The Abyssinian Proof (19 page)

As he spoke, Courtidis pulled the blood-soaked wool away from the body, then cut and removed the undergarments. Malik’s body on the bellystone was blue-white and shadowed, like a hard-boiled egg released from its shell.

The sight of the birdlike bones of the old man’s chest, the wiry gray hairs around his sagging nipples filled Kamil with pity and grief. By the time Kamil had seen his dying father, he had been wrapped in a quilt that padded his fragile, broken body. Now, in the thin-skinned, pathetic presence of death, Kamil was reminded that even fathers are frail and that this was something most sons never acknowledged. He averted his eyes from the white worm of Malik’s shriveled but clearly uncircumcised organ.

Every Muslim must be circumcised. The story of the Melisites and their reliquary became more real. Christians masquerading as Muslims for hundreds of years. They must have had a reason. The Proof of God?

“So you know,” Courtidis said, continuing to wash the body. “Otherwise you would have been exclaiming from here to Baghdad, ‘What’s this? He’s not a Muslim!’”

Pink water pooled on the marble.

“How did you know?” Kamil asked him.

“I didn’t, but it makes sense from what I know about his family. He was Habesh. They pray like Muslims, they say they’re Muslims, but they have their own rites.” He stopped, momentarily overcome by grief. “He was the finest human being I have ever met.” He looked up at Kamil suddenly. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? You know there are people who would call this blasphemy and make trouble. Let Malik keep his dignity.”

“If I need to share this information with the police in order to find his murderer, I will do that. But otherwise I don’t see why any of it should become known.”

“Thank you.”

After he had cleaned away the blood, Courtidis bent over and repeated his close inspection of the body.

“Look at these.” He swept his hand across a battlefield of cuts and punctures between Malik’s groin and chest. He gently inserted a probe into the middle of one of the cuts, then moved it sideways. He did the same to another. “The wounds all have the same strange pattern. They’re flat, deep in the middle and shallow at the ends.” He pointed to Malik’s stomach. “One pierced the intestines. That’s where the smell comes from and, of course, from the usual, beg your pardon, evacuation.” He probed around Malik’s chest. “Another one pierced his lungs. But here’s the strangest thing of all. Do you see these pairs of puncture marks? It’s as if something with two sharp teeth bit his chest all over.”

Admiring his professionalism, Kamil observed that focusing on the puzzle of piecing together the cause of death seemed to have calmed the young surgeon.

“Yes, I can see that,” Kamil said. “What do you think it could be?” Kamil steeled himself to look closely at the wounds. The thought of Malik’s prolonged agony nauseated him.

“The puncture marks occur at the same places as the other wounds. I’d say the weapon had an odd-shaped blade and two sharp protrusions. But I haven’t got a clue what it could be.”

Kamil thought about this. “Perhaps some kind of knife used in a particular profession. Skinning animals, maybe?” He thought of Mustafa the Tanner.

“Help me turn him on his side.”

The surgeon grasped Malik’s hips and Kamil his right shoulder. Together they tilted the body forward so its back was visible.

Much of the blood had been soaked up by Malik’s heavy robe, which now lay on the table. Kamil looked at the blood-soaked wool. Malik’s silver brooch was gone. He wondered whether robbery had been a motive after all. It seemed a lot of effort to kill someone in this brutal manner for a small piece of jewelry.

“Would you soak this in hot water?” Courtidis asked Kamil, handing him the sponge.

Kamil held Malik’s shoulder while Courtidis swept the sponge back and forth across the back. When the blood was gone, they both leaned over, speechless.

“The lost angel,” Courtidis said softly. “You have fallen to earth and been destroyed.”

On Malik’s back was tattooed a pair of wings that stretched from his shoulder blades to below his waist. The powerful wings were folded shut. Every deep blue feather was detailed. Over time, the ink had begun to bleed and blur the outlines, giving the feathers the appearance of having been ruffled, disarranged.

“Do you know what they mean?” Kamil asked.

“A tolerance for pain. That would have taken hours with a sharp needle.”

Kamil ran his fingers down the span of wings. “The detail is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He had seen tattoos on the arms of sailors and prisoners, and on the faces and hands of tribal women from Hakkari and the Sinai. But those were crude tracings compared to the wings on the dead man’s back. They looked so real he expected them to unfurl and take flight at any moment.

