The Abyssinian Proof (11 page)

Saba looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean empty?” she asked.

That fool Malik, Balkis thought. What had he really found?

“What I mean is anything that old would be worth something, empty or not.” Amida laughed. “Those Europeans would buy a rat’s turd, if it was old enough. If you can convince them that a worthless box is the Proof of God, well, money will rain from heaven. That would be a blessing, if ever I heard of one.”

“Don’t even joke about selling it,” Saba snapped.

“Malik’s reliquary is gone, so someone has already had that bright idea.”

Balkis listened incredulously to this exchange. She was furious at Amida’s wholesale dismissal of all that was sacred in their lives. “Even though you are my son,” she said, “you are a fool.”

“Well, I won’t be the donkey pulling your cart.” Amida headed for the door.

“We’re a community, not a vehicle for your ambitions,” Saba called out behind him. She turned and left the room.

Balkis was surprised at the strength of spirit she had glimpsed in her normally quiescent daughter. Bent over in pain, she shuffled to the cabinet, opened the glass door, and reached inside for the envelope of powder.

K
AMIL FOUND THE
British cultural attaché slouched on a bench in the Municipal Gardens at the crest of the Pera hill, one lanky leg draped over the other, revealing an expanse of white silk sock. Between thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he pinched a thin cigar, the picture of the insouciant gentleman. Pink clouds had begun to gather to the west as the sun weakened.

“Mister Owen?” Kamil asked.

The man turned his head. He was in his forties, with a long, pleasant face, an aquiline nose, and thin lips curved in a friendly smile.

Owen’s pale blue eyes regarded Kamil with amusement. “You’ve found him,” he drawled, and then motioned with his cigar for Kamil to sit beside him. “Like to come up here and sit.” He leaned back and took a deep breath. “Get away from those ghastly fumes.” He looked to Kamil for sympathy. “The price of progress, eh?”

Kamil sat down. “I’m afraid so.” As the weather grew colder, a suffocating haze from the coal and wood with which people heated their homes had descended on the city. The public gardens were atop a bluff and a steady breeze kept the air relatively clear.

Owen wore a well-cut gabardine suit, a brocaded waistcoat, and a shirt that Kamil recognized as the work of a Beyoglu shirtmaker. Kamil owned several shirts made by Tailor Pepo, with their trademark rounded collar and distinctive stitching, and he was surprised to find Owen wearing one. Tailor Pepo was a well-kept secret. He could make only a limited number of shirts, so his devoted customers generally didn’t share his address.

Owen pulled out another cigar and offered it to Kamil. “Rare, but the best.”

“Thank you. I prefer cigarettes.”

“Your English is good,” Owen remarked. “Been to the home country?”

“Cambridge.”

Owen looked at him with interest. “Well done.” He puffed on his cigar. “Been to London, of course.”

“Yes, it’s a marvelous city.” Kamil reached into his jacket for sketches of the missing objects. “Let me show you…”

“Are you much for classical music?” He leaned toward Kamil. “Mozart? Bach?” He shook his head distastefully. “Germans, I know, but what’s to be done? No one better. Do you play?”

“If you mean the piano, no, I’m afraid not, although I do appreciate good music when I hear it.”

“Dash it. I miss my music. I play piano. Not bad at all. But, without an audience…You know what they say, if a musician plays to an empty room,” he smiled, showing a row of gleaming white teeth, “is it really music?”

“There’s some good music in the city. The concert and theater season has just opened. I don’t remember seeing Bach on the program, but there’s a performance of Bizet’s
Carmen
this week at the Palais de Cristal.”

“Thank you for the tip, my friend. Will I see you there?”

“No time, I’m afraid. Would you mind taking a look at these?” Kamil held out the sketches. “They were stolen recently. I’m particularly interested in these.” He pointed to the sketches of the icon and the diamond chalice missing from the Fatih Mosque.

Owen lifted one of the sketches up to his face. “Are these jewels?”

