The Abyssinian Proof (6 page)

“We’d be honored if you would visit our humble home, Kamil Pasha,” she told him, then took her leave.

They watched the tiny green figure move off down the street and disappear around the fountain.

“A remarkable young woman,” Malik said to no one in particular.

Kamil was tempted to take this as an invitation to ask about her, but decided it would be indiscreet.

“My family lives over in Sunken Village,” Malik said.

“Omar was telling me the village is mostly Habesh.”

“There are about forty families. We make a living selling produce from our gardens.”

“And smuggling,” Omar interjected.

Malik looked at him reprovingly. “That’s just gossip.”

“Come on, Malik. Everyone knows that. I hear your sister, Balkis, is quite well-off. There’s no way she got rich selling vegetables.”

Malik frowned. “Her husband passed away and left her well cared for. Why do you always kick over rocks looking for scorpions? Sometimes a rock is just a rock and covers nothing but plain soil.”

“The soil in this part of town is rich with manure,” Omar retorted.

Kamil wondered at the relationship between the mild old man and the gruff police chief. They quarreled like an old married couple.

“I’m impressed by how much you know about what goes on in this area,” he told Omar.

“The coffeehouse,” Omar said with a grin. “Everybody knows everybody. All you need is an ear and a strong stomach. But enough socializing. If we don’t get this case solved by lunchtime, I’ll starve.”

Kamil turned to Malik. “You asked to see me. Is it about the theft?”

“I’m sorry to trouble you with it,” Malik answered, pressing Kamil’s hand between his own. It was an unremarkable statement, but Kamil saw the urgency in his friend’s eyes.

“On the contrary,” Kamil responded, “an opportunity to meet up with an old friend is precious. And I hear there was a witness. There’ve been thefts from the Patriarchate, the Fatih Mosque, and other places in the area. One thief could lead us to others, especially the dealers they sell to.”

Malik looked relieved. “I’ll do whatever I can to assist. What else can I tell you?”

“You’ve heard the description of the thief?”

“Omar told me,” Malik replied. “Long hair. Could it have been a woman?”

Kamil nodded thoughtfully. “I hadn’t considered that possibility. Do you have the key to the storeroom?”

“It’s not locked. The keys to those old doors are long gone. The mosque was restored about ten years ago and we asked the Ministry of Pious Foundations to replace the doors, but they didn’t see fit to do so. Only the outer door can be locked.”

“How many keys are there?” Kamil remembered that the baker’s apprentice had seen the thief bend over the door as if locking it.

“Just one. Both the imam and I use it, so we keep it in a room behind the mosque to which we both have a key.”

Two men were arguing in the square. A group of men surrounded them and began to take sides. There was shouting and a scuffle.

Malik frowned in their direction. “It’s probably about the icon, the one that was stolen from the Patriarchate. You heard about it?”

“Of course,” Omar replied, his eyes on the quarreling men.

“The Christians are blaming the Muslims for stealing it. It’s ridiculous, of course. Everyone knows a theft is just a theft.”

As the tension in the square rose, Kamil waited for Omar’s cue to act. It was his district. Just then, the imam appeared and spoke to a few of the men. They turned their backs angrily and left, and the argument seemed to subside.

“Let’s see the key,” Omar suggested.

Malik led Kamil and Omar around to the back of the mosque, where a small, whitewashed structure had been built into the corner of a collapsed but still massive brick wall.

“This used to be a church in Byzantine times,” Malik explained. “The name, Saint Savior in Chora, referred to the fact that in those days it was in the country, outside the original city walls.” He laid his hand on the crumbling bricks. “This is all that’s left of the monastery. The monks spent their time copying old texts. They copied Greek manuscripts that have been lost in the original, and they translated Arab writings from earlier centuries. If it weren’t for the monks, we wouldn’t have Ibn al-Thahabi’s medical treatise
The Book of Water
or al-Ma’mun’s
Face of the Earth
. When you come again, I will show you some pages. I have a modest collection in my home.” He pointed beyond the rubble to a nearby two-story house that stood alone in a small yard. “You’re welcome any time.” He looked directly at Kamil. “Why don’t you join me for breakfast one day soon? Perhaps tomorrow? As long as the weather allows, I put a table under the plane tree behind my house. It’s very pleasant and the housekeeper supplies me with excellent cheese from her village.”

