The Abyssinian Proof

20

Kamil took Avi 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.

Kamil 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.

Balkis still sat on the divan, smoking a chubuk pipe.

“I’m sorry to disturb you again, but I wonder if I might speak with Saba.”

Balkis looked at him blankly. “Saba? What do you want with Saba?”

“I have something to give her.”

Balkis held out her hand. “I’ll give it to her.”

Kamil hesitated. Malik had told him to give it directly to Saba. “I’d rather give it to her myself.”

“What do you have to give her that her mother can’t see?”

Offended and embarrassed, Kamil responded, “I’d prefer to conduct my business directly with her.”

“Spoken like a pasha,” Balkis muttered. She told the servant to fetch Saba. While they waited, she gave Kamil a long look that made him uncomfortable.

A few moments later, Saba swept in wearing a brown-striped robe belted with a yellow sash. A veil hid the lower part of her face. He remembered her oddly seductive behavior in the garden the day before. As she came closer, he saw smudges of grief beneath her eyes and what looked like scratches and bruises only partially hidden by the veil.

“Come over here,” Balkis commanded. “What’s happened to you?”

Saba waited obediently while her mother pulled aside her veil. “Nothing, Mama. I tripped and fell in the brambles behind the house.”

Kamil saw that Balkis wasn’t satisfied but had decided to postpone further discussion until after he had left. He took the envelope from his pocket. He had wished to give it to Saba privately in the hope that she would share its contents with him.

“Here’s the letter I told you about.” He handed it to her.

Balkis leaned over to take a closer look, but Saba slipped the letter into her sash.

“Who’s that from?” Balkis asked, the tension in her voice apparent. “Are you having a tryst?”

“It’s a letter from Uncle Malik, Mama. I’m going to read it now.” She touched Kamil’s sleeve, sending a jolt through his arm. “Thank you for bringing the letter, Kamil Pasha.” Her green eyes looked directly into his. Kamil resented the hold she seemed to have on him and forced himself to look away.

Saba disappeared into an adjoining room and Kamil got up to leave.

“Please keep an old woman company for a few minutes, Kamil Pasha,” Balkis pleaded.

He sat down reluctantly, dreading another interrogation about his family, but her question surprised him. “Did you notice Saba’s eyes?”

“Should I have?”

“They’re green. Like yours.”

Kamil mastered a powerful desire to leave.

“I have something important that I must tell you. When I was sixteen,” she began, “I was given in marriage to my uncle, the old caretaker of the Kariye Mosque. Did Malik tell you it’s a hereditary position?”

Kamil nodded, wondering where this was going. “Amida will be caretaker now.”

“That’s right. Amida. My son by my husband. I was young then, Kamil Pasha, and beautiful, although that may be hard for you to believe now. I had an elderly husband who paid little attention to me, and I was lonely.”

Kamil felt uncomfortable at being privy to such personal information. He should have left right away, but now it was too late.

“One day, I was selling fruit near the mosque up there,” she pointed with her chin. “After prayers, the men often buy fruit to take home to their families and I had many customers.”

She laughed lightly at the memory. “I caught the eye of a pasha leaving the mosque. Yes, it’s true. He left his retinue and came over to me. He bought some fruit and asked me if I would meet him later that afternoon behind the turbe. He assured me that he was an honorable man, filled my hand with gold liras, took his parcel of fruit, and rejoined his companions.”

Kamil got to his feet. This was entirely inappropriate. “Why are you telling me this, Balkis Hanoum? You shouldn’t be telling me this.”

“Sit down, Kamil Pasha!”

Kamil was startled at her tone.

“It’s important that you hear this,” she said in a commanding voice. “Malik was going to tell you, but I foolishly asked him to wait.”

Kamil was both mesmerized and repelled.

“The pasha was very kind. I ran away with him. He brought me to live in an apartment in Pera, on the Rue Tom-Tom.” She looked at Kamil. “He was a very kind man. You have the same eyes.”

Kamil was no longer concerned whether he was being rude. “I have to go. This is none of my business.”

Balkis rose from the divan and with surprising speed blocked the door. “It’s very much your business. Hear me out.”

Kamil was uncertain what to do. He couldn’t push Balkis aside without taking hold of her. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Balkis Hanoum. But I don’t want to hear this. It’s too personal.”

“That’s right. It is very private. But I forbid you to leave, and when I finish, you will understand why. Ten months later,” Balkis continued, still standing before the door, “I learned I would have a child. And soon after that, there was a knock on the door. It was the pasha’s wife. A sweet woman, in her way, but nobody’s fool. She saw I was pregnant. She told me her husband wouldn’t be coming again and left a sack of five hundred gold liras on the table. A gift, she called it. The remarkable thing is that she assured me the child would be looked after and would have an inheritance. I didn’t believe it, of course, and, as things turned out, the pasha and his wife both passed away and no one came to offer Saba an inheritance. But that isn’t important. We do well enough in our village. No one starves.

