loaf of bread and a pinch of salt on the highest stone erected. At no stage throughout the construction did they wish to see a pregnant woman pass by – or anyone with red hair or bright blue eyes or a hare-lip. Even Sinan could not convince the labourers to work beside a mason with flame-coloured hair.

Some creatures were unpropitious: frogs and pigs and goats with three legs. Others they didn’t mind: snakes, scorpions, lizards, centipedes and worms. Packs of stray dogs came and went. With the exception of those from the Shafi’i sect of Islam, the workmen enjoyed having dogs around, for they were loyal, appreciative. Spiders were treasured, as they had saved the Prophet Mohammed. Killing a spider, worse yet, squashing it underfoot, was a grave sin. One other animal deemed to be a harbinger of good fortune was, much to Jahan’s delight, the elephant.

Seeing omens in the sky and the earth, they observed nature, every passing bird, every tree root they hit. If there was a smell in the breeze, sharp and pungent, they suspected someone was brewing a potion. Volunteers combed the area, east and west, occasionally returning with a fisherman, mendicant or crone whom they accused of sorcery and would have persecuted further had Sinan not interceded each time, telling them to let the poor person go.

It was wrong to brag on a construction site. One should never rave about one’s achievements and always remember to say
insha’Allah
, because everything was in God’s hands and nothing in theirs. Whenever there was a public hanging, some labourers snatched a sliver of wood from the gallows and wore it as an amulet, which Jahan never understood – for how could the misery of one man bring anything good to another?

Sinan did not seem to mind these beliefs, though he clearly did not share them. Even so, Jahan would discover that he was superstitious in his own way. He had a talisman that he wore all the time. Two circles, one inside the other, both made of leather, one light, one dark. He fasted for three days before he embarked on a design. Upon finishing it, no matter how great the building, he would leave within it a flaw – a tile placed the wrong side up, an upended stone or a marble chipped on the edge. He made sure the defect was there, visible to the knowing eye, invisible to the public. Only God was perfect.

One of Sinan’s loyal foremen was a Christian Arab from the mountains of Lebanon, named Snowy Gabriel. This man had hair, skin, eyelashes and eyebrows that were as white as alabaster; his eyes, much like a rabbit’s, turned pink in the sun. Every now and then a newcomer would refuse to work under him, accusing him of bringing bad luck. Sinan would vouch for him, saying he had been born this way and was the best foreman in seven climes.

Chota helped, pulling cables, yanking tow-ropes, carrying planks and positioning timbers. Once, while he was hauling up a marble column, the cord snapped, and the load came tumbling down. Snowy Gabriel would have been crushed had he not moved aside at the last instant. Yet, for the most part, the days were uneventful, the work dreary. Every morning the mahout and the elephant left the palace and arrived at this site near the Janissary barracks; they paced the same road once the sun went down. By now the townsfolk had got used to the sight of them. Sometimes they waited en route, children mostly. Some, in their belief that the soil where an elephant trod had healing powers, collected clods of earth after they passed.

Jahan observed closely everyone on the construction site, learning fast. But it was Sinan’s apprentices that he was dying to know more about. They were closer to the master than anyone else. The three of them. The first, a slender, olive-skinned Anatolian who limped due to a childhood illness, was called Nikola. He would stare at a building, close his eyes, then draw it down to the tiniest detail. Tall and corpulent, the second was born in a forsaken village near the Iranian
border and was raised by his grandfather after marauders had killed his parents. His name was Davud; his mind was sharp as a blade. The third was a mute by the name of Yusuf – a youth who so excelled at numbers that Sinan made him recheck each of his own measurements. His face was hairless, his eyes large and green. Due to an accident as a boy, both his hands had been burned and he wore gloves made of buckskin. There were workers who, if it weren’t for fear of Sinan, would have given him a hard time. Knowing this, the mute apprentice, like the galley slaves, kept his gaze on the ground.

At the slightest opportunity Jahan would tiptoe next to these three young men and peek over their shoulders at their designs. When he returned to the menagerie, he would imitate what he had seen, drawing on wet clay or dry sand. One part of him was determined to work hard and be like them. Another part thought only about what to steal, when to run away. And the chasm between was so deep and wide he was finding it increasingly difficult to cross. Sooner or later he would have to choose one or the other.

By January the weather had turned bitter. Icicles dangled from the eaves, dangerously beautiful. Istanbul slept under a thick, white blanket. Still the construction carried on. The galley slaves wrapped rags around their feet. Their toes peeked out from scraps of cloth, aflame, swollen.

On one of those mornings the elephant and the mahout departed from the palace at the usual time. Halfway through the ride a dog came running towards them, barking madly, as if it wanted to show them something.

‘Let’s go and see what it wants!’ Jahan yelled from astride Chota’s neck.

With a swerve they began to follow the canine. The dog, delighted in getting the attention it wanted, turned left, heading straight to the embankment, where the water had frozen over the shoreline. The elephant sped up.

‘Hey, slow down!’

Before Jahan could finish his words, Chota stepped into the inlet, crushing the ice, sinking up to his belly. They halted, the elephant, the mahout, the dog. There was a corpse in the water, so close they could almost touch it. A concubine in all likelihood. Her skin had turned bluish-purple, her hair danced with the waves. Judging by her clothes and the jewel around her neck, she was from a wealthy household, perhaps the palace.

Jahan ordered Chota to trudge ahead, determined to get his hands on the jewel. He was close to his aim when Chota stopped and refused to move. Perched on an elephant in chilly waters, trying not to panic but panicking anyway, feeling ridiculous, Jahan shouted for help. Fortunately, in a little while a carriage pulled by a donkey appeared. On it were five Gypsies. Quietly, they studied the scene.

