The Architect's Apprentice (44 page)

‘I’ve … killed someone.’

Davud turned ashen. ‘Who? How?’

‘The Chief White Eunuch’s mistress …’ Jahan said, unsure how to continue.

He gave an account of the night – the dwarf lady, the musicians, the concubine who had tried to seduce him, and God knew had succeeded, though he did not mention her disturbing resemblance to Mihrimah.

‘I don’t know –’ Jahan gulped for air. ‘Lately, things have been strange. I have the feeling it has something to do with Master Sinan.’

At this Davud raised an eyebrow. ‘The master, may Paradise be his abode, is beyond the trifles of this world.’

‘Right, bless his soul. But I uphold his legacy. You said so the other day. There are only two of us now.’ Jahan paused, staring at his friend with a fixed intensity. ‘You might be in danger, too.’

Davud dismissed the idea with a sweeping motion of his hand. ‘Don’t worry. Nothing can happen to me.’

‘I killed her …’ Jahan said once more in a daze, rocking his body like a child in need of consolation.

‘I shall make inquiries tomorrow morning. You need to get some rest.’

Upon Davud’s orders a bed was provided with bowls of sweetened figs and dates and a jug of
boza
. Jahan drank and ate little, after which he tumbled into a dark, disturbed slumber.

He slept despite the demons preying on his soul. When he woke, it was high noon and there were brand-new garments on the sofa. Donning them with gratitude, he went to see Davud, who was waiting for him downstairs with his three children – the youngest a girl not yet four. The boys were the doubles of their father and clearly adored him. Jahan felt a pang of sorrow. He had neither a wife nor
offspring. He had arrived in this city of shadows and echoes by himself and, after so many years, here he was once again, alone.

‘I have bad news,’ whispered Davud, so as not to be heard by the children. ‘You were right: she died, it seems.’

Jahan gasped, struggling for air. Until then he had secretly hoped that it was a minor injury.

‘What are you going to do now?’ Davud asked tenderly.

‘I can’t stay in Istanbul. I’ll have to go.’

‘You can stay with us as long as you wish.’

Jahan’s face broke into a smile. He was touched by Davud’s generosity. Any other notable in his position would have shunned a man in trouble. True, he had come here intending to spend some time. Yet now, after seeing Davud with his young ones, he realized he could not put them in danger.

‘I’m in your debt, but I should go. Better that way.’

Davud gave this some thought. ‘There’s an orchard near Thrace, belongs to my father-in-law. You’ll be out of harm’s way there while things simmer down. I’ll give you a horse. Go and wait to hear from me.’

They decided it would be safer to set out in the dark. Jahan passed the day playing with the children, flinching at the slightest sound from outside. After supper, Davud gave him the steed, a cape to keep him warm and a pouch of coins. He said, ‘Keep your heart pure. You’ll be back in no time.’

‘How will I ever repay you?’

‘We grew up together,’ Davud said. ‘Remember what the master said? Not just brothers. You are the witnesses to each other’s journeys.’

Jahan nodded, his throat tight. He remembered the rest too.
You are the witnesses to each other’s journeys. You will know, therefore, if one of you goes astray. Follow the path of the wise, the awakened, the loving, the hard working
.

They embraced, and for a moment it was as if in their clasp there was an indistinct thump, a third heart beating next to theirs; it was as if Sinan, too, were there, watching, listening, praying.

Jahan walked, slowly and steadily, among the shadows. He picked his way through the dark streets. This he had not told Davud, but he had decided not to leave Istanbul without paying a last tribute to Chota. He reached the French ambassador’s residence. Improper as it was to visit an emissary – or anyone – uninvited, he hoped to be forgiven.

The servant who answered the door thought differently. His master liked his sleep and could not possibly be disturbed. But Jahan was persistent. Between the two of them they raised such a racket that soon a sleepy voice rose from inside the house. ‘Who is it, Ahmad?’

‘Some insolent pauper, master.’

‘Give him bread and send him away!’

‘He doesn’t want bread. He says he needs to talk to you about the elephant.’

‘Oh!’ There followed a brief silence. ‘Let him in, Ahmad.’