“Malik brought me back here. My poor husband had died while I was gone. I knew he was ill when I left him, to my great shame. In a last kindness, he had hidden my betrayal by telling everyone I was visiting relatives, so when Saba was born, no one guessed the baby wasn’t his-no one except my brother and my mother, who was priestess at the time. After that, every bayram I received a bundle of fine cloth and a kerchief, into the corner of which was knotted a gold lira. Three years ago that too ceased. I never saw him again.” She shrugged, but her eyes told him that she had loved this pasha. “They’re both gone from this world now,” she finished.

“Why are you telling me this?” Did she expect him to comfort her, or to exact retribution from the pasha’s family? What was this about eye color, Saba’s, his own? It was nonsense and he rejected the insinuation he knew she was making.

“I was going to tell her today.” Balkis slumped against the door. “Please, Kamil Pasha, sit. I’ll take only a few more moments of your time. You must hear the rest. I’ve waited a lifetime to tell you this. I’m an ill woman, and there might not be another opportunity.”

They heard a wail from the other room, and suddenly Saba stood in the hall, a piece of paper dangling from her hand.

“Tell me what, mother?” she cried out. “Tell me what?” The bruises showed livid against her chalky skin and deep lines scored the side of her mouth. The transformation from a few minutes earlier was so extreme that Kamil was afraid she had been attacked in her room. He held a hand out to her as if she were a frightened animal.

“Saba Hanoum, what’s happened?” He stepped toward her. “Is someone in there?”

“Stay away from me,” she screamed with such anguish that Kamil feared she had lost her mind.

Balkis stood by the door like a statue.

“You told him?” Saba asked her.

“Sit, my daughter,” Balkis said calmly. “I haven’t finished the story yet.”

“Leave,” Saba screamed at Kamil. “Leave now.”

Balkis walked over and slapped Saba with such force that she fell against the wall.

Kamil grabbed Saba’s arm to help her up. “I’ve had enough of this,” he exclaimed angrily. “Would you like to leave, Saba Hanoum? I can escort you wherever you wish to go.”

Balkis stood before her daughter. “It’s important,” she said, dwelling on every word, “for you both to know.”

Saba refused to meet her eyes. Instead, she concentrated on smoothing her robe and adjusting her headscarf. Her breathing sounded labored.

“Your brother is here,” Balkis announced, “in this room. I was Alp Pasha’s lover and Saba is your sister, Kamil.”

Saba bent over and pressed her fingers to her forehead.

“Right after she visited me, your mother left your father and moved to Beshiktash with her children,” Balkis told Kamil.

“How do you know that?”

“I made inquiries.” She lowered her eyes. “I loved your father. He was the only man I ever loved. I still wait for him to come out of that mosque, even though I know he’s gone.”

Moving as if in a trance, Saba passed Kamil and went to her mother’s side. Balkis clutched her hand. “I never told him about you.” Balkis rocked back and forth, crying without tears. “I wish I had.”

“I don’t believe this.” Kamil headed for the door.

Saba ran after him and pressed Malik’s letter into his hand. “Return it when you’ve read it.”

Kamil had almost forgotten Avi, who waited until Kamil had climbed up to Charshamba before coming to walk wordlessly beside him. Kamil was too stunned to speak.

“I saw them, bey,” Avi said. “Do you want me to follow Amida?”

Kamil looked down at Avi’s eager face and at the small bandage that still adorned his head. He squatted beside him. “Yes, follow Amida. But don’t take any chances. These are dangerous men. I just want to know where Amida goes and, if you can manage to overhear any of his conversations, who he talks to and about what. But this isn’t a game. If anyone notices that you’re hanging around or following Amida, I want you to leave immediately and take a carriage to the Fatih police station or the courthouse. Find me or Chief Omar.”

Avi smiled broadly. “Yes, bey. Don’t worry.”

“It’ll be for no more than a few days. For the time being, I think you should spend the nights at my house. It’s more convenient than Feride Hanoum’s. I can bring you here in the morning. So once Amida is in his house for the evening or if you’re feeling at all tired, come back to Beshiktash, and Karanfil will make you a good meal.”

They walked to the stable at the corner of the main boulevard. While the stable hand retrieved his phaeton, Kamil had a whispered conversation with the owner, a fat man in a stained leather apron. Kamil indicated Avi over his shoulder. The owner leered, but nodded in agreement. Money changed hands.

Kamil took Avi aside. “I’ve arranged for you to have a carriage and a horse whenever you want.” He gave him a small sack of coins. “And this is to buy food and whatever else you need.”

Avi tried to give it back. “I don’t need that, bey. I’ll be fine.”

