The Abyssinian Proof (28 page)

O
MAR TURNED THE
pin over in his hand. “This is Malik’s. If Amida had it, then he must have taken it from Malik the night he died. What a pimp. First he steals from his own uncle, then he kills him.”

They sat under the scarlet leaves of the grape arbor in Omar’s garden, eating lunch that Mimoza had left for them before going to take some food to a sick neighbor.

“Why would he kill Malik? I mean, I can understand his motive for stealing the reliquary. Then when he or his buyer saw it was empty, it makes sense he’d go back for the contents. But kill his uncle?” He pushed his plate away. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I agree. But here’s the evidence that he was there that night.” Omar held out the pin. “His associates from Charshamba are more likely. But why would they kill the old man? For his books?” He snorted in derision. “There was nothing in it for them. Those thugs won’t move unless they’re paid. There’s something that we’re missing. Well, we’ll pick him up tonight and then we can ask him, together with that Frankish bastard he’s dealing with.”

“Avi’s out following him again? You think the boy will be alright?”

“He’s a talented little kid. Heart like a lion. The wife has taken quite a liking to him.” He frowned. “Are you going over to the Kariye to look for this Proof thing?”

Kamil nodded. He should have been pleased at finding Malik’s killer, but the whole thing felt wrong. He couldn’t picture Amida murdering Malik or going along with others torturing him. Yet he had been there that night.

Omar put his spoon down and leaned back, replete. “I have some business to see to this afternoon, a burglary. The house right behind the police station, if you can imagine. Brazen bastards. They won’t be smirking anymore when I’m done with them.”

He lit a cigarette and offered one to Kamil, who declined.

“The sooner I get over to the mosque, the more light I’ll have.” Kamil looked up at the ashen sky. “It gets dark so early now.”

“October is the gateway to hell, we used to say in the army.”

“Why is that?”

“It starts to get cold and dark, and before you know it, you’re frozen in a ditch hoping someone will pee on your hands to thaw them.”

Seeing that Omar looked serious, Kamil choked back a laugh. What did he know about the brutalities and absurdities of war?

Omar accompanied him to the gate. “If you need me, send a message to the station. You know how to get to the Kariye from here?”

Kamil smiled and pointed up the hill where the plump domes of a little mosque were visible above the roof lines. “Not far.”

“It’s farther than it looks. Sure you don’t want to borrow my horse?”

“I need to stretch my legs. If I keep going uphill, I’ll get there eventually.”

“Lots of hills around here,” Omar warned. “But ask anyone and they’ll point you in the wrong direction.” He chuckled.

A
S SOON AS
Kamil entered the narrow lanes, the mosque disappeared, as did the hill, and he became lost in the chaotic, ruin-choked streets. Every shopkeeper gave him different directions, but eventually he caught sight of the domes again and oriented himself. Before long, he rounded a fountain and entered the little square before the mosque. The door of the mosque was locked, so he knocked at the imam’s house.

“He’s not here,” a man shouted helpfully from a window of the neighboring house.

“Where can I find him?”

The man shrugged and ducked back inside.

Kamil walked through the square under the gaze of a group of men who were playing backgammon in the shade of a plane tree. Their calls and the slapping of wooden pieces on the board punctuated the quiet afternoon. “Shesh-besh!” “Penj-u se.” “Du-shesh!”

At the back of the mosque he found Malik’s classroom. The door was shut but unlocked. Inside, Kamil stood for a moment, surveying the room. It hadn’t been touched since he was last here with Malik. At that moment, Kamil felt the loss of his friend more deeply than before, when his emotions had been flayed by anger. Now he registered every nuance of the man who was gone, his intelligence and gentleness, his devotion to his community, his family, even to a poor street boy like Courtidis. Kamil wished he could pray for Malik’s soul to whatever God was listening. He tried, but his mind wouldn’t hold still. Look for his killer, he told himself. That’s all you can do.

Kamil opened the cabinet. The key to the mosque lay on the top shelf. He was surprised that the imam still left it here, when it was likely that Malik’s murderer also knew its location.