Without a wig and powder, wearing a nightgown that reached his knees and revealed the enormity of his belly, the figure Jahan found in the hall didn’t quite resemble the ambassador he knew.

‘I beg your pardon for intruding on you,’ Jahan said, bowing low.

‘Who are you?’ the ambassador asked.

‘I’m the mahout of the elephant you have cut, your Excellency.’

‘I see,’ Monsieur Brèves said, remembering the brazen tamer who had reluctantly handed him the corpse.

Jahan blurted out the lie he had prepared on the way. ‘Last night I had a horrible dream. The poor elephant was in pain and begged me to lay him to rest.’

‘But that has been done,’ Monsieur Brèves said. ‘The corpse had started to stink, I’m afraid. We buried the beast.’

A stab of sorrow entered Jahan’s chest. ‘Where is his grave?’

The man didn’t know. He had asked his servants to get rid of
thecarcass and so they had. When he noticed Jahan’s sadness, he said, ‘Cheer up, my friend. Come, there’s something I’d like to show you.’

Together they entered a room overflowing with books, notes and mementoes. Monsieur Brèves, unlike other envoys, who were mostly interested in power struggles, had a great knowledge of the Ottoman Empire and spoke impeccable Turkish, Arabic and Persian. Having studied the written works, he was keen to establish an Arabic printing press in Paris to help books to travel as freely as ambassadors did.

Jahan now understood why his appearance at his door unbidden hadn’t angered Monsieur Brèves. In truth, he was glad to have found someone with whom he could talk about the dissection he had conducted. Burning to relate his achievements, he handed Jahan the sketches he had drawn. While not a fine artist, he had nonetheless set down in great detail the anatomy of an elephant.

‘One day, I shall write a treatise,’ he said. ‘People ought to know. It’s not every day that they get to see the inside of such a magnificent creature!’

Involuntarily, Jahan’s eyes slid to a shelf where a tusk shone, bright and polished. The ambassador, following his gaze, said, ‘A keepsake from Constantiniye.’

‘May I hold it?’ Jahan asked, and when he was given the nod he took it with care. A wave of gloom swept through him. His eyes brimmed with tears.

Monsieur Brèves regarded him silently, his face twisting as he quarrelled with himself. In the end he sighed and said, ‘I think you should take the tusk.’

‘Really?’

‘Clearly you loved the beast more than anyone,’ the ambassador said, waving his hand in a gesture of nonchalance or commiseration or both. ‘I have my drawings. That’ll be enough to impress everyone in Paris.’

‘I am grateful,’ Jahan said, his voice breaking.

Jahan set off with the tusk in his hand. In comparison with the night before, he was more hopeful. The tusk radiated a glow that warmed his soul. It was as if Chota were with him. On his shoulder he carried a rucksack with a few items that Monsieur Brèves had allowed him to take – a shovel, a candle, a red scarf and a string. Jahan had a plan.

Back on his horse he rode with purpose. When he reached the Mihrimah Mosque, he jumped off and walked along the outside walls. He spotted a Judas tree flushed with rosy blossoms. By that patch he dug a deep, rectangular pit. He could have kept the tusk with him but that would have been selfish. Chota deserved to have a headstone. It was always the sultans and the viziers and the opulent who had lofty monuments to their names. The poor and the destitute would have had nothing, once they were gone, were it not for the prayers of their kith and kin. Every mortal being left behind a mark, no matter how small or ephemeral, except animals. They served, they fought, they put their lives in danger for their masters and when they died it was almost as if they had never existed. Jahan didn’t want Chota to meet the same end. He wanted him to be remembered with appreciation and love. Perhaps it was blasphemy, but he didn’t care. It pained him to think that Chota could not go to heaven. If people prayed for him, he thought, the elephant had a better chance of ascension.

He carefully laid the tusk inside the hole. ‘Farewell. I’ll see you in Paradise. I hear they have nice trees to eat.’

In that moment a strange calmness came over him. He was, for the first time, at peace with himself. He was part of everything and everything was part of him. So this was it, he thought. Centre of the universe was neither in the East nor in the West. It was where one surrendered to love. Sometimes it was where one buried a loved one. Shovel by shovel, he covered the hole until it was smooth. Then, using the strings, he hemmed in the pit. Where he imagined Chota’s head would have been he stuck in a dry branch and tied it with the
scarf. Next to it he placed the candle. He sat by it, cross-legged, bolt upright. Now all he needed to do was to wait for someone, anyone, to walk by.