Kamil pressed it into his hand. “Think of this as a job, Avi. You’re a working man now.”

“Thank you, bey.” Avi proudly secreted the coins under his sweater. “I won’t use many, I promise.”

Bemused and grateful for the distraction of the boy’s company, Kamil shook his head. “Use as many as you need.”

Kamil climbed into the phaeton and steered it through a jostling hive of pedestrians, overloaded porters, carriages, and carts. He tried to push all thoughts of Balkis’s revelations firmly from his mind. He told himself that there was no proof that any of it was true. His father would never have betrayed his mother. But what did he really know about his father’s life?

A memory ambushed him. He was a young boy and he was telling his father something important-he couldn’t remember what. In midsentence, his father had turned away to attend to an aide and then, without another word to his son, had left the room. Kamil felt again the piercing disappointment that had overwhelmed him at the time, mixed with anger at his father’s suicide the year before. Had his father walked away from his mother too?

He reached into his pocket for his watch and checked the time. His hand brushed the letter, but he didn’t take it out. For some reason, the thought of reading it caused him great anxiety. He remembered the shocked look on Saba’s face; he felt unprepared for any further revelations.

As he approached the suburb of Nishantashou, the streets opened up and allowed the horse to move more quickly. Finally, holding the reins in one hand and allowing the horse its head on the mostly empty street, he took Malik’s letter from his jacket pocket. He held it for a long time before unfolding it, then pulled the phaeton over and read it. After his stomach settled, he read it a second time with greater attention. The letter verified what Balkis had said. It also appeared to contain advice for Saba on her duties as priestess, including an odd prayer. He scanned it for clues to the whereabouts of the Proof of God. Surely, Malik would have left instructions for Saba to find it? But if they were in the letter, they were too obscure for Kamil to understand. A second piece of paper enclosed with the letter had dropped onto the seat. On it, Saba had drawn a map of the basement of the Ottoman Tobacco Works.

Feride ran to meet him in the corridor, more animated than he had seen her in a long time. She kissed him on both cheeks and drew him in by the hand.

“Oh, I love having Elif here, Kamil. It’s like having a sister.”

Kamil found himself scanning the hall for Elif and was disappointed when she didn’t appear.

“Let me go get her,” Feride suggested eagerly.

Kamil pulled his mind back to the reason he was there. “Feride, can we talk privately for a few minutes?” He hoped his distressing news wouldn’t throw her back into a black mood.

Feride stopped, alarmed by his tone. “Has something happened?”

“Not exactly.”

She led him into the parlor and sat apprehensively on the sofa. Kamil closed the door and moved a chair so he could sit opposite her.

Before he could say a word, Feride began to cry. “I’m sorry, Kamil. Since Baba’s death, I just keep waiting for the next blow. Last week, I wouldn’t let the governess take Alev and Yasemin to the park. I had a vision of one of them falling out of the carriage and being crushed by the wheels. Now there’s Elif and Avi and I’m afraid something will happen to them too.”

Kamil moved to the sofa and put his arm around her. He was now very worried about how she would take the news about Saba. He wasn’t sure what to make of it himself and had hoped to discuss it with Feride, but that might be impossible considering the state she was in.

“Ferosh,” he said softly. “Nothing that happened was your fault. I wish you’d accept that. I told you, if you want to blame someone, blame me. It was my suggestion to reduce Baba’s opium. But remember, he had stopped eating. We were trying to save his life.”

“But we killed him.”

Soon after Feride cut her father’s opium supply, he had walked off a balcony to his death. Witnesses reported that he had been smiling. Kamil knew with certainty that his father had been walking toward his wife, the woman whose absence and then death he could never accept and whose image he conjured up in his opium dreams. Now Kamil added a new scenario, that his father had also taken to opium out of guilt.

After their father’s death, a sadness had settled on Feride. He knew she had always been lonely, despite her large household and a constant bustle of teas and social visits. She used to press Kamil to get married, begging him to give her a sister-in-law, a companion, but had lost interest even in that. She seemed to have no dreams left, he thought, as he held her hand. He handed her a clean handkerchief from his pocket and passed his forefinger across her brow.

She pressed the linen against her face, then placed it on the sofa beside her, calmer now. “How do you stand it?” she asked Kamil, trying to laugh. “Your sister is a lunatic.”

“Not at all. My sister is as lovely as the moon. And sometimes as enigmatic.”

“Where did you learn to draw butter like that?” she teased him, but he could tell she was pleased.

“So what was it you wanted to tell me?”

Kamil hesitated.

“I promise not to collapse, cry out, or otherwise cause a scene. Seriously, I’m fine, brother dear.” She pressed his hand. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Kamil decided it would be better to tell her now, rather than risk having her find out some other way. He took a deep breath and asked, “Feride, do you remember when Mama took us to Beshiktash?” Kamil still lived in the small villa his mother had inherited and in which she and her children had spent their mother’s last years.