‘Shall we give a hand, Balaban?’ asked one man to the tall figure in the front.

‘Yeah, help the woman.’

‘Are you daft?’ Jahan bawled. ‘She’s already dead! Save us first.’

The man called Balaban, still holding the reins in one hand, climbed atop the carriage. His face was chiselled, his nose crooked from being broken several times, his hair as long as a hermit’s and through his half-open mouth a gold-capped tooth showed. With an egret plume attached to his headwear, he looked crazy and grand in equal degrees. ‘Talk to me like that again, I’ll chop off your tongue and feed it to the cats.’

Jahan fell silent. He watched as the Gypsies quickly made two swift nooses. They used one to catch the elephant by his trunk and the other to grab the body by its hand, pulling them ashore simultaneously. Chota moved hesitantly. A couple of times he staggered, almost sending Jahan into the water. When they reached land, Jahan jumped down with a sigh. He now remembered what the official had told him the day he and the elephant had arrived in the palace. So these were the infamous Gypsies, the half-tribe. Cautiously, he approached them.

‘You saved our lives. We’re grateful.’

‘We done it for the beast,’ said Balaban. ‘Got one ourselves. Great animals.’

‘You have an elephant?’ asked Jahan incredulously.

‘Her name’s Gulbahar. Yours has a strange colour, though,’ Balaban said as his gaze wandered. His men had grabbed the dead woman’s necklace and were now sending her back to the waters.

Jahan protested, ‘You can’t do that. She should be buried properly.’

‘A bunch of Gypsies show up with a corpse, you think they’re goin’ to thank us? They’ll say we killed her, throw us in gaol. We leave her here, dogs will tear her to pieces. She’s safer in water.’ He grinned. ‘If you’re wonderin’ about that necklace, consider it a reward for our troubles. She doesn’t need it anyhow.’

Jahan did not tell him he had had the same thought himself. Instead he asked, dropping his voice, ‘Do you think she was
murdered
?’

‘I should’ve chopped off that tongue of yours; might do you good.
Let me give you two pieces of advice. If you don’t know what to do with an answer, don’t ask the question,’ Balaban said.

‘What’s the second?’ asked Jahan.

‘Go take care of your beast. He’s got frostbite.’

‘What?’ Jahan darted towards Chota, whose skin, covered with a flimsy coating of ice, was no longer white but a scary pink. The elephant was shivering.

By now the Gypsies had got back to their carriage. Jahan ran behind them. ‘Don’t leave, I beg you. I don’t know what to do.’

‘There’s only one cure,’ said Balaban. ‘He needs strong liquor.
Raki
.’

‘
Raki?
’ said Jahan. ‘Can you find any?’

‘Not easy. The beast is large. You need a barrel.’ The Gypsies shared a savvy smile. ‘If we bring you one, who’s gonna pay us?’

‘Chief Royal Architect Sinan will,’ Jahan said, praying it would be true.

Half a barrel of
raki
and several cups were brought. Were those, too, stolen? Jahan did not dare to ask. Diluting the drink with water, they dipped Chota’s trunk into it. Perhaps to set an example to the animal, the Gypsies each downed a cup. Then another. Meanwhile the elephant took a gulp and blew it out, wetting them all over. Yet he must have liked the taste, for he went back to the barrel and drank; this time he did not spew up.

An hour later they reached the construction site – Jahan pulling Chota by the reins, the Gypsies in their carriage, singing merrily.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Sinan asked, his eyes darting from the elephant to the Gypsies, from the Gypsies to the elephant.

‘We had an accident on the way. These men saved us,’ said Jahan.

‘Is this animal drunk?’ Sinan said, watching the elephant sway. He turned to the Gypsies. ‘Are they?’

When he heard the story of the barrel, Sinan chuckled. ‘I can’t
have a befuddled beast constructing a holy mosque. Go and don’t come back until he’s sobered up.’

‘Yes, master,’ Jahan said with a dry throat. ‘Are you upset with me?’

Sinan sighed. ‘You have a way of clinging to life. That’s good. But curiosity could be a detriment if not guided. We should expand your training.’

‘Expand?’

‘You shall continue with your lessons at the palace school. In his spare time Nikola can show you how to draw; Davud will instruct you in geometry; Yusuf in numbers. You’ll become an apprentice to my apprentices.’

Not quite knowing what this meant but understanding the privilege, Jahan bent forward to kiss Sinan’s hand. ‘Thank you, master, I’m –’

Just then a deafening rumble pierced the air. They all ran in that direction, including the Gypsies. Several planks had pulled free of their ropes, causing half the scaffolding to come tumbling down, miraculously not hurting anyone. Timber being expensive, so as to save wood, they had made scaffolding with the help of hawsers and dangled the planks from the abutments.

‘Must be the evil eye,’ said Jahan, trembling. ‘How many accidents in a day!’

‘Don’t judge too soon,’ came a voice from behind. It was Balaban the Gypsy, holding a rope in his hand. When he had everyone’s attention, he said, with a perfunctory nod, ‘This was no accident. Someone has cut the ropes.’

‘Why would anyone do such a thing?’ asked Sinan.

Balaban gave a sad smile. ‘Who knows? Sheitan never runs out of excuses.’

‘There’s no devil here,’ said Sinan. ‘My labourers are hard-working people.’

‘If you say so …’ said Balaban. ‘But take my word,
effendi
. No harm in being careful. Maybe there is a traitor among you. If I were you, I’d keep my eyes open.’