The Abyssinian Proof (39 page)

T
HE LIVERIED GUARDS
saluted Kamil as he passed through the main gate into the courtyard of the Camondo Apartments. The building was shaped like a U, with one side of the courtyard open to the sea and sky. Built into the side of a steep hill, it seemed to float above the sparkling water. On three sides rose walls studded with French windows and balconies.

Elif was waiting for him in the courtyard, outlined against the immense cobalt sky. She wore a brown tunic over loose trousers, a coral-colored vest, and a long, matching brown jacket. Her head was bare, her blond hair still short as a boy’s. Her clothes were neither those of a man, nor those of a woman; perhaps different enough to avoid condemnation, he decided. He wondered if she had designed them herself.

“Kamil,” she breathed. “I was so happy to get your message. Thank you for coming.” She looked like a figure from classical antiquity, yet more present than any woman he had ever met.

“Are you well?” he asked, although he could see the answer. Her eyes were still troubled, but her face had lost its hollows and her cheeks radiated health.

“Come. I’ll show you.” She took Kamil’s good arm lightly. They entered a grand entry hall and she led him up the marble stairway. Two well-dressed women stopped for a moment to greet her.

“We’re off to the Café Lebon,” the younger woman said. With a curious look at Kamil, she added, “Join us later, if you like.” The women continued down the stairs, their hats bobbing.

On the next floor, Elif pushed open a double door and stepped inside. Kamil followed. They entered a bright, high-ceilinged room, which ended in a set of large windows and French doors leading to a balcony. The walls were so alive with light, Kamil was momentarily blinded.

Then he saw the canvases. One was on an easel, others were stacked in a corner of the room. He walked up to the easel. It was an oil rendering of the French doors, open to the sea, but defined by light and color rather than any realistic detail. It evoked exactly the same feeling he had had when entering the room, of falling into a brilliant sea of blue.

“Remarkable,” he said. “You have enormous talent.” He felt humbled by it, and eager to support it in whatever way he could. He let his eyes follow the delicate curve of her head. He thought of her bravery and humor. She was unusual, eclectic, still wounded, but recovering. A strong woman. Remembering their intimacy by the fire, he wondered what it would be like if they were married. He imagined her in the winter garden, painting, then thought of his orchids, endangered by drafts and continual traffic.

“Elif,” he began awkwardly. “Have you thought any more about your future?”

“Well, I love teaching,” she responded. “I’m terrified, of course. But the students are talented and so kind. It’s wonderful that Hamdi Bey has art classes for women at his academy. You know, it’s so rare, even in Paris. I wouldn’t have been able to get anywhere without the support of people like Mary Cassatt. I’ll repay her by teaching these girls everything she taught me.”

“They’re lucky to have you as their teacher.”

She flushed and lowered her head at the praise.

Kamil’s heart caught at the sight of her slight smile.

“Have you thought about getting married again?” He could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

Kamil was suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment. Who was he to ask Elif such a personal question, especially if he was not prepared to follow through himself?

She went to the window and looked out at the sea. “I’m not ready yet,” she said softly. “You know some of the reasons. There are others.”

“You don’t need to tell me. I understand.”

“Do you?” She looked up at him. The blue of her eyes shot through him. “It wasn’t just my husband’s death and then,” she paused and he could see her struggling with herself, “my son’s death. There were other things, things I thought I had to do but that, in the end, changed nothing. Except me. They changed me.” She laid her fingers on his arm, her eyes willing him to understand. “I can’t.” Her voice broke and she looked away. “I just can’t.”

Elif walked to the easel and regarded the scene from the window in the painting.

Kamil followed.

“Elif,” he said softly, “I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was, it created the woman standing before me for whom I have all the love and respect in the world.”

She nodded. Tears spilled over her cheeks.

“May I visit again?” Kamil asked, wondering whether he was taking unfair advantage of her distress.

“I’ll send a message through Feride,” she answered without looking at him.

Trying not to let his disappointment show, Kamil turned toward the door. “I’ll go now. Be well.”

As he descended the stairs, he heard rapid footsteps behind him and looked back. It was Elif.

She bent her head to his and whispered, “My son’s name was Yunus.” Then she ran back up the stairs. He heard the door slam.

Yunus, dolphin.

She had given him the gift of her son’s name.

L
ATER THAT EVENING,
Kamil sat in his bed, idly turning the pages of the
Gardener’s Chronicle and Agricultural Gazette
. He had propped Elif’s watercolor on the dresser. In the half-light,
Orchis pinetorum
came to life, its white-robed blooms whirling like dervishes across the page. In the background, a basketry of shadows, stems, bracts, and nodes. He stood and placed the book of poems by John Donne beside it, as if each might draw comfort from the other.