“A little. I was only eleven. You were older. Why?”

“Do you know why Mama moved there?”

“Living in the governor’s mansion was too much for her. There were always dozens of women trying to see her or inviting her over. I don’t think they cared about her at all. They just wanted to use her to influence Baba. I saw her crying a few times. I remember that very clearly.”

“Do you think Mama and Baba were happy?”

“Of course,” she exclaimed. “Baba started on the opium after she moved to Beshiktash, remember? And after she died, he was inconsolable. He loved her. That’s what killed him in the end.”

They let that conclusion settle between them. Feride gave Kamil a small smile and blinked back tears.

Then Kamil asked, “Yes, but did she love him?”

Feride looked puzzled. “Of course she did.” But she sounded unsure. “What are you saying?”

“It’s possible that Baba had a mistress.” Kamil braced himself for Feride’s response.

She was silent for a moment, her face unreadable. Then, to his surprise, she said simply, “I suppose that’s possible. Most men have them. You know, there’s a saying, ‘If your husband has two coffee cups, break one.’ As soon as a man has enough money, he buys a mistress. In the old days, it was a second wife or a concubine. I suppose having a mistress is more modern.” She seemed lost in thought for a moment, then looked up again. “Do you think that’s why Mama left?”

Kamil wondered whether Huseyin had a mistress. “Yes,” he said. “And she has a daughter.”

Feride sat up straight. “You think it’s Baba’s child?”

“I’m not sure. I think she might be.”

“How old is she?”

“Eighteen. So she would have been born around the time we moved. Her name is Saba.”

“That’s a strange name.”

“It’s an Abyssinian name.”

Feride was silent for a moment. “Mama had an Abyssinian slave at the governor’s mansion. Do you think it was her? She was very beautiful.”

“The woman’s name is Balkis. I met her brother, Malik, a couple of years ago. He was a good man. He was killed two nights ago.”

“I’m sorry, Kamil. Was he a friend?”

“Yes,” Kamil allowed himself to grieve for a moment, as much for his friend as for his friendship. “But he never said anything about this to me.”

“So maybe it isn’t true.”

“I don’t know. He came to my house that night. He wanted me to find an object that had been stolen from him and that he wanted his niece Saba to have. He seemed to want to tell me something else, but decided to put it off. We were supposed to have breakfast together the next day and he was going to invite Saba. It’s possible that this is what he wanted to tell me. When he left that night, he asked me to take care of her and gave me a letter to give her in case something happened to him.”

He pulled out Malik’s letter and handed it to her.

“I gave it to her this morning. From her reaction, I’m sure she didn’t know. Her mother told me the whole story, but I didn’t believe her.”

He waited while Feride read. It occurred to Kamil that Malik had sought him out and befriended him not because he had any interest in orchids, but in order to judge his character. He thought Malik had been his friend. Instead, he realized with a shock, he had been a relation.

When Feride finished, her face was white. “Can I keep this?”

“There’s some information in there that I need. But there’s no rush to return the letter. I’ll bring it back to you. Are you going to show Huseyin?”

“Of course. And Elif.”

Kamil realized that next to Elif’s arrival, this was the most exciting thing that had happened to Feride in a long while.

“What did the mother…”

“Balkis.”

“What else did Balkis tell you?”

“She said she met Baba as he was coming out of the Mosque of Sultan Selim.”

Surprised, Feride asked, “What was Baba doing in a mosque?”

“I don’t know, Ferosh. It was probably part of his official duties.”

“Did Baba know about the child?”

“I don’t know. Balkis said she didn’t tell him.”

Feride considered this. “I think he must have learned about it, don’t you?”

They sat for a few moments without speaking.

“Do we want to acknowledge the girl?” Kamil asked finally. It seemed the decent thing to ask Feride, although what he desperately wanted to know instead was whether his parents had been happy and why his father had taken up with Balkis. He couldn’t imagine his father with her. It was another man, another father he didn’t recognize. He felt grief, as if he were losing his father all over again.

“Is there any proof of this story?” he heard Feride ask.

“I don’t think so. But there is a resemblance.” He remembered Saba’s eyes, so like his own.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Yes. She looks like you.”

“Do you think she’ll want an inheritance?”

“She’s illegitimate, so she has no legal right.”

“There’s law,” Feride pointed out, “and there’s justice. We’d need some kind of proof, though.”

Last night’s nightmare came back to him with the force of a hallucination. He could see the feather on the woman’s back. He fought the images by trying to picture his mother’s face, but found the memory of her pulsing faintly in and out of focus, displaced by the stronger impression of Elif’s small golden head.