It did not take long. A young, willowy goatherd approached. He stared at the grave, then at Jahan, then back at the grave again. ‘What is this,
effendi
?’

‘It’s a tomb.’

The youngster’s lips moved in a quick invocation. When he finished, he asked, ‘Who died? Anyone familiar?’

‘Hush. Be respectful.’

The goatherd’s dark eyes widened. ‘Who was it?’

‘A saint. A powerful one.’

‘Never heard of a saint in this area.’

‘He did not want to be known for a hundred years.’

‘Then how is it that you know?’

‘He revealed his tomb to me in a holy dream.’

Kneeling beside Jahan, the goatherd tilted his head to the side, as if hoping to get a glimpse of the corpse under the earth. ‘Does he cure any diseases?’

‘He cures everything.’

‘My sister’s barren. Been married for three summers, still waiting.’

‘Bring her here. The saint might help. Bring her husband, too, in case it is him.’

‘What’s he called?’

‘Chota Baba.’

‘Chota Baba,’ the goatherd repeated deferentially.

Slowly, Jahan stood up. ‘I must go. Keep an eye on this grave. Make sure no one disrespects him. You are the guardian of the shrine of Chota Baba. Can I trust you?’

The goatherd nodded solemnly. ‘Don’t be worrying yourself,
effendi
. I shall keep my word.’

This is how the city of seven hills and a hundred shrines, old and very old, Muslim, Christian, Jewish and pagan, gained yet another saint to visit at times of desperation, at times of joy.

After riding the entire afternoon Jahan arrived at a crossing where the road forked – the path to his right led northwards over dried-up riverbeds to Thrace. This was the route Davud had counselled him to take. The path to his left meandered westwards through flatlands and rolling hills; it was more splendid – greener, prettier, yet less preferable, since it was not only circuitous and rugged but also dangerous, with bandits roaming its woods. Jahan was about to turn right as planned when a thought occurred to him. If Chota were alive, he would have plumped for the other path, he knew. And without premeditation and for no particular reason, so did he.

For a while he rode at a canter, drinking in the landscape. The air smelled of pine, mud and dampness. Guided by a strange instinct, he roamed about, deviating from the agreed course. Soon the sun went down and the moon – a thin, pale crescent – rose in the east. That was when Jahan recalled the inn that he and Davud had dined in as young, excited apprentices, on their way back from Rome. If memory served him correctly, it was in this area.

By the time he found the inn, darkness had descended. A groom took his horse to the stable while he made his way inside. Everything was exactly the same: the stuffy rooms upstairs, the vast, noisy dining hall downstairs, the strong odour of roasted meat. The unchanging nature of the place should have come as a comfort, a sweet reassurance in a world where everything was disappearing, but it didn’t. Instead it filled him with an immense despair. His mind was awash with images of the
hamam
of sorrows. The face of the concubine, as she leaned over him in a kiss, transformed into the face of Mihrimah. Even though he knew this was impossible, there was a part of him that felt he had killed his beloved and that, secretly, he had wanted this.

He sat at a rough-hewn table near the stone fireplace, full of
feverish thought, listening to the crackle of the logs over the din of laughter and gossip. Houseboys scurried left and right, brothers by the looks of them. In a little while, a young lad came to take his order. Having a cheerful, chirpy mien, he asked Jahan who he was and where he was going. In his eyes Jahan saw the sparkle he’d had when he was the boy’s age – a reckless curiosity for the world and a hidden wish to leave one’s place of birth in the belief that real life was elsewhere.

When the lad brought him his stew – a steaming pot of beef and vegetables in a thick, spicy broth – Jahan said, ‘Last time I came here you were not yet born.’

‘Really?’ the lad said, intrigued. ‘My pa must have taken care of you.’

‘Where is he?’ Jahan asked between mouthfuls.

‘Oh, he’s around. A bit hard of hearing in his right ear. The left is fine. I’ll tell him about you. These days all he does is talk about the past.’