“I had a Habesh patient once—with a bad cough that eventually killed him—the man had a tattoo of this quality on his chest. Not wings, though. The face of Jesus. So real, I expected Jesus to open his mouth and bite my hand. I didn’t see his back.”

“Do you know where he had his tattoo done?”

“The Sunken Village midwives were famous for their tattooing. There’s only one left now who knows how to do it, a water buffalo named Gudit. Secret ingredients in the ink, she told me.”

They laid Malik on his back again. Courtidis dipped a hamam bowl into the cauldron of hot water, soaped his hands, and rinsed them, leaving a red scum in the bowl. “I think Malik was alive for a while after they did this. They’re shallow cuts, most of them, painful, but not immediately life-threatening. He was killed by a blow to the head. Look here.” He showed him an area of matted hair speckled by fragments of bone.

“The murderer used a candlestick from the mosque.”

“Bastard. Who would do this to a harmless old man? Why?”

“We’ll do our best to find out. He was my friend too.” As Kamil said it, the truth of it came to rest painfully in his chest.

Courtidis walked to the corner, retrieved the sheet, and flung it in the air so it came to rest slowly over Malik’s broken body like a wing. “When you find the devil, “he said viciously, “saw off his tail with a blunt sword. And, beg your pardon, I don’t mean the hind one.”

K
AMIL EMERGED FROM
the hamam and was surprised to find it was still day, that the sun was shining and that people were going about their business as normal. It seemed incomprehensible. His head throbbed. Propping himself against a ruined wall, he reached into his pocket for his beads, but instead his hand encountered the pocket watch. It was twelve o’clock.

Time. Things in their place. He sighed and fished out a clean handkerchief to wipe his face and hands. He had washed them in the hamam, but in the daylight he saw there were still flecks of Malik’s blood beneath his nails. Courtidis joined him, rummaged in his bag, and took out two cigarettes. He offered one to Kamil, then lit them both with the same match.

Kamil inhaled deeply. The acrid smoke scorched the back of his throat. Perhaps patients in this part of town didn’t pay well.

“You look pale, Magistrate, if you want my professional opinion.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Headache?”

“How did you know?”

Courtidis flashed his equine smile. “Two things cannot be hidden—love and a headache. The area around your eyes is tense and you look like you’re balancing a water jug on your head.”

Kamil managed a weak smile, then took refuge in his cigarette. The tobacco was much stronger than the Egyptian cigarettes he usually smoked.

Courtidis rummaged in his bag again. He clicked open a tin case and plucked out a small brown ball. He extended it to Kamil. “Chew that.”

“What is it?” Kamil sniffed it. It was sticky and had a sharp, unpleasant smell.

“Trust me. It’ll cure your headache.”

“No, thanks.”

“Works every time. Myrrh, cedar agaric, aloe, a pinch of charred tobacco, marjoram, and a few other things. Can’t tell you everything. Proprietary information, like Gudit’s ink. I call it Balat Balm. It’s very popular, if you’ll excuse me beating my own drum.”

Kamil thought about it, remembering Omar’s suspicion that Courtidis was a drug dealer, then popped the ball in his mouth and chewed. What was the difference between medicine and drugs when one was ill?

“It tastes like vinegar.”

“The ingredients are dissolved in vinegar, then mixed with honey so they stick together. Go home and get some sleep. I guarantee you’ll feel better tomorrow. If you still have problems, I live by the Crooked Gate. Ask anyone. You’re welcome to visit. Even if you’re not ill.”

As though embarrassed, he added, “You know, Malik made it possible for me to study and become a surgeon. It pains me not to be able to help him.” He examined his cigarette. “I promised myself a long time ago that I would always be there for his family. He has a niece, Saba.” He crushed the cigarette in his fingers and flung it to the ground. “This will break her.”

He shook Kamil’s hand awkwardly, showed his teeth in a halfhearted smile, and disappeared around the corner.

Kamil leaned against the wall, thinking about Courtidis and Malik. It fit with what he knew of the old scholar that he would see the most potential in those who had fallen the farthest. Courtidis, Omar had said, was infatuated with Saba. Kamil could understand that; she was beautiful. But the young man’s bond to Saba and her family was much deeper than that. Kamil found he was relieved that Saba had such a devoted protector.

