The Architect's Apprentice (33 page)

Marcantonio, the time-serving Bailo, was leaving Istanbul. He had spent six years under the Ottoman skies, and, unlike many a traveller into this land, had become, if only in a small way, an Istanbulite. Being a cordial person he had friends galore, two of whom he held in high esteem: the Grand Vizier Sokollu and Sinan.

For he was a man-of-letters, familiar with sculpture and architecture, this zesty emissary from Venice. Time and again he went to see Sinan, whose work he declared, with a snap of his fingers and a hearty laugh,
fabuloso
. Sinan, too, visited him, despite those who frowned upon him for befriending an infidel.

There was one more soul in this city of whom the ambassador had grown fond: Chota. Every time Marcantonio ran into Jahan he asked about the animal’s health, bringing treats. Imbued with a spirit of inquiry, he interrogated Jahan about elephants – not as to what they ate nor how much they weighed nor how long they lived. Jahan was used to being asked such things. Marcantonio’s questions were different. Was it true that elephants, like women, were prone to weeping when heartbroken? When the beast went to sleep, what, in Jahan’s humble opinion, did he dream? Did he have a notion of an Elephant-Self or did he only grasp the world external to him? Unable to answer these questions, several times Jahan had let Marcantonio feed and ride Chota in the hopes that he might find the answers himself.

On a fine day in spring Marcantonio appeared in the menagerie with two servants walking behind him and carrying a huge frame.

‘A farewell gift for the Grand Vizier,’ the Bailo said with a roguish smile.

‘May I take a peek?’ Jahan asked.

When they pulled down the cloth Jahan was surprised to see it was a painting of the Italian envoy clad in a turban and a kaftan. He
sat on a sofa – not crossing one leg over the other like the Franks but one leg folded backward and the other bent at the knee like the Ottomans. Through the open window in the background one could view Istanbul – lush green hills, fluffy clouds, the bluest sea dotted with caïques.

At first sight the portrait did not resemble the Bailo. Marcantonio had sallow, porous skin, whereas his painted image glowed with youth and health. The crook in his nose, the hair in his nostrils, the mole on his cheek that he powdered every day with care, had all been erased. It was as if by wearing the Ottoman garb and agreeing to pose for the painter he had slipped into another realm where everything was softer, brighter. At the bottom of the frame there was a dedication:
Domino Mahomet Pacha Musulmanorum Visiario amico optimo
.

The longer Jahan stared at the portrait the more he felt it was alive. Slowly, the caïques began to glide into the sea, their oars splashing water, the clouds on the horizon turning a fiery red. Then, gingerly, the man in the portrait rolled his eyes towards the Bailo, as if to assess how much they were alike. With a shudder Jahan pulled down the cover. He was certain there was a spirit hiding in the frame, though he couldn’t tell whether it was good or evil.

On Wednesday, while the apprentices were busy working on a sketch, another gift arrived from Marcantonio, this one for Master Sinan. A box of carved rosewood encrusted with the golden initials MB. Inside was a leather-bound tome,
Ten Books on Architecture
, by Vitruvius. It was translated, with a commentary added, by none other than Marcantonio’s brother.

Even though he had studied the treatise before, Sinan was delighted to get this new edition in Italian. Clasping the box to his chest, he retreated to the library. But first he called for Jahan. ‘Come help me to read this.’

That, however, was not easy. Written in a refined, courtly Italian, Jahan found the text hard to interpret. Every sentence was a strain. Bit by bit, he was able to wade through the pages. Sinan listened carefully, his eyes narrowed in contemplation.

Architecture was a science, the book said. It was based on three qualities:
forza
, strength;
utilità
, which Jahan translated as use; and
bellezza
, beauty.

‘Tell me, which of these three would you sacrifice if you had to sacrifice one?’

‘
Bellezza
,’ Jahan replied assuredly. ‘We can’t compromise on strength or purpose. We could do without beauty, if need be.’

Sinan’s face said otherwise. ‘We can’t give up beauty.’

‘Then which one should we sacrifice?’

‘None,’ Sinan said with a tender smile. ‘If you give up one, you will end up losing all three.’

Just then the
kahya
’s son rushed in, carrying a letter, which he said had been sent from the palace. Sinan broke the seal and read it, his eyes glittering with amber flecks. He said Sultan Selim was throwing a banquet for Marcantonio. A huge honour, no doubt, and one that showed the sovereign had been fond of the Bailo.