“Diamonds.”

Owen whistled.

“The icon is unique and, if it appears on the market, could easily be traced.”

“Then it’ll be sold privately.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

“What makes you think I know anything about them?”

“My contact in the London police suggested you might be able to help. Many of the stolen objects are ending up in London, but we don’t know how they’re getting there so quickly.”

“Makes a certain amount of sense, but I’m not sure what we can do to help you, short of searching every shipment that leaves the country and the baggage of every British traveler.”

“I wish that were possible,” Kamil admitted. Ottoman customs agents had few rights to search British citizens, leaving huge loopholes in the antiquities laws.

“But, of course, it’s entirely impractical,” Owen pointed out. “The embassy barely has enough staff to handle its own shipments.”

“There’s more at stake than the actual thefts,” Kamil explained urgently. “You’re a man with political experience. You know that when people lose their heritage, it ignites deeper fears, especially these days.”

“It’s a tragedy what’s happening in the provinces. Her Majesty’s government is very concerned.”

Kamil knew the British wanted a strong Ottoman Empire to stand between themselves and the Russians. The empire was the prey that kept the bear occupied.

“Then I’m sure you’ll be willing to help us. We’d like permission to search the cargo of any vessel leaving for England. You’re welcome to send a representative to oversee the operation.”

Owen raised his eyebrows. “I’ll ask the ambassador.” He puffed on his cigar. “Don’t expect too much.”

Kamil was disappointed but not surprised by Owen’s lack of enthusiasm. He frowned into the distance, where smoke rose from what appeared to be a large fire. The smoke drifted upward, a dark smudge against the sunset.

“How long have you been here?” Kamil asked, momentarily distracted by the fire.

“Arrived six months ago,” Owen answered.

Kamil turned to him. Something had struck a discordant note. “It’s odd, but I feel sure we’ve met before.”

“You must be mistaken, old chap. Tall, balding, blue-eyed Englishmen are as plenty as blackberries, as Shakespeare would put it.”

Kamil thought of the former British ambassador, another tall, balding Englishman with faded blue eyes. Owen was probably right.

“How do embassy personnel send things home?” Kamil asked, remembering the frail former ambassador and his daughter Sybil standing forlornly on deck of the ship that would take them back to England.

Ash from Owen’s cigar fell onto his knee and he brushed it off with an angry flick of his hand. “Diplomatic pouch. There’s a special steamer that goes directly to London. Why?”

“Just curious. Does everyone at the embassy use the pouch?”

“It’s for diplomatic correspondence,” Owen explained, “not your auntie’s quince jam.” He rose, threw his cigar on the dirt path, and ground it under his shoe. A sparrow fluttered down and pecked at the red and yellow label. “My good man,” he extended his hand, “it’s been a pleasure, but I must get back.”

“Of course.” They shook hands. “Thank you for your time. I’ll call on you again, if I may.”

“Absolutely, old chap. Perhaps we’ll meet at the Palais de Cristal. And I’ll see what I can find out about your problem. I’ll be in touch.” He flashed Kamil a smile and, with a wave, turned and strode down the path.

D
RESSED IN A CHARSHAF
that exposed only her face, Saba stood inside the door, hand on the jamb, looking out at the candlelit windows of the village. Beyond the cottages and gardens, the cistern wall rose like a black page. A group of men clustered in the road outside the courtyard. She could hear their low voices and an occasional laugh. When they saw her, they bowed respectfully, but didn’t disperse. They, like her family, were waiting for a man named Kubalou.

The men’s voices rose suddenly like the sound of leaves in a great gust of wind, then fell silent. Saba saw a lamp approaching and hurried into the receiving hall.

“He’s coming.”