He walked through the ruins toward the Kariye Mosque, where he found the square now oddly deserted. The mosque door was open and he went inside. Someone had cleaned up the blood and the hall smelled of vinegar. He followed the light into the main room, lit by three high windows and carpeted for prayer. Kamil squatted in a corner and looked up at the marble revetments. At the back of the room, the marble was the gray and white of mist and bones. The patterns looked like women, he thought, one bowing, the other lifting her dress. One woman emerging from another, white, the red of clotted blood, white. A woman giving birth, the pubic bone rising sharply to either side of the head of a child emerging from the womb. What was it Malik had said? Mother of God, Container of the Uncontainable. Muslims did not believe that Jesus was God, of course, simply a prophet like others before him. Disturbed by the images in the veins of marble, Kamil fled through the corridor and out into the square. His headache was gone, but he was seeing visions.

H
E LOOKS LIKE
his father, Balkis thought. The same eyes that seemed to see into everything, the chiseled features. Her daughter sat huddled beside her. They were both dressed in white, the color of mourning. Word of Malik’s death had arrived within minutes of the imam finding his body.

“I see that you already know, but I wanted to tell you in person. Your brother Malik has passed away.” Kamil handed Balkis Malik’s ring. “I’m very sorry. Bashiniz sagholsun.”

Balkis took the ring and held it against her breast. My heart, she thought, my heart has ceased to beat. She had railed so long against her brother’s irresponsibility that she had forgotten his gentle humor, his boyish enthusiasms. All this came rushing into her mind as she clutched his ring: the fat-cheeked boy who had brought her fistfuls of poppies from the ruins; the young man who had found her pregnant, distraught, and almost destitute in Beyoglu and brought her back to Sunken Village; the man who had stood up to Gudit after her circumcision. The only man who had always stood by her.

Balkis cried out and doubled over in pain. Saba threw her arms around her, weeping. Balkis reached out and stroked her daughter’s head, then pushed her gently away. She turned Malik’s ring in her hands, trying to focus her mind through the pain.

“Who killed him?” she asked Kamil, who stood by the door, eyes on the floor as if ashamed to have brought such news.

“We don’t know. He was found in the mosque, stabbed. It must have happened late last night. When did you last see him?”

“At the ceremony on Friday.” Kubalou’s man had come that night, but that had nothing to do with Malik.

“Why would anyone kill Uncle Malik?” Saba wailed. “All he did was help people.” She rocked back and forth on the divan, keening softly, her veil pulled across her face.

Balkis put an arm around her.

“I’m very sorry,” Kamil said. “We’ll do our best to find whoever did this. If I may, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

Saba looked up and dried her eyes on her veil. “I’m sorry, Kamil Pasha,” she said in a shaky voice. “Look at us. We should be helping you instead of falling apart.”

Balkis looked at her daughter gratefully, surprised at how quickly the girl had pulled herself together. Her own tongue had grown numb. It was as if nothing she said could ever again be of any importance, so her mouth refused to form any words. She couldn’t even find the energy to despise her brother’s killer.

“What do you want to know?” Saba asked. “I didn’t see Uncle Malik after Friday either.”

“Do you know where the Proof of God is?” Kamil asked.

Balkis and Saba both stared at him.

“Malik told me about it,” Kamil explained. “He asked for my help in locating a reliquary that had been stolen from the mosque. He said it was important to your sect.”

Balkis looked at him, shocked. “He told you about the Melisites?”

“He told me in confidence and I have no intention of telling anyone else unless it becomes necessary,” he assured them. “But it’s important that you talk to me now. I think whoever has the reliquary might be the same person who killed Malik. Who else knew that this reliquary contained the Proof of God?”

At that, Balkis saw Saba suddenly raise her head and become still and alert, like a deer scenting danger. She tried to focus. Malik had told her after the ceremony on Friday that he had found the Proof of God. She hadn’t believed him, thinking he had unearthed an old box and that his fanciful imagination had gotten the better of him. He told her that the reliquary had been stolen, but that the Proof itself was safe. She had mocked his incompetence, joked that he had managed to lose even the Proof of God. The shame she felt now was only a fraction of the punishment she deserved. Why else would someone kill Malik? Perhaps he really had found the Proof of God.

“Amida knew.” Saba pressed her veil against her mouth. “I told him.”

“Why would he steal something from his own uncle? Much less kill him? That’s impossible.”