Lips pressed in a thin line, Kamil picked up the heavy iron key and a lamp and made his way around the back, through the overgrown garden, to the front door. The men across the square watched him unlock the door and enter, but didn’t interrupt their game.

Kamil locked the door behind him and lit the lamp.

E
LIF WAS SWEATING
under her hat but didn’t dare take it off. Some children had gathered behind her, chattering and pointing at her easel. Two men approached and greeted her. She answered in French. Better that they think her a Frankish man, thin, blond, odd like all Franks, and untouchable. But she was getting nervous and this made it hard to concentrate on her drawing.

She had captured the four domes of the cheerful little mosque, its red-tiled roof, and the fat tower of its minaret with a narrow balcony around the top from which the imam called the faithful to prayer. The minaret was topped by an unusual ornament shaped like a drop of water splashing onto its roof. Behind the mosque, the city fell away in a tangle of red roofs and trees. She had traced the outlines quickly in pencil, then charcoal, and finally pastels, one study after another, allowing the shapes and colors to dominate her senses until she felt as though the landscape were painting itself.

The carriage was parked in the lane below, out of sight from her perch on the hillside. She had told the driver he could have lunch and drink tea at one of the cafés in the square, but he said he preferred to wait. She presumed he didn’t want to have to answer the locals’ questions. But there was no escaping them, she thought, glancing with exasperation at her growing audience. She would have to leave soon.

Just then, she saw someone come around the mosque from the back and walk toward the door. He turned and for a brief moment regarded the square. She recognized Kamil. Heart racing, she packed up her things and began to run down the hill.

K
AMIL PULLED OUT
a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He glanced down the list, written in Elif’s sprawling script:

Mary

Mother of the Word

Message

Container of the Uncontainable

Slain children

Samaritan

Dwelling place

Matthew 2:16

He raised the lamp and, as before, stood transfixed under the lush garden of figures and scenes in gold and brilliant color that crowded around him. He found the image of Theodore Metochites and stood before him for a few moments, wondering what kind of man he had been. He knew much more about him now. He wondered what it had been like for Malik to come face to face every day with his ancestor. Of all the caretakers before him, only Malik had worked out the location of the Proof of God. He needed Malik’s help now to find it again. The thought resurfaced that perhaps Saba had already worked out where it was and had taken it. Or was she waiting for Kamil to find it and bring it to her? She had had Malik’s letter only for the briefest time and had been distraught when she had given it to Kamil to prove the truth of her mother’s story. No, he didn’t think she had found the Proof.

He bade farewell to Theodore and returned to the outer hall. He planned to begin in the south bay and work his way systematically through all the mosaic panels. The figures were so lifelike, they appeared to move. Nonsense, of course, but he admired the workmanship that made such an illusion possible. He thought he could feel Malik’s presence, and wished he could ask him to explain the images. Kamil realized he had little idea about Christian stories and iconography. Well, he would have to look for a word, a message, a container, and, improbably, slain children.

Just then, he heard a booming noise. Someone was knocking on the door. Annoyed at being interrupted, Kamil went to the door and pulled it open.

A slight figure in a broad hat slipped inside with a gaggle of children close behind. “Close it.”

“Elif!” he exclaimed. “How did you get here?” He tried to sound pleased.

Elif noted his tone and looked puzzled. “You said you’d be here this afternoon, so I waited for you. I was up on the hill sketching the mosque. Weren’t we planning to decipher the mosaics today?”

“Yes, of course.” Obviously he hadn’t made it clear he wanted to do this alone.

She took a few steps forward into the corridor and looked around. “Oh” was all she could say in amazement. She took her hat off and set her box of drawing materials on a ledge.

Kamil locked the door again. He found a second lamp, lit it and gave it to Elif. “There are windows, but the corridors with the mosaics are dark. This is the outer narthex.” It was as if he could hear Malik’s voice reciting in his ear. “And that’s the inner narthex.” He pointed at the inner corridor that gave onto the nave.

“These are wonderful,” she exclaimed breathlessly, walking up and down, shining the lamp on the walls.