Her mother sat regally on one side of the U-shaped divan, arrayed in her most imposing gold-stitched robe and brocade caftan, with a silk scarf wound over her hair that was pinned in place by a diamond brooch. Her right hand held the Melisite scepter, the other lay calmly in her lap. All the lamps had been lit, and the high-ceilinged room blazed with light. Servants were lined up at the far end of the hall, out of earshot, but ready to spring into service. She noticed Bilal, Amida’s servant, among them. He was a comely boy, a few years younger than Amida. They had returned from Abyssinia together and were inseparable.

Saba surveyed the room with pleasure and thought about all the other women of her blood who had sat here over the centuries, confident and powerful. She wondered whether she could absorb that confidence just by being in its presence.

A few moments later, Amida came in carrying a lamp. While he paused to place it on a chest, a tall, heavyset man in an ill-fitting suit strode past him into the hall, as self-confident as if he were in his own living room. Saba disliked him immediately. His watery brown eyes met hers and she felt the cunning in him like a blow. He wore a bowler hat, but swept it off as he entered, revealing a halo of orange hair. She wished Uncle Malik were here, but he rarely interested himself in the business of the community and she doubted her mother had even told him about the dealer’s visit.

The man’s eyes rested a moment longer than necessary on Saba, appraising her, then his face broke out into what she was sure was meant to be a charming smile. Black spaces showed at either end of his grin where teeth were missing.

“Ma’am?” he said to her in English. He had an odd, high-pitched voice, totally incongruous with his bulk. But what did she know about how the English spoke? Uncle Malik had taught her some English and French—“The tongue is sharper than the sword,” he had told her, “and the master must know how to wield every kind of blade”—but she had never heard a native speak. And if this man were Cuban, as his name suggested, then she knew less than nothing, since she had no idea what that was.

Amida led the man to the side of the divan opposite the priestess. Kubalou’s eyes roved among Amida, Saba, and the stately woman on the divan before him. He probably wasn’t used to dealing with women, Saba realized, and didn’t understand that he should address the priestess. Her mother looked wary.

Saba was shocked to see Amida sit down at the priestess’s right hand, when he knew their place at a formal audience was on the third leg of the divan. He clearly wished to show himself to Kubalou as having more standing than he had. Saba debated whether she should sit in the appropriate place, but then decided she wouldn’t let her brother alone claim equal status with the priestess. She sat at her mother’s left hand, feeling awkward at breaking the rules. She stole a glance at her mother’s face, but saw no reaction to the unusual seating. Her eyes were riveted on the visitor.

“Selam aleikum, peace be upon you. We welcome you to Sunken Village.”

Amida translated into broken English, and there ensued an exchange of customary pleasantries interrupted by awkward pauses while Amida wrestled with the words. The servants brought tea in crystal glasses and pastries on plates, morsels as small as the end of Saba’s finger. Bilal served Amida, and Saba saw a fond look pass between them. She saw that Kubalou had noticed it too.

Saba listened to Amida mangle the translation. She considered offering to translate instead of her brother, but to do so would humiliate him. Hopefully, she thought, we’ll have no future dealings with this man anyway. She also found herself struggling to understand Kubalou’s English. She noticed that he left words out, didn’t play by the rules, parried when he should have thrust straight to the heart of the subject. She adapted quickly, and his meaning was soon clear: work directly for me and I’ll make you rich.

She could see the priestess had also understood, despite Amida’s mangled translations.

“How long would this agreement last?”

“It’s a bottomless cup.” Kubalou smiled agreeably. “We can drink from it forever and not let it run dry. And I understand from Amida that you can get hold of some particularly, what I’d call, interesting items.”

Amida looked frightened at this, and Saba noticed that he mistranslated Kubalou’s words as “You have access to many places.” Had Amida told him about the Proof of God? Impossible. Surely even Amida wouldn’t reveal the central secret of the Melisites. Saba suddenly felt chilled, remembering their conversation that afternoon. Did Kubalou have the stolen reliquary?

Kubalou regarded Amida with a bemused smile, as if aware of his translator’s counterfeit. He took a piece of pastry in his big fingers and washed it down with tea.