But Balkis knew Malik would try to protect the Melisites no matter what. Had he told Amida he wouldn’t allow him to become caretaker, threatened to send him back to the monastery? Balkis knew it had been on his mind. Malik didn’t think Amida was ready and he was worried that the boy would reveal their secrets to outsiders. She had assured Malik that he would outgrow his infatuation with money and travel and that other distasteful interest he had brought back with him from the south. Once a man tastes leadership, it goads him like salt on the tongue.

“Where was Amida last night?” Kamil still stood near the door as if he did not want to track dirt as well as bad news into someone’s home. Balkis bade him come in and sit.

When he had settled on the divan opposite her, she told him, “He was at home.”

“You saw him?” Kamil asked her.

“I heard him playing the piano.”

“But he could have gone out. Surely he didn’t play all night.”

“Well, let’s ask him.” Balkis said, exasperated. She signaled to a servant and instructed him to bring Amida.

“I think we should consider the possibility that if the reliquary is so important, someone in the village might have heard about it and stolen it. It would probably sell for a lot of money, but only if it were complete. And, of course, the thief would have to know where to sell it.”

Balkis knew he meant Amida.

“Malik told me about the smuggling in the village,” Kamil added.

“Malik didn’t know what went on here,” Balkis answered wearily. “He came once a week for the ceremony and the rest of the time he lived in his head. If you’ve seen his library, you’ll know he had a very active imagination. Don’t believe everything he told you. He was probably angry that his reliquary was stolen and wanted to blame someone.”

If her brother hadn’t been so headstrong, he’d still be alive, she thought.

Kamil asked a few more questions and seemed anxious to leave. A few minutes later, the breathless servant returned and announced that Amida hadn’t been seen since the day before.

Kamil stood. “Bashiniz sagholsun,” he offered again and bowed deeply, his hand on his heart. “If I can be of any service to you, you have only to send a message.”

K
AMIL MADE HIS
way through the gardens toward a stairway leading out of the cistern. A breathless Saba appeared at his elbow. “Kamil Pasha, may I speak with you?”

“Of course. This has been a difficult day for you,” he said kindly. She held her charshaf closed under her chin. Her face was blotchy from crying, but she still looked beautiful, he thought. In his haste that morning, he had forgotten to bring Malik’s letter. He would give it to her the following day.

She led him to a secluded part of the garden by the wall, where the arches of an old arcade had collapsed, leaving a row of tall brick scallops. They sat on a bench under one of the niches.

“I apologize. The shock was so great, we forgot our hospitality,” she said softly.

“There’s no need. On a day like this, it’s you who should be taken care of.”

Saba signaled to a servant standing some distance away, who then approached, set down a heavy tray, and withdrew.

This was no chance meeting, Kamil realized, and wondered where the conversation would go. He waited while she filled their glasses from a steaming pot and placed a lady’s navel on his plate. The plump mound of dough, soaked in honey, was indented in the center by a tiny jewel-like pistachio. She added a small pickled cucumber. “To cut the sweetness,” she explained.

“My mother used to do that.” Kamil smiled. He took a bite of the lady’s navel, then was glad of the vinegary pickle to take away the scorching sweetness. As he wiped his fingers and took his tea, Saba added another pastry and pickle to his plate. The combination of sweet and sour was making him feel slightly ill, but it would have been rude to refuse. He ate the second pastry, then politely declined any more.

“Is there something I can do for you?” Kamil asked, hoping to draw out the reason for this unusual picnic.

There was an awkward silence.

“I’m worried about my brother,” she said finally. “Are you sure you won’t have more tea?”

He shook his head no.

She got up to refill her own glass, and when she sat down again, she was nearer to Kamil on the bench.

“Now that my uncle is gone,” she said, her eyes welling with tears, “there’s no one to keep Amida on the right path. I’m afraid he’s in over his head. He thinks his bravado will get him through, but he’s dealing with people who are truly dangerous.”

“Who are these people? What do they want with your brother?”

“They’re from Charshamba. He’s hired them to do jobs for him, but in reality he has no control over them. The Habesh have never had anything to do with people like that. You must believe me. It puts us in a bad light. I wish it would stop.”

“I understand, but what is it you’d like me to do?”

“Arrest Amida.” She startled Kamil by letting the charshaf fall back from her hair onto her shoulders.