‘How generous of our Sultan,’ Jahan commented.

‘Well, it looks like you’ll be there, too.’

‘Me?’ Jahan could not believe that his name was in a royal letter.

Not quite, as it turned out. First, the letter was from Grand Vizier Sokollu. Second, it was not the mahout’s name but the elephant’s that was mentioned. Knowing how fond the Bailo was of the creature, Sokollu required Chota to entertain the audience on that evening. Jahan’s heart sank.

‘You’re upset,’ said Sinan.

‘I’m the apprentice to the Chief Royal Architect, but the Vizier sees me as a mahout.’

‘Cheer up,’ Sinan said. ‘I’d like you to accompany me to the banquet. Once you’ve eaten, you can perform.’

Jahan gaped at him, barely containing his excitement. This meant he was to sup not with the tamers in the menagerie, waiting for his turn, but in the grand hall with the guests. Yet, instead of thanking him, he heard himself say, ‘Chota doesn’t know any stunts.’

‘He doesn’t need to. Parade the animal. A simple trick will be
enough. They want to see what God has created more than what you can make the elephant do.’

Even so, Jahan was distressed. Despite the passage of time, the catastrophe in the days of Hurrem Sultana was still fresh in his memory. Resentful though he was, he began to practise tricks with Chota. For the occasion the elephant had been given a new yellow mantle, and when he donned it, from a distance, he looked like a globe of fire. On his feet he wore anklets – silver circlets with a hundred tiny bells. As soon as Jahan put them on Chota, the animal was perplexed. Taking a few awkward steps, he halted, walked again, stopped again, unable to fathom where the noise was coming from.

The afternoon of the big day, Jahan washed, brushed and oiled Chota tusk to tail. Then he put the mantle and the anklets on him.

‘So handsome,’ Jahan cooed. ‘If I were a lady elephant I’d fall for you.’

For a split second Chota’s eyes, too small for his head, crinkled with mirth. In this state they passed through the gates into the inner courtyards.

The evening started with a gift-giving ceremony. The Bailo was given shawls, shoes, bejewelled belts, nightingales in gilded cages and a fat pouch, which contained ten thousand akces. A murmur of appreciation rose as everyone commended Sultan Selim’s generosity, even though he was yet to appear. The ambassador was ushered to the dining place. Inside a high-ceilinged chamber, four tables had been prepared for the most notable guests. Marcantonio and the Grand Vizier and Master Sinan would be at the same table.

The Sultan would be eating alone, as was the palace custom. Jahan thought about the Frankish kings and queens who always dined amid their retinue. He wondered which was better, their way or the Ottomans’? Who would want to watch the monarch chewing on a chicken leg or chomping and belching like a mere mortal? Not seeing the
Sultan at table only added to his respectability. Yet, at the same time, it made him more unreachable and, eventually, harder to understand. It was easier to love someone you shared bread with.

Meanwhile the rest of the guests, including Jahan, were led into smaller rooms. About fifty boys, of similar height and size, dressed in green
shalwar
, began to serve. Deft and fast, they brought large, round trays and set them on wooden legs. Upon these they placed spoons and olives, pickles and spices in bowls so small no one would dare dip in a finger for fear of breaking them. Next they carried basins and silver pitchers for everyone to wash their hands. Finally they distributed towels and
peskirs
for the guests to put on their laps and use to wipe their fingers.

Knowing how important manners were, Jahan glanced left and right, observing what the others did. The worst sin you could commit at a banquet was gluttony. Even if it were your favourite dish, you had to eat slowly, showing no sign of greed. Jahan was careful to use the three fingers of his right hand, without dripping oil. Mercifully there were others like him checking out what everyone else was doing. A few times their stares crossed and they nodded politely.

They were served wheat soup with a hunk of dark bread, which was so filling Jahan could have stopped eating there and then. But as soon as the crocks were taken away they were brought vine leaves stuffed with meat, rice with pine nuts, chicken kebab, chicken with mushrooms, buttered lamb, fried pigeons, roasted partridges, lamb’s feet, goose stuffed with apples, brined anchovies, a huge red fish from icy waters up north,
borek
with shredded meat, egg with onions. They were served
hoshaf
in bowls and lemonade in pitchers. His appetite now piqued by the delicious smells, Jahan tasted every dish. As they kept eating, the
cesnici
and
kilerci
walked around, making sure everything ran in perfect order. Then came the desserts: almond baklava, pear baked with ambergris, cherry pudding, ice-crushed sweetened wild strawberries and heaps of honeyed figs.

