The Abyssinian Proof

41

The 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.

Later 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.