Beneath the pleasantries, Kamil heard the entreaty in Malik’s voice. For some reason, he thought, Malik wished to speak with him alone. “Thank you, Malik. I look forward to it.”

After a moment, Malik added, “You’re welcome to come too, Omar, but you know that.”

“Thanks, but I see enough of you already.” Omar was prowling the perimeter of the building, testing the windows. “A child could open these windows,” he pointed out, teasing one open with a small knife.

Malik unlocked the door and led the way into a bright, pleasant room with blue-washed walls. “Quran classes are held here now, so it’s still a place of learning.”

The room was furnished with a threadbare carpet. A cushioned divan stretched along two sides, and more cushions, their colorful geometric designs stitched in wool, were stacked on the floor. Kamil saw several low writing desks, a shelf of books and papers, and a cabinet that presumably held writing supplies.

Malik opened the cabinet and took a heavy iron key from the top shelf. “It’s possible that someone saw where we keep the key,” he told Kamil. “As you can see, it’s quite large.” He slipped it into the pocket of his robe.

He let them into the mosque and lit a lamp. Kamil was surprised by the brilliant mosaics lining the domes and arches above him. He saw peacocks, trees, fruited branches. Jesus taking a woman’s wrist. A woman kissing his hem. A diminutive Mary, her head caressed by an angel, approaching a woman on a throne, her hands outstretched. The dazzling images and colors were overwhelming. Kamil had never seen anything better, even in the Aya Sofya Mosque, where fragments of gilded mosaics were still visible in the upper galleries.

Malik followed his startled gaze.

“Thirty years ago, this was all painted over. The plaster was cracked and filthy. Then there was a fire and Sultan Abdulaziz, may he be rewarded in heaven, allowed the architect Kuppas to restore the interior. During the restorations, these mosaics were revealed. Aren’t they magnificent? These are scenes from the life of Mary. The Byzantines believed her to be the mother of God, the Container of the Uncontainable, the vehicle by which Jesus came to the earth. Chora also means the dwelling place of the Uncontainable.”

Kamil was puzzled. “I admit they’re beautiful, but surely depictions of the human form are prohibited, especially in a mosque. Why didn’t they plaster over them again?”

“You’re right, but this wouldn’t be the first time that rule was broken. Persian and Ottoman artists have always painted scenes from the lives of important persons, pictures of hunts, battles, processions, picnics, circumcision parties, all kinds of everyday activities. Like most civilizations, the Byzantines used art to honor their leaders, especially those who had a lot of money.” He pointed to a faint figure painted on plaster against the outer wall. “That’s Theodore Metochites, the patron who paid for these mosaics.”

Kamil could barely make out the image of a man wearing a striped turban, who was presenting a miniature of the church to Christ.

“Still, it’s forbidden by the Quran,” Omar pointed out.

Malik looked at Omar with an expression Kamil put somewhere between respect and disbelief.

“There are two kinds of religion in the world, my friend,” Malik explained patiently. “One is blind faith that requires only obedience and discourages thought. It’s to the leader’s advantage that you see only his heels, so he demonizes all other views. That kind of faith is comforting, but it can lead you down treacherous paths. Another kind of faith encourages the faithful to think about what they’re doing and why. These are people who praise Allah in the highest way they can imagine, through scholarship or art, or simply by living consciously as good Muslims. The rules don’t matter as much as the principle.” Malik put his arm around Omar’s shoulders. “I’m worried about you suddenly becoming devout, my friend.”

“Well, it’s true I don’t know much about it,” Omar admitted reluctantly, “but it seems to me that Islam is Islam and there are certain rules. I’m a policeman because I like to know what’s what.”

“In the Quran it says that all the prophets back to Abraham were given the same message. Jews and Christians share the same prophecy as Muslims.”

“Of course, but Islam is different. Our Prophet is the last one.” Omar shrugged, then admitted to Kamil, “I don’t believe any of it, really, without proof.”

“Faith means believing anyway,” Malik explained.

“That’s the problem,” Omar replied. “But I still like to get the story straight.”

Kamil thought it was as perceptive a description of his own feelings as he had heard, but said nothing.

