The Abyssinian Proof (22 page)

S
ABA LAY NAKED
and sweating on the hot bellystone, arms by her side, legs pressed tightly together. Steam enveloped the small chamber and weak columns of light fell toward her from the round windows in the dome. She stretched luxuriantly, arching her back, letting the steam and the heat caress her. It was early and only the servants were awake. She was alone in the hamam at the back of the house.

She felt languorous. Slippery with soap, she began to explore. Her hand trailed slowly across her collarbone, then her breast and her belly. She reached between her thighs and let her fingers slide across the damp swollen flesh, the delicate mounds and mysterious valleys. Her body charged up to meet her touch. Her fingers fell into the ready space, the opening that flared with exquisite pain, obliterating all else. She cried out. The pain was irresistible.

Once, while Malik was out, she had discovered hidden in his library a folder of graphic miniatures. She had frozen with shame, but only for an instant. Then she had become intrigued, stealing back several times to memorize every detail. The images colonized her dreams and made of them lush gardens in which she lingered willfully long after the dawn call to prayer. Although Malik’s death darkened her mood, it had also heightened her senses.

Suddenly, a short, heavy figure emerged from the mist and pressed a bath mitt against her face. Saba struggled but couldn’t get away. She felt a rough hand push her legs apart. When the finger impaled her, her back arched in pain and terror.

“Slut, slut, slut.”

Saba recognized Gudit’s voice. The mitt covered her mouth so she couldn’t scream.

“I saw you try to seduce the pasha with your honey cakes,” Gudit said in a harsh tone. “I know everything and you, you little slut, know nothing. Someday you’ll be grateful that I stopped you.”

She took the flesh between Saba’s legs between her fingers and pinched and pulled at it as if she were trying to tear it off. The pain was intolerable. Saba fought and this time managed to pull the mitt off her face and wriggle out of Gudit’s grasp.

Gudit slapped her. “You belong to us.”

The two women struggled on the bellystone. Saba was amazed at the old woman’s strength, but pushed her off again. A knife clattered to the floor. Slipping across the wet marble, Saba ran through the door to the cooling-off room. She turned, slammed it in Gudit’s face, and bolted it. Heaving with terror, Saba fell to her knees, the marble beneath her blooming pink with blood.

S
ABA DIDN’T TELL
her mother about the attack. She was ashamed and, she acknowledged to herself, nervous about what other subjects such a conversation might open up. She said nothing because she knew her mother relied on Gudit, her lifelong friend who had helped her carry the burden of leading the Melisite community. Instead, Saba avoided the midwife, who had been released from the hamam by a puzzled kitchen maid. Saba concealed her bruises with fine clay under her veil. Although the physical pain began to subside, her fury multiplied. When she became priestess, she vowed, she would see to it that Gudit regretted her cruelty.

K
AMIL TOOK
A
VI
to the Brasserie Europe for lunch. Avi was fascinated by the mirrors, and his eyes were continuously drawn from the complicated choreography of knives and forks on the table before him to the reflections of other diners. He ordered the same as Kamil and copied his table manners exactly.

Afterward, they took the phaeton to the Fatih police station. Omar wasn’t there—he had gone home for lunch—but Kamil was restless and decided to look for him instead of waiting. They left the phaeton at the station and followed the directions they had been given. They walked down a dirt lane between dilapidated two-story houses, passing under colorful washing strung across the street. They arrived at a small square in the middle of which stood a fountain. A woman in wide flowered pants and a hand-knit vest leaned toward it, filling a large copper jug. With a nonchalant gesture, she adjusted her cotton headscarf, which had come loose at one side, and deftly hefted the jug onto her head.

When she saw Avi, she smiled, showing a gap between her two front teeth. “Good day, my son,” she said warmly.

Avi ran over to her. “Teyze, does Police Chief Omar live here?” he asked, politely addressing her as aunt.

She paused, her eyes flicking to Kamil, who waited a short distance away. “What do you want with him?”

“Kamil Pasha is a friend of his,” Avi explained.

“Ah, so you’re Kamil Pasha,” the woman turned to him, the smile again lighting up her face. Toil had aged her prematurely, but she was still a handsome woman. “I’m his wife, Mimoza. I’m sure he’s complained about me.” She laughed. “Come. I hope you’re hungry.”

“May I take the jug, teyze?” Avi asked.

Mimoza looked him over, then gave it to him to carry. It was clearly heavier than he had expected, but he didn’t complain.

They came to a wooden gate and passed through a garden deep in late-season blooms to a small cottage.

“Is that you, wife?” they heard Omar boom good-naturedly from the window. “I’m dying of hunger.”

“I’ve brought company,” she warned him. “You’d better put on your honey face.”

Omar appeared at the door in a loose robe that was open at the neck. The thin skin over his collarbone betrayed his age. “Pasha,” he cried out. “Well, this is my honey face. Wouldn’t you rather the old one?” He laughed. “Come in. You are welcome in my home. And who is this young lord?” He bent down toward Avi.

“Avi, Chief.” The boy saluted.

