The Architect's Apprentice (43 page)

The next day Jahan was summoned to the chamber of the Chief White Eunuch. His first thought was the man was going to reprimand him for staying in the menagerie the night Chota died. In the end, Jahan had defied his orders and refused to give the carcass to the French emissary, not that it had changed anything. The cutting had gone ahead. But it was enough to infuriate the Chief White Eunuch for years to come. Strangely, Jahan didn’t care. A boldness that he had never known before had taken hold of him.

Upon being ushered into his room, Jahan bowed, slowly and reluctantly, and waited, his eyes fixed on the marble floor.

‘Lift your head!’ The order cracked like a whip.

Jahan complied. And for the first time since he had arrived at the palace and was given an unforgettable slap by him, he stared straight into the Chief White Eunuch’s eyes – the colour of dark blue thistle.

‘I’ve been watching you all these years. You have ascended fast. No other tamer has come close to what you have achieved. But that’s not the reason why I am fond of you. Shall I tell you why?’

Jahan remained silent. He’d had no idea Kamil Agha was fond of him.

‘Every
devshirme
is made of melted steel. Remoulded. You are one of us, Indian. Strange thing is, no one converted you. You did it on your own. But you know where you made a mistake?’

‘I cannot say,
effendi
.’

‘Love!’ The corners of his mouth turned down as if the word had left a sour taste on his tongue. ‘There are plenty of apprentices in our city. Hundreds of them. They respect their masters. You
loved
yours. Same with the elephant. Your job was to look after him; make sure his belly was full. You
loved
the beast.’

‘It’s not something I do consciously. It just happens.’

‘Don’t love anyone too much.’ The eunuch’s lips parted in a sigh.
‘Since your master has gone, I shall take over as your guardian. Be faithful to me, and you won’t suffer defeat.’

‘I am not in a war,
effendi
.’

The man pretended not to hear this. ‘I shall help you. There’s a house where they wash off despair. They call it the
hamam
of sorrows.’

Jahan blinked, remembering the name from a moment in time so distant it might have been from a life not his own.

‘We go there and we forget. Everything. Do you understand?’

Perplexed as he was, Jahan said he did.

‘Good, get ready. I’ll take you there tonight.’

After dark, a servant came to collect Jahan. A hulking, broad-shouldered man, deaf and mute like the rest. Jahan followed his torch across the courtyard, through a half-concealed back door. Nobody gave them so much as a glance. Had it not been for the flies circling their heads, charging blindly into their nostrils and mouths, and the sound their feet made as they scrunched along the gravel paths, he could have believed they were invisible.

Above the city the sky was a mantle of velvet – a black so intense as to be blue. A carriage, pulled by four stallions, was waiting. Even in the dim light Jahan could admire its gilded buckles, carved ivory panels, curtained windows that no eye could pierce. Inside sat the Chief White Eunuch, clad in a cape trimmed with ermine. As soon as Jahan settled in, the eunuch rapped the ceiling with his cane. Off they cantered.

The carriage travelled with such speed and noise that Jahan was certain there were people watching them – bakers on their way to knead bread, mothers nursing sleepless babies, thieves running off with their haul, drunks downing their next bottle or the pious up and about for an extra prayer. How many were aware of the Chief White Eunuch’s nocturnal excursions and kept quiet about them? There were secrets a whole town might know about that still remained secrets.

They got out near a back alley so narrow and dusky that Jahan hesitated to enter it. The coachman led the way with a lamp barely emitting any light. Dilapidated wooden houses, hunched up like old crones, loomed to their left and right. After what felt like eternity,
they reached an ornamented gate. The Chief White Eunuch knocked three times with his ring, waited, then tapped twice with bare hands.

‘Hyacinth?’ said a voice from behind the door.

‘Hyacinth!’ repeated the Chief White Eunuch.

For one stunned moment Jahan couldn’t breathe. He had an awful suspicion the eunuch knew the nickname his mother had given him as a boy. Unnerved, he had no desire to go inside with this man, but the gate had already opened.

They were greeted inside by the shortest woman Jahan had ever come across. Barring her bosom, everything about her was tiny – her hands, her arms, her feet.

She laughed. ‘Never seen a dwarf? Or never seen a woman?’

Jahan blushed, which made her laugh louder. She turned to Kamil Agha, asking, ‘Where did you find him?’

‘Name is Jahan. He’s an architect. Talented but soft.’

‘Well, we’ve got the cure,’ she said. ‘Welcome to our
hamam
of sorrows!’