Malik craned his neck at the mosaics. “Regardless of the theology, these mosaics deserve to be displayed for their beauty alone. Look how the colors are striking even after all this time. The craftsmen used gold and ground lapis. But they used simple materials too. Look over here. They used tiny pieces of pottery to make these amphorae. The theme of Mary as Container is everywhere, even in the structure of the building. Let me show you.”

He led Kamil and Omar to the end of the hall and a small door that stood open. Inside, Kamil could make out the base of a steeply winding stair that led to the top of the minaret, where the imam called the faithful to prayer five times a day.

“The walls are very thick here in order to hold the weight of the bell tower.” Malik pointed upward. “There are also ceramic jars built into the corners with their openings exposed so that moisture doesn’t build up inside the walls. They’re called weepholes. The workers keep plastering them over, so they’re hard to spot.”

“Clever engineering,” Kamil responded, thinking that faith required a great deal of creativity to find signs in even the most mundane objects.

As if reading his mind, Malik said, “You’re a skeptic, Kamil, I know. And maybe the architects of this church had nothing more in their heads than keeping the walls dry. But the actors don’t write the play.”

“I like to think we write our own scripts.”

“It’s in our nature to try,” Malik responded good-naturedly.

“It’s my observation,” Omar interjected, “that someone else is always trying to write it for you. Your wife, your mother-in-law, the government.”

Malik laughed. “A man whose nature is untamed by his heart. You should be grateful you have a wife who puts up with you.”

“Never marry a woman who was spoiled by her father,” Omar said to Kamil. “A peddler’s daughter loves beads.”

“Do you have children?” Kamil asked.

“By the will of Allah, it hasn’t happened.” Omar looked uncomfortable.

Kamil felt sorry for the burly police chief. Having no children, especially sons, was considered a tragedy by many. It was said that a man without a son was a man whose hearth had gone out, and it occasioned pity and sometimes scorn, especially for the man’s wife, who was usually held responsible. Omar didn’t seem the sort to appreciate people’s pity.

To change the subject, Kamil asked Malik, “Where do you teach your pupils?”

“In the room behind the mosque. When I have female pupils, my housekeeper comes and knits. I’m hoping she’s learning something just by being in the same room. I took Saba on as a pupil because she has a passion for the old languages and learns them as readily as birds take to the air. Allah has placed in her a yeast that I’m privileged to help rise.”

“Old languages?” Kamil asked. He had assumed Malik taught only the Quran.

“Greek, Aramaic, the sacred languages.”

Omar scoffed. “Half the neighborhood speaks Greek.”

“Modern Greek is infected with the street. It sheds history like a dog flinging rain off its pelt.”

“Those Greek dogs,” Omar joked. Malik laughed.

Kamil watched them, envying their easy camaraderie. He had few close friends. His American friend Bernie had returned home the previous year, leaving a gap that Kamil found he was no longer able to fill as easily with work and books and orchids. He wandered into the central prayer room, its walls decorated with marble panels instead of mosaics. He let his eyes try to puzzle out the patterns in the marble. They looked like the desert, a sea, snowy mountains. Art with no human intercession, remote and beautiful.

Malik followed him, seeming to sense his mood. Kamil was glad of his company. “Those revetments were once Greek columns. To get these continuous patterns, the Byzantines cut the columns into thin slices that unfolded like fans.” Malik illustrated with the palms of his hands.

Kamil noticed Malik wore a gold signet ring on his right forefinger. It had a curious design engraved on it, a disk and crescent. The silver pin that clasped his cloak was also unusual, a geometric weave of lines. He wondered about the history of Malik’s family. Had there been Abyssinians in Istanbul during Byzantine times? Perhaps they had been desired as slaves even then.

Malik stopped in the middle of the room and swept his hand toward the walls. “The Greeks built their empire on top of what came before them, Constantinople was built on Greek ruins, and Istanbul is built on top of Byzantium. Nothing is wasted. There’s a lesson there,” he smiled mildly at Kamil, “but I’m not wise enough to know what it is.”

As they walked back to the corridor, Malik leaned closer and said in a low, urgent voice, “Tomorrow morning. Please do come to my house. I must speak with you.”