Nodding, Jahan went back to his stew. As he was wiping the bowl clean with a hunk of bread, the innkeeper appeared. He had gained weight and had a belly the size and shape of a barrel. Jahan watched the lad point in his direction, saying something in his father’s ear. In a second the man was by Jahan’s side.

‘My boy tells me you’re an architect and that you were here way back.’

‘That’s right: I was here with my friend,’ Jahan said, raising his voice.

The man squinted and stood ramrod straight for a moment too long. Then he said slowly, ‘I remember.’

Jahan didn’t believe him. How could he have any recollection of them, when he had seen hundreds of customers come and go? As if he had read this disbelief, the innkeeper sat opposite him and said, ‘I did not forget you two because of that companion of yours. Strange fella, that one. I thought to myself: are these friends or foes?’

Perplexed, Jahan stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He asked for a cleaver. I said what are you going to do with it? We
get all sorts of rogues here, don’t want trouble. How was I to know he wouldn’t sink it into someone? He promised to return it. And he did, in truth.’

Jahan pushed aside his empty plate, suddenly nauseated. But the expression on the man’s face said he hadn’t finished.

‘I was suspicious. I peeked from the door. You were downstairs. Everyone was.’

‘What did you see?’ Jahan asked.

‘Your
friend
,’ he said, pronouncing the last word mockingly, ‘was cutting up a book. Leather cover it had. He chopped at it like it was some tree.’

‘We were robbed,’ Jahan said. ‘My drawings … my journal. All were gone.’

‘No,
effendi
. Nothing’s stolen in my inn. We run a decent place. Your “friend” destroyed your things. God knows what he did with the pieces.’

‘But … why would he do that?’

‘Hah! If you find out, come tell me, ’cause I have been wondering that myself.’

After the man left, Jahan ordered some ale, which they brewed in this region. He shuddered, as if the wind outside were blowing through his bones. When he finished his drink, he left a generous tip and went back to the stable.

‘Has my horse been fed and watered?’

‘Yes,
effendi
.’

‘Saddle it up.’

‘You leaving? There’s a storm coming. The forest is dangerous at night.’

‘Not going into the woods,’ Jahan said. ‘I’m returning to the city.’

Through rows of elms and over bubbling brooks, he rode back to Istanbul, the storm chasing him like a hound nipping at his heels. His
horse started at each crack of thunder; the storm grew closer and louder at every turn. Somehow he managed not to get caught in the rain, fleeing the leaden clouds following behind. He charged into fields of black – a black so complete and absolute as to suck up all other shades – one after another. He wondered if this was what death would be like. If so, it didn’t feel frightening, only profound.

Jahan raced across a valley strewn with huge boulders that resembled, from a distance, old men huddling for warmth. As he passed by, he had the odd feeling that they were watching him with the dull stare of those who, having seen too many excitements that ended in disaster, had none left of their own.

Near Istanbul, the storm skewed right, cutting off his path and reaching the city ahead of him. A lightning bolt struck far off, washing the domes and hills with a bright blue lustre. In that blaze of light, descending almost vertically, it felt like the skies had opened up to reveal the vault of heaven, if only for the briefest moment. Once again Jahan thought to himself what a beautiful city this was, however stony-hearted. Soon the sodden ground under his horse’s hooves turned into cobbled roads. He headed to the Belgrade Gate – the one entrance that he guessed would not be closed at this hour.

He was right. A company of Janissaries stood sentinel with their shields and swords and high headwear; one of them was dozing on his feet. Jahan told them he was a teacher at the palace school and showed them his seal. They questioned him suspiciously but not altogether disrespectfully, in case he might have connections high up in the seraglio. Finally, bored, they let him go.

For a while Jahan rode watching the sea, now the colour of ink, in the distance. The gale, fast and furious, blew down the gables, snapped the saplings, churned the waves. All at once, it started to pelt down.
The Little Day of Judgement
, the locals called such squalls of lashing rain, the world rehearsing for the final deluge. Hard as Jahan tried to keep to under the eaves as he rode, by the time he reached Davud’s mansion he was soaked to the bone. A dog barked some
where, a man yelled in an unfamiliar language. Then came silence, enhanced rather than disturbed by the constant noise.