The Chief White Eunuch, familiar with his surroundings, plumped himself down on to large, bright cushions and ordered Jahan to follow suit. Before long, five concubines appeared, carrying musical instruments – lute, tambourines, lyre and a reed pipe. His gaze slid from one face to the next, until it came to rest on the last woman. With her wide forehead, chiselled nose, sharp chin and large hazel eyes, she bore a striking resemblance to Mihrimah. Jahan felt dizzy. As if she was aware of the effect she was having on him, she tilted her head in his direction and gave a smile, full of mischief. They began to sing a cheerful melody.

On a silver tray the guests were served balls of paste, the colour of saffron, the size of a walnut. Choosing one, Jahan held it carefully between his fingers. Kamil Agha took three, which he swallowed one after another, and then reclined, eyes closed. Emboldened, Jahan popped his into his mouth. It tasted funny. Pungent and sweet at first, then spicy, like crushed seeds and wild marjoram. Next came the wine – carafes of red. He drank with caution at first, not trusting anyone.

The dwarf lady sat beside him. ‘I heard you lost a loved one.’

‘My elephant.’

Jahan waited for the chuckle that didn’t follow. Instead she said, after she had filled his cup, ‘I know how it feels. I had a dog myself. When he died I was devastated. Nobody understood
. It’s just a hound, Zainab
. What do they know! Better to make friends with animals than humans.’

‘You’re right,’ Jahan said as he took another sip. ‘Animals are more truthful.’

The music went on, accelerating. The tray with paste balls was brought back. This time Jahan took a larger one and washed it down with more wine. Hard as he tried not to glance at the woman who so resembled Mihrimah, he could not help it. Even her seraphic smile, the slightest curl of her bottom lip, was exactly like hers. The billowing folds of her veil framed her face, translucent and light like the morning mist. She seemed more at ease and confident than the other women; perhaps she had less to worry about.

It was Zainab’s voice that brought Jahan back to his senses. ‘You want me to show you his garments?’

‘What?’

‘My dog’s clothes? You want to see them?’

‘I’d like to.’

The Chief White Eunuch, by now quite tipsy, frowned at them but said nothing. Glad to get out of his sight, Jahan followed Zainab into the recesses of the house. She led him into a vast room where everything was small: the bed, the low tables, the carpet. In one corner of the room there was a minuscule rosewood cabinet with dozens of drawers. It contained the smallest leather vests, furs, shawls. There was even a waistcoat of sorts. He must have been a boxy creature, for the articles were compact. Sniffing slightly, Zainab said he was only a puppy when she found him. She had looked for his mother everywhere, eventually convinced that, just like her, the dog had no one to rely on. From then on they had been inseparable.

Jahan handed her his handkerchief, which she took gratefully, and blew her nose. She stared at him as if seeing him anew. ‘Put me up on this chair.’

She was light as a child. Her eyes fastened on him, she said, ‘I have been in this trade for thirty years. Seen hell, seen heaven. Met angels, met demons. I survived because my lips are sealed. Never meddled in others’ affairs. But I took a shine to you. You seem like a fine man.’

A rattle was heard from the next room. Perhaps a mouse was stuck between the floorboards. She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘The eunuch. Be careful with him.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Just beware,’ she said, jumping down from the chair.

When they returned to the room the singing was still going on, though the tone had altered from gleeful to melancholy. Zainab sat beside the Chief White Eunuch and began to lavish praise, food and wine on him.

Jahan’s eyes dropped as he slouched back. He could have fallen asleep if it hadn’t been for a voice that hovered over the music. ‘May I?’

It was her – Mihrimah’s replica. Jahan’s heart skipped a beat.

She knelt in front of him, the sleeves of her dress sweeping his knees, and poured him a glass of wine. When he finished it, she took his shoes off, pressed his feet against her bosom and began, very gently, to rub. Panic rose inside Jahan like black bile. He was afraid of desiring her. He held her hands, whether to stop her from touching him or him from touching her, he couldn’t tell.

‘You like my hands?’ she asked.

‘You remind me of someone.’

‘Really? Was it someone you loved?’

Jahan downed his next cup, and watched her instantly replenish it.

‘Where is she now?’

‘Dead,’ he said.

‘Poor darling.’ She kissed him. Her lips tasted like icy sherbet. Her tongue reached for his tongue and retreated. Despite himself Jahan was aroused. She held him tightly, pressing her palms on the nape of his neck. Suddenly Jahan realized everyone had vanished – the musicians, Zainab, the Chief White Eunuch.

‘Where are they?’ Jahan asked, his voice full of unease.