Omar laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “If I had gotten that kind of respect in the army, we would have won all those bloody wars.”

The house was painted a cheerful blue inside and out. Kamil slipped off his boots at the door, and his stockinged feet sank deep into brightly patterned wool rugs. They were tribal rugs, traditional wedding gifts from the bride’s family. The central room was lined around three sides with cushioned divan benches beneath large windows that looked out into the garden. White crochet work curtains hung along the bottom of the windows for privacy. Each cushion was draped with a white cotton cloth embroidered with carnations. High above the entry door hung a tablet on which Mashallah, by the will of Allah, was written in fine calligraphy. Next to it hung a large blue glass bead, with contrasting circles of dark blue, turquoise, and white glass, to ward off the evil eye. They were taking no chances. Kamil wondered which had been placed there by Omar and which by his wife. Two closed doors led off the middle room, as did a long hallway down which Mimoza disappeared.

They took their places on cushions on the floor around a low table. Mimoza brought bowls, spoons, and a single glass, which she filled with spring water from the jug. They tucked the crumb cloth across their laps and waited while she brought out a pot of yoghurt soup. This was followed by peppers stuffed with rice, dill, and currants in a warm yoghurt sauce.

Neither Kamil nor Avi mentioned that they had just eaten, but spooned yoghurt onto the peppers and ate them with pleasure, if not an appetite. The next course, a plate of rice, gave Kamil more difficulty, although he saw Avi and Omar wolf down theirs.

“Health to your hands,” Kamil complimented Mimoza.

She watched Avi eat and looked pleased. “I was in Sunken Village last summer. I was buying vegetables at Charshamba market and happened to look down into the cistern, where I saw these amazing birds strutting about in someone’s yard. Their tails were like enormous shimmering fans. I’d never seen anything like it, so I went down the stairs into the village and asked the woman who lived there if I could see them close up. She let me into the yard. They’re called peacocks. They’re vain birds.” She laughed. “Just like people. The more beautiful a woman is, the more likely she is to peck out your eye. She let me have one of their feathers.” Mimoza got up and disappeared again. After a moment, she returned holding a gleaming green and blue feather. She gave it to Avi, who turned it back and forth, catching the light. “She said they raise them for a local festival.”

Avi laid the feather carefully aside, then jumped up to help Mimoza carry the dishes to the kitchen. Kamil had a glimpse of Mimoza patting Avi’s hair and cupping his cheeks in her hands. Omar had seen it too, and Kamil caught a worried frown passing over his face.

As Avi came back into the room eagerly balancing a tray of glasses, Kamil felt an unworthy tick of jealousy. Avi seemed so comfortable here. He marveled at the resilience of children.

Finally, they sat in the garden drinking their tea and Kamil laid out his plan. If he wanted Omar’s help in catching Malik’s killer, he would have to tell him something about the Proof of God. He had considered carefully what could and could not be revealed. It would be a tricky conversation.

“We’ve been doing this haphazardly,” he began, “following tips like the tobacco raid, or individual people, like Remzi and Amida. But as soon as we have a lead, it leaps sideways and we don’t know where it’s headed. It’s like herding rabbits. Too many murders with too many motives, too many people, too many stolen objects. We need to focus on the European connection. We need to act, not just react. One antiquity that the thieves are after and that we have a decent lead on is the Proof of God.”

“The Proof of What?”

“The reliquary that Malik reported stolen. It contained papers that some people believe are sacred. Malik took them out to study them, so when Amida stole the reliquary, he didn’t know it was empty. Whoever hired him to steal it, presumably this Kubalou, went back for the contents.”

“Are you telling me he was killed for some papers?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Well, what else? What’s in these papers? Aren’t you going to tell me any more?”

Kamil hesitated. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Omar’s voice was incredulous.

“Malik made me promise not to tell anyone. He thought it would put his community in danger.”

“I should bloody well think he trusted me too,” Omar bellowed, getting to his feet and overturning his tea glass. “Now what the hell is all of this about?”

Mimoza, with a concerned look on her face, leaned forward and righted the glass.

“Sit down, Omar. I’m not going to tell you anything while you’re stamping about like a wild boar.”

Omar crossed his arms and remained standing. “Well?”

Kamil calmly sipped his tea. Finally, Omar sat back down, still frowning.

“Ismail Hodja said these papers are important enough that some secret societies have been following the reliquary for centuries and that some of them would even kill to get it.”

Omar threw out his arms. “You told Ismail Hodja, but not me?”

“He already knew about it. All but the connection to the Habesh. I’m sorry, Omar. Malik was adamant that no one should know.”

“Fine. I can respect a man for keeping his word.” Omar sounded disgruntled, but resigned. “What do you propose to do?”

“I think the only way to control this is to find the document ourselves. Then we can decide what to do with it. Malik asked me to give it to his niece, but now I’m not sure that would be wise. She’d be in danger, and if she puts it in the prayer house, it would be stolen again. Ismail Hodja thinks it would be safer in the Imperial Museum.”

“Where is it now, do you think?”

“Either in Malik’s house or in the Kariye Mosque.”