When he had visited this place earlier, he had not paid attention to how well it was protected – lofty walls, iron gates, a hedge of shrubs. He recalled Davud’s words:
My wives complain. You are the Chief Royal Architect, yet you don’t even repair the fence around the house, they say
. Tethering the horse to a post, he walked towards the fence around the back garden, searching for the section in need of repair. He found a place where a few of the pales had buckled and crumbled. After prodding a bit, two of them gave way, making a hole big enough to pass through. The garden welcomed him with its heady fragrances. He paced back and forth, deciding how best to break into the house.

It was easier than he had thought. Jahan knew that a well-fortified house had in general but one flaw: an owner’s hubris. Confident that no thief would ever breach its defences, such a place was not checked regularly. In time, even the highest wall crumbled, the sharpest spike lost its edge. Through a wooden hatch that turned out to be fortuitously loose on its hinges, he crept in and found himself in what seemed to be – or what smelled like – the pantry. As his eyes got used to the gloom, he was able to move about in slow, steady strides. Surrounded by crocks of honey and molasses, kegs of goat’s cheese and butter, strings of dried vegetables and fruit, pots of grain and nuts, he could not help but smile at what Chota might have done with such food. He remembered the night when he had sneaked into the royal observatory, his heart thumping. Everything was different back then. His master was alive and thriving; Chota was alive; and he was a man in love.

Down the corridor, ensconced in a niche, a lamp glowed faintly. Jahan took it and made his way upstairs. The room he and Davud had dined in the other day looked larger, as if it expanded after dusk. He approached the bookshelves, not knowing what he was searching for but trusting that he would recognize it once he found it. He hadn’t had a chance to inspect the scrolls, and this was what he set about
doing now. Unrolling one of them, he studied it. Nothing unusual. He spent less time with the next two drawings: one of a bazaar; the other of a lazaretto. Deep from the bowels of the house came a rustle as light as the wing beat of a moth. His back stiffened. He grew still, listening. Not a sound. Only the dark and its numbing calmness.

He opened a roll of paper, recognizing his master’s handwriting.

My faithful apprentice Jahan
,

I came to see you today, was not allowed. It is the second time they have blocked my way. The Grand Vizier’s orders, so I am told. I shall try to reach our Sultan and get special permission. Until then I shall send you this letter so that you know I pray for your well-being, my son, and that while you spend your days inside those walls, I have no joy outside
.

Jahan gasped. He had come, after all. His master had visited him in the dungeon. He had tried to reach him and failed. Instantly another thought followed. Why had he not received this letter? What – or who – had kept the letter away from him all this time?

His hands trembled as he inspected the next scroll – the design of the Kırkcesme aqueducts. The site of their third major accident: the one that had killed eight workers, among them Salahaddin. Once again he saw his master’s handwriting, the gentle strokes of his gold-nibbed pen. Upon his penmanship, in a slightly different shade, was a second imprint. Similar to the lines he had found on the scroll of the Suleimaniye Mosque. He examined the scratch marks, all of which happened to be the spots where the injuries had occurred.

In the third design – that of Molla Celebi Mosque – Jahan caught a detail that almost choked him. Till then he had focused on the areas around the scaffolding. Yet here there were markings on the half-dome over the
mihrab
. A memory floated into his head. He remembered how Sancha, her face ashen, her accent lilting and her shadow long in the grass, had told him the story of her capture as they sat in that location. He recalled the men – one of them Salahaddin’s brother – prowling about while she was talking and his feeling that something
about them was not quite right. At the time he and Sancha had taken them for petty thieves stealing materials from construction sites. It happened often. There was no end to the things people ran off with, mostly out of poverty, sometimes for the sheer pleasure of it.

Now he understood those men had been there to sabotage the building as part of another plot; they had been waiting for him and Sancha to leave. But since they stayed, they had unknowingly prevented them from doing what they had been ordered to do. Instead the accident had occurred on the other side of the prayer hall. Somebody had been taking notes on Master Sinan’s designs not
after
the incidents, in order to study where things had gone wrong, but
before
. In his dismay, Jahan dropped the scroll, cursing his clumsiness. He got on his knees to pick it up and was still hunched over when three pairs of feet entered the room.