“Who would make the decisions about which objects are taken, from where, and how?” Balkis asked him. “What would be the role of the Habesh?”

“We’re only interested in certain items. We tell you where they are, your men get them, and we pay for them.” He spread his hands, palms up. “Very efficient.”

Saba noticed they were covered with yellow calluses. What kind of high-status dealer had hands like this? She also wondered about his too tight clothes.

“The Habesh work as a team.” The priestess sat stiffly upright. She hadn’t touched her tea. Saba felt proud of her mother and, as always, awed by how flawlessly she inhabited the institution of priestess.

Kubalou shrugged. “I don’t care how you work, as long as you deliver.”

“What is the chain of command?”

“Ma’am,” Kubalou explained pleasantly, “you can be the Queen of Sheba as long as we get what we ask for.”

Saba was furious and saw that her mother recognized the insult just from his tone of voice. If she were priestess, Saba decided, she would have ended the interview right then. Unlike her mother, Saba understood what had been said. Uncle Malik was right. Knowledge was power.

Balkis looked pointedly at Amida, but he avoided her eyes and didn’t translate. She turned back to Kubalou and waited, her face betraying nothing.

“If you want your son here to head up some kind of group,” he added, “that can be arranged. I mean, assuming he can get them to follow his orders.” He gave Amida a fatherly smile.

Amida looked uncomfortable and glanced at his mother, but the priestess showed no emotion.

“What I mean is, do we deal directly with you or does someone stand on the ladder of authority above the Habesh?” Balkis asked again, rephrasing her question.

“We have some men in Charshamba. They’ll be in touch and let you know what we need.”

Balkis thought for a moment, then said, “The Habesh work alone. We make our own decisions. This will only work if we deal directly with you. We can then tell you whether or not your assignment can be carried out.”

Kubalou shook his head in frustration. “Ma’am,” he said, “we can’t deal with a hundred separate gangs. Ask your son there.” He nodded at Amida. “He’s a smart kid. He’ll tell you success lies in organization.”

“You misunderstand us. The Habesh are not a gang.”

“Fine, you’re a minority. It doesn’t matter if you’re Hottentots. There’s got to be a chain of command. I told you we’d include your son. Or did you want in on this? I mean, that might be a little awkward seeing as how you’re, well, a female person.”

Saba noted that Kubalou’s frustration had begun to break through.

Her mother closed her eyes for a moment and suddenly looked weary. But when they opened again, Saba saw no weakness there, only a simmering anger. She wondered if her wrath was directed at Kubalou or Amida.

Saba felt suffocated by her own silence. She wanted to speak her mind, in English, to this arrogant foreigner. She felt sure that of all the people in the room, she could handle him best. Kubalou was a predator, she saw that clearly. She imagined him as a wild boar with saber-sharp tusks. She looked directly at the man for the first time. He appeared startled by her direct gaze, but immediately caught it, locking his eyes with hers. His thick lips curved into a slight smile.

The way to deal with a predator, Saba thought, was to treat it as prey, never taking your eyes from it. She had learned that from her mother.

Kubalou’s eyes hardened and he turned back to the priestess.

“Well, have you thought it over, ma’am?” he asked her impatiently. “What do you say?”

“We decline your offer.”

The lines around Amida’s mouth deepened. He looked angry.

“Christ. Women and business,” Kubalou muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Mother,” Amida said urgently, “this is our big chance. There aren’t any other jobs that pay as well as this and it’s not something we don’t already do. You said yourself we have to do something to stop the young people from leaving. What else have we got to offer them?”

“Heart,” Balkis said simply.

Kubalou asked Amida what had been said. When Amida told him, he snapped, “You’d be better off using your head.”

Amida hesitated, then translated it for his mother.

Balkis turned her icy gaze on the man who now stood before her. “Thank you for making us this generous offer, Kubalou Efendi. I regret the Habesh cannot join your organization. I bid you good night.”