“We should take another look at his house. We didn’t really know what we were looking for the last time,” Omar pointed out. “At least I didn’t. And if we don’t find it?”

“We pretend we have it and dangle it in front of Amida’s nose, then follow him when he tries to sell it.” Kamil looked at Avi, who was stroking the peacock feather. “I thought the boy could help tail him. He’d be less visible.”

“He’s just a child,” Mimoza protested. “Let a man do the dangerous job.”

“It’s not dangerous, teyze, really,” Avi spoke up eagerly. “And I’m good at this. No one will see me.”

Kamil saw Omar meet his wife’s eyes. Being married, Kamil thought, must mean learning an entire new vocabulary of words, looks and gestures known only to husband and wife, each couple a nation with its own language, government, and history. He wondered whether modern life would bring families out of their self-imposed exile and whether that would be a good thing. If the language of family faltered, he couldn’t imagine what would take its place.

When Mimoza went to the kitchen, Kamil offered Omar a cigarette and they smoked in companionable silence. Avi sat beside them, still intrigued by the feather, which Mimoza had told him he could keep.

When she returned, Kamil stood up. “Thank you for your hospitality. Sadly I have to go.” He leaned over and looked steadily into Avi’s face. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s perfectly alright if you don’t.”

Avi scrambled to his feet. “Yes, bey. You can rely on me.”

Kamil turned to Omar. “I’ll set it up.”

“Agreed. You know where to find me.”

Kamil nodded.

“I’m glad to have met you, Kamil Pasha. And thank you for bringing us this young man.” Mimoza reached down and put her hand on Avi’s shoulder. “You’re welcome here any time, my son.”

Avi beamed. “Thank you, teyze.” He buttoned his jacket carefully over the feather, then took it out again and handed it back to Mimoza. “Would you keep this for me, please?” he asked politely. “I don’t want it to get crushed.”

Kamil and Avi filed through the gate into the dusty square. Mimoza looked after them, twirling the peacock feather in her fingers.

K
AMIL RAPPED ON
the door. After a few moments, Amida opened it, unshaven and in a hastily donned robe.

“What do you want?”

“Peace be upon you.”

“Upon you be peace,” Amida responded lazily.

Avi stood in the shadow of the oleander, where he could see Amida but not be seen. He was wearing patched brown trousers too short for him and a ragged sweater and his feet were bare. He looked like any one of the hundreds of poor village boys sent to earn a kurush for their families on the city streets.

“Forgive me for disturbing your sleep,” Kamil said. “I’ve come to speak to your mother and I thought you’d like to be present.”

Amida stared at him for a moment, suddenly alert. “Give me a moment. I’ll be right over.”

Kamil went next door to Balkis’s house. Avi again took up position, this time under a thick ilex by a window that looked into the receiving hall. From there, he could hear and see whoever was sitting on the divan.

A servant led Kamil into the receiving hall. Balkis, dressed in a formal robe and caftan, came to meet him. He smelled almond oil on her hair, mingled with a faint sourness. She looked exhausted. They exchanged the standard words of greeting.

“I wanted to speak with you and your son.”

“Amida isn’t here. What is it about?”

“Good day, mother.” Amida came in, sat on the divan, and looked at Kamil expectantly.

“I wanted to let you know that we’re very close to finding the Proof of God.”

“You mean that worthless reliquary?” Amida scoffed.

“No. I mean the Proof of God.”

“And what is that?” Amida asked, a sly grin on his face.

“Stop this,” Balkis snapped. “You know what it is, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you know where it is.”

Amida looked at her with alarm. “Mother, what are you saying? How would I know where it is? Malik had it.” He rose to his feet. “And if you’re implying I killed him…”

She waved her hand at him. “Sit down. I don’t think you have it in you to kill anyone, let alone your uncle. But you said you wanted to sell it.”

“Well, where is it?” Amida asked Kamil impatiently.

“Malik left instructions about where he had hidden it.”

“Is this true?” Balkis asked, surprised. “Why would he give that to you and not to me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’d be happy to help you look,” Amida offered.

“Thank you, but we don’t need your help. We might even have it by tomorrow.”

“What do you plan to do with it?” Balkis asked. “Malik must have told you it’s central to our community.”

“I’ll have to consult with my colleagues,” Kamil responded. “The final disposition will be a matter for the court. But Malik did tell me how important it is to you, so I wanted you to know.”

These words, addressed to Balkis, found their mark. Out of the corner of his eye, Kamil saw Amida shift his position on the divan.

“You can’t tell the court about it,” Balkis cried out in alarm. “No one must know about the Proof. It’s the core of our faith.”

“I’ll do my best, but you must admit it would be safer in a museum.”

“It belongs in the prayer house, in the Holy of Holies.”

“We can discuss that later.” Kamil bowed formally and took his leave.

Amida caught up with him at the door. “It’s in Malik’s house, I assume.”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Amida accompanied Kamil as far as the village square, looking frustrated. Kamil feigned interest in the architecture of the prayer house until he saw Amida climb the stairway to Charshamba and disappear from sight, then Kamil walked back down the lane to Balkis’s house.