“What do you know about Christian saints?”

She tore her eyes away from the mosaics. “Quite a bit. My father-in-law was a devout Christian. He took my son to church and read him stories about the lives of the saints.”

He handed her the list of terms.

She scanned it, then looked around and said, “Mary is everywhere. The whole church seems to be dedicated to her.” She pointed to the next term. “Mother of the Word. That’s Mary too. Maybe it means the words are in the church dedicated to her. Same with the next term, Message. But I don’t understand Container of the Uncontainable.”

What had Malik shown him? Kamil tried to remember. They had walked through the inner and outer corridors, but Kamil hadn’t paid much attention to the location of the mosaics Malik had spoken about. He remembered something about a clay container, an amphora, but he didn’t see it.

“Let’s start over here and work our way through,” he suggested, leading Elif to the north end of the corridor behind the door.

They stood in the first bay surrounded by panels and inscriptions.

“I wish I could read Greek.” She squinted at the panels. “I think I recognize some of these. This looks like the story of Jesus’s birth. That bearded man might be Joseph, Jesus’s father. There’s Mary pregnant.”

They followed the panels along the corridor. “Here’s a familiar scene.” She pointed.

“The birth of Jesus,” Kamil said, regarding the shepherds and, in the next panel, three richly clothed men, “and the wise men from the east.”

Elif pointed up at the vaulted domes, “We’re not looking at the pictures in the domes. Look. There’s John the Baptist. There’s so much here. If we look at everything, we’ll never finish.”

Kamil had no answer. They had reached the middle of the outer narthex by the front door.

Elif strained her head backward, exposing the arch of her throat. The mosaics in the vault were badly damaged, but a dazzling image of Christ guarded the entrance to the inner narthex.

“Come with me.” Kamil took her hand. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

He drew her through the opening and they stopped beneath the lunette over the entrance to the marbled nave.

“This is Theodore Metochites.”

“What an extraordinary hat.”

Kamil told her what he could remember of the man.

“So he’s responsible for all of this magnificent art!” she exclaimed. “Bravo. That explains the hat too. An artist.”

Kamil thought she looked happy—vital and less vulnerable. He wondered why that should disappoint him. Was it that she needed him less?

Since they were in the inner narthex, they continued along that corridor, Elif reading stories into the images wherever she could. She was puzzled by some of the panels until she exclaimed, “It’s the life of Mary. Look, there she’s born and there she’s with her parents. An angel is feeding her.” She stopped before a panel that showed a rod sprouting jewel-like leaves.

“I know this story. I’ve always found it a bit risqué.”

“Risqué? In a church?”

“When it was time for Mary to be married, the high priest called all the widowers together and placed their rods on the altar.”

Kamil began to laugh.

“Then he prayed for a sign. Joseph’s rod began to sprout green leaves, so the priest gave Mary to him.”

“Well,” Kamil said. “I won’t repeat that story to the devout gentlemen who pray here every Friday.”

They smiled at each other in the gloom. Kamil looked through the door into the nave and noticed the light failing through the windows. Elif followed his glance and found herself drawn into the marble-paneled room.

“Another time,” Kamil warned her. “We need to hurry. The imam will be here before long for the evening call to prayer. Let’s do this systematically. We’re looking for very particular images.”

They went back to the outer corridor and began at the door, moving south. They passed an enormous mosaic of Mary and Jesus, whose eyes seemed to follow them. Kamil looked for the image of the clay urn that Malik had shown him. Somehow he thought it was important, perhaps as the Container on their list, but he couldn’t see it. They were passing the panels quickly now, scanning them and moving on. He could see the stairway to the minaret. They must be near the spot where Malik died.

Suddenly he saw Elif in the final bay before the minaret, standing stiffly and looking up at something, her face aghast. He hurried to her side and followed her line of sight. It was an image of King Herod on a throne instructing his soldiers. To his left, a soldier held a baby aloft by its feet and thrust a knife through it. Behind him a black portal like a tomb opened into the rock. The baby’s mother sat bereft on the ground, hands aloft, her head turned away in despair.