After dinner the guests collapsed outside on to the seats prepared for them. Fire-eaters pranced around in their shiny jerkins, tumblers
turned backwards somersaults, sword-swallowers bolted down the sharpest blades. Three brothers appeared: a
cemberbaz
, who played with hoops; a
shishebaz
, who played with bottles; and a
canbaz
, who played with his life, doing a little caper on a cord stretched high above. When it was their turn, Chota and Jahan marched with feigned confidence. They performed, luckily without an incident, what few stunts they knew. Chota plucked the flower in Jahan’s belt and gave it to the Bailo, who accepted it with a happy laugh.

Afterwards, the three of them – the master, the apprentice and the animal – departed from the palace, each drawing into his thoughts. There was a sense of finality in the air. The Bailo was going away, the summer was coming to an end. Sultan Selim had not emerged all evening, and there were rumours his health was deteriorating. It seemed to Jahan that, in truth, this world, too, was a spectacle. One way or another, everyone was parading. They performed their tricks, each of them, some staying longer, others shorter, but in the end they all left through the back door, similarly unfulfilled, similarly in need of applause.

Shortly after the inauguration of the Selimiye Mosque, the Sultan was laid low by melancholia. Such was his gloom that he could not even delight in the great monument to his name. Jahan found it odd that the ordinary folks who prayed in the mosque revelled in its architecture and splendour more than the sovereign who had paid for it. It was the humours in his body that were causing him misery. He had too much black bile in his blood and, as a result, could not help feeling sad day and night. He had been duly cupped and bled, and made to take hellebore and vomit, but the sadness had not oozed away.

In the company of his master, fellow apprentices and Chota, Jahan returned to Istanbul. With the white elephant he settled back in the menagerie. It was there, one afternoon in December, that the Sultan showed up. He brought with him a Sufi.
*

Jahan was in the barn, checking the elephant’s fodder. Lately a series of younger tamers had been appointed to take care of Chota, one after the other, but Jahan still saw to the animal’s needs, making sure he was looked after. So it was there, as he was checking the standards of care, that he heard the Sultan and the Sufi wending their way through the rose gardens. He climbed up to the hayloft. Through a crack in the wooden planks he spied on them. Selim’s withered face had a sickly yellow hue, his beard was ragged, and he had put on more weight. His eyes were swollen. He must have been drinking again. Or else, Jahan realized with horror, crying.

The Sultan and the Sufi sat on a stone bench near the cages of the wild cats. Jahan could not believe that the Commander of the Faithful and the Successor of the Prophet of the Lord of the Universe had dropped himself down on that cold, grubby seat. Their voices were
like the susurration of a river, and most of what they said he could not catch. Then he heard, spilling from the lips of Selim, ‘Is it true that Allah loveth the purifiers?’

It was the Surah of Repentance, Jahan knew. The Sultan was so fond of the prayer that he had had it written in
thuluth
on the wall of a mosque he had commissioned in Konya. Jahan felt an immense sadness, which made him bolder than he normally would have dared. Leaving his hiding place, he went outside to welcome them.

‘How is the beast doing?’ Selim asked, having never learned Jahan’s name.

‘He is fine, my Lord. Would your Highness like to ride his elephant?’

‘Another day, mahout,’ said Selim distractedly.

There would be no other day. The same week, Selim fell down in the
hamam
and hit his head. They said he was drunk when he died. Others argued he was sober but so absent he hadn’t seen where he was going. The son of a man too dominant, the ruler of an empire too vast, the bearer of a soul too tender, the dreamer of poems too delicate, Selim the Sot, Selim the Blond, Selim the Forlorn, left this world when he was fifty years of age. Nurbanu packed his body in ice, keeping his death a secret until her favourite son, Murad, arrived from his post in Anatolia.

Sultan Murad ascended to the throne. He first had his brothers executed and then buried his father. Even though he loved an imposing mosque as much as every other ruler, he valued neither majesty like his grandfather Suleiman nor beauty like his father Selim. Neither
forza
nor
bellezza
. What mattered now was
utilità
. Function over grandiosity. Function over beauty. From this day forth, nothing would be the same for Sinan and his four apprentices.