“H
OW ARE YOU,
brother?” Saba asked, pushing Amida’s hair back from his forehead.

He turned his eyes to her. “As well as can be expected,” he answered bleakly.

“Do you want to sit up?”

Amida nodded and Saba gestured to the servant waiting by the door to come and help her. Together, they tugged and lifted him into a sitting position. His legs were still limp, but he was getting stronger.

The night of the fire, Constantine, with enormous skill and concentration, had extracted the bullet from Amida’s back and closed the wound. He came by every day to check on his patient. Most evenings he and Saba sat together and talked. She found herself looking forward to his visits and relying on his advice.

“So, how does it feel to be in charge?” Amida asked her. She could hear a faint echo of bitterness that she knew Amida tried to hide.

“I’m not in charge of anything yet. The ceremony isn’t for another two weeks. There’s a lot to do.” After the ceremony that would make her priestess, they were planning an enormous feast for the Melisite community and several other important guests.

“Sorry I can’t help.” Amida grimaced, gesturing at his legs.

The ceremony should also be the initiation of the caretaker. She regarded her brother carefully. Should she include him or wait until he was better? Did they even need a caretaker anymore, now that the Proof of God had been found?

“You know,” he said, “you don’t need to walk to be caretaker. It wouldn’t make any difference, would it? Malik could walk, but he never went anywhere.” Amida laughed, a desperate sound.

“You’re right. It wouldn’t matter.”

Amida looked relieved.

“There’s no rush, though,” Saba added, “now that the Proof is safe, there’s no need for a caretaker at the Kariye. It’s not there anymore.”

Amida was clearly unhappy. “How about caretaker of the Imperial Museum?”

Saba laughed to keep him company. “I think that job’s taken.”

“I can go through the ceremony,” Amida insisted. “I can sit in the chair.” He pointed to a wheelchair beside the bed. It was made of wicker and polished wood with a small chamberpot built into the seat.

Saba pictured Amida being wheeled in beside her on her day of triumph. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“Later, Amida. There’s plenty of time. Get well first.”

Amida closed his eyes and turned his head away. Tears gathered beneath his lashes. “Leave me alone now,” he muttered.

Saba turned and walked to the door. As she passed the servant, she told him, “Have him brought to the hamam this afternoon and make sure you find that special masseur Monsieur Courtidis recommended.”

“Yes, madam,” he answered with lowered head.

Since the day Saba had summoned the shocked servants to clean her room after Gudit’s attack, they had treated her with great deference. Perhaps, she thought with a tight smile, they were afraid of her.

Gudit hadn’t reappeared, nor did Saba inquire after her, but she learned with surprise and some satisfaction that the midwife had sought out Constantine Courtidis to tend to her wounds. Gudit would have to carry out the ceremony of accession. There was no one else. Then she would no longer be needed.

Saba opened the box and took out her scepter, which Kamil had returned to her. It would have been easier to establish her leadership, she thought angrily, if Kamil had done the right thing and given her the Proof of God. It belonged to the Melisites.

T
HE GUARD AT
the Imperial Museum put down his rifle and unlocked the front door. He looked up at the Arabic inscription over the lintel. He couldn’t read it, but assumed it was a verse from the Quran, so he said a silent prayer before stepping across the threshold. Inside, the other guard was asleep in his chair. He nudged him and went into the kitchen to prepare the morning’s tea. It took him several minutes to light the brazier, set the water to boil in the bottom of the double-boiler teapot, and pour a cup of black tea leaves into the top. He stared out of the window, looking at nothing particular, but letting the golds and russets of autumn fill his eyes. When the water was hot, he poured enough over the tea leaves to cover them, put the teapot back on the boiler, and set it on the coals to brew for another twenty minutes. He glanced at the lay of the light to judge the time, then went back into the main room. He wanted to ask the other guard’s advice about finding an apprenticeship for his son. It was time he learned a trade.

The other man was still asleep, head on his chest, arms loose in his lap. When the guard pushed his shoulder, he slumped further, then slid from the chair onto the floor.

K
AMIL HELD HIS
head in his hands. Standing before him was Hamdi Bey, his usually impeccable cravat askew and his vest buttons wrongly done up.

“It’s gone,” Hamdi Bey repeated.

Kamil stood and walked around his desk, his headache flaring with each step. He offered Hamdi Bey a seat and some refreshment, but the old man wagged his gray beard and refused to be coddled.

“What happened?” Kamil asked, bracing himself against a table and wishing Hamdi Bey would sit so that he could.