“I don’t think being in jail will keep him safe, Saba Hanoum. Do you know these men from Charshamba? Someone named Remzi or Kubalou, perhaps?”

“No, of course not.” She dropped the spoon into her empty tea glass, a loud, dissonant clatter.

“I apologize,” he said. “Of course not. Yet you seem so well informed.”

“This is a small village. People hear things.”

“There’s a policeman missing.” He looked hard at her. “Have you heard anything about that? We think this Charshamba gang was involved. If we can find him alive, he could testify against them. That way, they’d be in jail and your brother would be safe.”

She appeared genuinely shocked. “I didn’t know. If I hear anything about that, I’ll tell you.”

“Do you know about a tunnel between here and the Tobacco Works?”

When Saba didn’t answer right away, Kamil added, “It’s not a secret any more, now that Amida has let the Charshamba gang in on it. You might as well tell me. We think the policeman might be there. His name is Ali. He’s a decent young man with a family.”

“If I help you find this man, will you help me with the two things I want?”

“And what are they?” Kamil asked.

“The Proof of God.”

“Of course,” he said, surprised. “We’re already looking into that.”

“Not the reliquary. The document that Malik took out to study. Did he tell you where he put it?” she asked urgently.

“No. He just said he’d hidden it.”

“I want you to help me find it,” she said. “It’s what Malik would have wanted. Amida must never get his hands on it.”

“Why not?” Kamil wondered if this was sibling rivalry.

“He doesn’t respect it.” She held out the palms of her long, delicate hands. He noted the elegance in the tilt of each finger.

“Where do you think he would have hidden it?”

“In his house or in the Kariye.” She withdrew her hands and shrugged off her charshaf. “It’s so warm today.” Her skin looked as golden as the honeyed pastries on the tray. A fat bee buzzed about the plate, then settled delicately on a lady’s navel. Kamil could see its legs and antennae quivering as it sampled the sweetness.

“Uncle Malik spoke about you,” Saba said softly. “He always told me you were a person I could trust. He said we would have a special relationship. I felt I knew you even before we met.”

She had let her slippers fall to the ground. The tips of her toes were red with henna. Kamil’s heart contracted at the brutal contradiction between her tiny feet, so like the chubby feet of his nieces, and their flushed tips.

“He told me to go to you if I ever needed anything,” she continued. She put her face close to his. “Why do you think he said that?” she asked curiously, like a small child confident he would have the answer.

“I don’t know. He never spoke to me about his family, but last night he came to see me and told me something similar. He seemed worried about you and thought I’d be able to help.” He spread his hands and said more formally than he meant to, “I’m available, of course, should your family need assistance, Saba Hanoum. But I’m also investigating a crime. I can’t promise to help someone who’s guilty.”

Kamil saw the disappointment on Saba’s face and felt ashamed.

“Of course not,” she answered, pulling the charshaf briskly back over her shoulders. There was an undertone of anger in her voice.

“He also gave me a letter for you. He said I should give it to you if anything happened to him. I think he knew he was in danger.”

Saba sat up. “A letter?”

“I don’t have it with me. I’ll bring it next time.”

“But it might be important,” she insisted. “May I come to get it now?”

Kamil was shocked that Saba had suggested she accompany him to his home. Perhaps she had some notion that she was honoring Malik’s wishes by befriending Kamil.

“I’m sorry, Saba Hanoum. I won’t be home until much later. I’ll bring it tomorrow, if you like. We can talk more then. Perhaps you can give me some idea where to search for the Proof of God. Maybe there’ll be something in Malik’s letter.” He considered asking her permission to open the letter, but remembered his promise to deliver it, presumably unopened. “And if you find any information at all about the missing policeman, send a messenger to my home no matter what time of day or night.” He told her his address.

Saba stood before him as if willing him to change his mind. Then she gave a sad smile and said, “Tomorrow, then. I’ll be waiting for you.”

He bowed. “Thank you for the tea.” Smiling, he added, “You haven’t told me your second wish.”

Saba stepped close and inclined her head so it was almost resting on his chest. Finally, she said in a soft voice, “Another time.” She looked up and searched his face. By her expression, Kamil decided, she couldn’t find what she was looking for there.

“I’ll see what I can find out about the tunnel.” She stepped back and then was gone.

As Kamil mounted the stairs to Charshamba, he noticed Saba, wrapped in her charshaf, standing by a fig tree in the gardens below, watching him.