“Oh, I ain’t Mister Kubalou, ma’am. Mister Kubalou couldn’t come, so he sent me instead. But I speak for him, don’t think that I don’t.”

Saba could see that her brother was as surprised as they were.

“Who are you?” Balkis demanded.

“No need to get all worked up, ma’am. I never told this boy otherwise. I assumed he knew I wasn’t Mister Kubalou. Never occurred to me he didn’t know, or I would’ve set him straight. But it makes no difference, as I told you. My word is his word. I’m what you might call his right-hand man. Name’s Ben.”

Amida staggered through the translation. Even Saba could make little sense of some of the words.

The man put his hat on. “Well, ma’am. I’m sorry to waste your time, and you mine. Good night to you.”

“Go in peace,” Saba heard her mother say.

Outraged as much at Amida as at the man she had thought was Kubalou, Saba rose to her feet. As the man passed her, he said in English in a low voice, “I hope we meet again some time, Miss Saba.”

He must have noticed that she had been following the conversation, Saba realized, and it chilled her that he knew her name. She wondered what the real Kubalou was like. What kind of predator were they dealing with?

“I doubt it,” she responded coolly in English, then turned and walked away.

Amida passed her and followed Mister Ben out. She saw from the surprise and alarm on Amida’s face that he had heard her speak English. What did he want with this counterfeit Kubalou?

She looked over at her mother and saw that she was slumped forward.

“Mama, Mama. What is it?” She ran to her side.

Balkis’s mouth was open, her breathing erratic. “Nothing, dear,” she gasped. “Get me my powder.”

Saba opened the glass-fronted case and took out a slim envelope. She unfolded it and poured the powder into a glass of water, then took it to her mother.

“Get Gudit,” Balkis said weakly.

But Gudit had already appeared, as she always did, seemingly out of nowhere. She helped Balkis to her bedroom and closed the door behind them.

Amida didn’t return.

Saba hovered around her mother’s door until Gudit emerged.

“She’ll be fine,” the midwife told her gruffly. “Stop hanging about like an unweaned calf.”

Saba slipped on her shoes and went outside into the cold air. She felt emotionally exhausted, but also exhilarated. She had felt a power in herself tonight that she hadn’t known she possessed. A fulcrum that had found its center.

Her ears became aware of a commotion in the village square. Pulling her charshaf close about her, she ran down the road. In the square, she saw Amida and the ginger-haired man, surrounded by some of the young men of the village, talking in excited voices. A dark stranger with long, gangly limbs stood beside the counterfeit Kubalou, looking bored. Saba saw him whisper something to Amida, then pull on Mister Ben’s sleeve.

She stopped outside the glow of the lamp and watched, feeling her anger rise again. There would be only one source of power in this community, she decided. There was more at stake than a simple village and a way of life. Amida chose to ignore that at his peril. Perhaps he no longer believed in the Proof of God, in the mission of the priestess and caretaker, the charge left them by Melisane and Michael, their founders. People with no imagination believed survival depended on money. She would see to it that Amida didn’t sell the kernel of their faith so cheaply.

She suddenly remembered her mother’s face before she had drunk the powder. It was gray with pain. Her mother, she realized, was sicker than she let on. As she walked back through the darkness, Saba was suddenly afraid. If her mother died, there would be no one but Uncle Malik, who might not be much help against her brother and Kubalou. She stopped under the poplar tree just inside the courtyard. There would be no one by her side, no one to support her. She had never felt more alone.

Her mind wandered to Kamil Pasha. Why had Uncle Malik spoken so often about Kamil if he hadn’t meant for them to be together? Leaning her cheek against the tree trunk, she began to cry.

Aware of someone standing behind her, she turned.

“Pardon me, Saba Hanoum. I apologize for intruding.” It was Constantine Courtidis. “Someone rode over and told me your mother was ill, so I came right away. Are you alright?” The concern in his voice irritated her because it made her want to cry even more, and she had to force herself not to lean forward onto his chest and allow him to minister to her as well as to her mother.