“Someone drugged the guard.”

“With food?”

“I don’t know,” Hamdi Bey cried out in bewilderment. “There was no food anywhere. Just dregs of tea. We tested them and they’re just tea. The man has always been completely reliable.”

“How is he?” Kamil asked.

“He’s delirious. He’s babbling about having been visited by an angel who showed him the gardens of paradise.” Hamdi Bey peeled off his thin leather gloves. “I think the strain of watching the Proof of God must have been too much for him.”

Kamil was surprised. “Does he know what it is?”

“We never told the guards what it was, but in the absence of real information, rumors are passed around.”

“What do you mean?”

“The other guard told me that they thought they were guarding a prophecy revealed to the Prophet Muhammad by an angel.”

“But that’s the Quran.”

“I know. They think this is a newly revealed sura.” He put on his pince-nez as if that would clarify matters, then took them off again and massaged between his eyes.

“They’re simple men,” he decided finally. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “Now I have to go tell Ismail Hodja.”

Kamil stood at the window watching Hamdi Bey get into his carriage. When the horses moved off into the traffic, Kamil slammed his fist into the sill.

T
HE FIRST SNOW
of the season drifted over Sunken Village. Kamil, Hamdi Bey, and Ismail Hodja sat on stools in the Melisite prayer house in an unobtrusive spot where they could see past the worshipers and follow the ceremony unfolding at the front. Kamil could see Amida’s disappointment as he watched the proceedings from his wheelchair, Courtidis hovering nearby. Omar had decided, as he put it bluntly, to live and let die, and not arrest Amida on any charges.

The hall was packed with villagers of all ages, dressed in their best. Earlier, to a wild crescendo of drumming and a steady undercurrent of prayer, an ox, a ewe, and a she-goat had been sacrificed and their blood poured into the pillars by the door. A blood-spattered peacock feather lay in the snow before the sacrificial stone.

After the ceremony, Courtidis had told them, there would be a feast in the hall and the community would dance and sing. Kamil noticed that he looked happy and relaxed and that his clothes were clean and neatly pressed. He wore a fashionable suit and a new fez. He slipped Kamil a small tin box, which he tucked into his pocket.

Suddenly, all conversation ceased. Kamil saw Saba enter the room. She was dressed in a magnificent linen cloak embroidered with gold. Two fillets of gold-embroidered linen fell on either side of her face. She looked like an empress. Kamil could feel the powerful impact her presence had on the people in the hall.

The crowd opened a path before her. In her hand, she held the scepter, now innocent of Malik’s blood. Near the front of the hall waited a stout old woman in a red robe. Her face was split from nose to ear by a wound, not entirely healed. Two apprentices dressed in red stood on either side of her.

When Saba reached the front of the hall, she turned, raised her arms, and led the congregation in prayer.

Ismail Hodja whispered to Kamil, “Fascinating. They’re praying in Ottoman, but they use terms like Adonai. That’s from the
Tawrat
. It means lord. I’ve only heard Jews use it. And watch their hands. The motions are like a tour of all the religions.”

Of them all, Ismail Hodja had been the most philosophical about the disappearance of the Proof of God.

“In an odd way, the disappearance reaffirms my faith,” he had explained to Kamil. “It’s as if the Proof is traveling in the world incognito. It won’t settle and reveal itself until humanity is ready to hear its message. We’ve been enormously blessed that it allowed us a glimpse before returning to occultation.”

Ismail Hodja’s renewed faith was of little comfort to Kamil. Stealing the Proof was cheating humanity of peace, he thought, regardless of whether or not you believed in its divine origin. Malik would have understood. As he might have pointed out, this was a city that ate the soul of the past.

The woman in red came forward and placed Balkis’s ring, engraved with a crescent and disk, on Saba’s right forefinger, then bowed her head and retreated. Saba turned away from the congregation and faced an iron gate decorated with an angel that led, Courtidis had explained, to the Holy of Holies.

“Behold Saba,” the woman intoned loudly. “Behold the Proof of God, Container of the Uncontainable. Behold the Key to all religions.”

“Adonai, help us,” the congregation responded. “Virgin of Chora, Container of the Uncontainable, keep us.”

Saba let her cape slip from her shoulders. A collective sigh of astonishment rose from the congregation. Kamil felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.

Saba wore a backless white robe. From her waist to her amber shoulders was a pair of powerful tattooed wings. They were the wings of a bird of prey, a falcon or a hawk.

“Behold the Proof of God,” Saba announced in a voice that carried to the back of the hall.

She took a key from a gold chain around her waist, unlocked the angel gate, and stepped inside.