‘Calm down, everyone is in their room. We are good here.’

They kissed again. She guided his hands up and down her body, encouraging him to fondle her breasts, her hips, wide and round. He pulled up her skirts; layers of taffeta ruffled under his weight. His fingers travelled between her legs, caressing her wet, dark cave. Panting, he was on top of her, undressing himself, undressing her, unable to stop.

‘My lion,’ she whispered in his ear.

He bit her neck, first gently, then harder.

‘Call me Mihrimah,’ she said, breathing heavily.

A voice screamed inside Jahan’s head. He shoved her away, unsteady as he tried to stand up. ‘How do you know her name?’

She flinched. ‘You told me.’

‘I did not.’

‘You did. Just now, remember.’

Had he told her? He could not be sure. Seeing his bewilderment, she said, ‘The wine confused your mind. You told me, I swear.’

He held his head between his hands, overtaken by a wave of nausea. Perhaps she was telling the truth. He would have believed her were it not for the slightest twitch of her jaw – a simple reflex or a sign of nervousness.

‘Go away, I beg,’ he said.

‘Don’t be a child,’ she said with a scathing smile and pushed herself against him.

Sucked into the softness of her bosom he felt trapped. Seizing both her wrists so tightly that his knuckles turned white, he seemed, for a moment, about to surrender to her charms. Instead he pushed her, too fast, too hard. She fell down heavily. A gasp rose from her lips, unfinished. Then silence. Jahan staggered, seeing, for the first time, the iron grate of the fireplace that she had fallen against, knocking her head. Before he could collect his thoughts, the door opened and Zainab entered the room, running, shouting. Bending over the woman, she listened for breath. Her face collapsed.

‘She’s dead,’ Zainab cried. She turned to Jahan, her eyes wide with horror. ‘You’ve killed the eunuch’s mistress.’

Jahan ran out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him, into the garden and through the dark alleyway, fearing that a shadow might pounce on him at any moment. By the time he reached the street his forehead was beaded with sweat and his chest was heaving so hard he was sure they could hear it back in the
hamam
of sorrows. No sooner had he taken a step than a wave of despondency hit him. He had nowhere to go. He could not return to the palace dormitory. That would be the first place the Chief White Eunuch would search. He could ask for help from the tamers in the menagerie but he did not trust them all, and one betrayer was enough.

Just as he was panicking an idea surfaced in his head: Davud. His
konak
was large enough to hide in for a few days, if not weeks. Eminent and celebrated, Davud could even find a way to shield him from the wrath of the Chief White Eunuch. But he could not walk to Eyup in the middle of the night. He needed a horse. The carriage that had brought them was waiting in a stable nearby. He headed in that direction, praying the coachman would be asleep.

He was not. Truthfully, he was wide awake and in merry company. The man was following his master’s example. While the Chief White Eunuch was roistering with hashish and wine, his servant was enjoying a frolic of his own. Jahan tiptoed quietly, although needlessly; the coachman and the whore were too lost in each other to notice him. The horses, though skittish, stood still and attentive, their ears pricked, their eyes alert, sensing what was taking place.

Jahan approached one of the four mounts still fastened to the coach – a stallion greyer than the cobblestones outside. Slowly, very slowly, he held its straps and escorted it towards the gate. In that instant, the coachman emitted a yelp of pleasure; his thrusts became urgent. Jahan pulled the animal by the reins, harsher than he intended. The horse swung its head. Mercifully, it did not whinny. Jahan
uttered a prayer; he must have chosen the most docile one of the pack. Still, he could not help but suspect a spirit was guiding him – Mihrimah’s or Nikola’s or Master Sinan’s. It could even be Chota’s, for all he knew. He had many ghosts on every side.

Before long he was riding at full speed, the wind thrashing his hair. He was no longer afraid of the
djinn
that dwelled in dusky corners, having accepted that they were less frightening than humans. Careful to stay in the dark, avoiding the watchmen, he arrived at Davud’s mansion. The servants, perplexed as they were to see a guest at this ungodly hour, took him upstairs to their master, who had already gone to bed.

Davud shuffled his feet with a puzzled look. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘I beg your pardon, I had nowhere to go,’ Jahan said.

Jahan accepted the musk sherbet a servant brought. His hands were trembling so badly that he spilled some of it on the carpet. He tried to wipe the stain off with his sleeve, which only made it worse. Unable to think straight any more, he stared at the floor, seeing what he had failed to see the first time he had visited. Queer, the trivial details that caught one’s attention when dreadful things were happening. He now saw that it was Master Sinan’s carpet.