The Abyssinian Proof

5

Back in his office at the courthouse, Kamil combed through the files again, this time looking for links to the Charshamba district or the Habesh, but the files contained little more than lists and sketches of objects taken, and the names of places they had been taken from. None of the thefts had occurred in Charshamba. Kamil wondered if criminals had a code of honor that forbade them from stealing in the area where they lived, or whether the pickings were simply better elsewhere. A silver nielloed Byzantine ewer and matching plate, a solid gold plate, a chalice decorated with diamonds, and another with rubies and pearls had disappeared from the Fatih Mosque, just a stone’s throw from the Charshamba market. The sketches were clear enough, but the report was illegible. The police required their officers to be literate, but in practice that could mean anything. He peered at the paper, unable to make out where in the large mosque complex the objects had been stored.

The other stolen items came from smaller mosques, churches, and synagogues all over the Old City. He assumed that these would be less carefully guarded than a venerable institution like the Fatih Mosque. But, he chided himself, on what basis was he making that assumption? What he had seen so far had convinced him that people at all levels of responsibility were careless with old things, probably believing them to be intrinsically less valuable than something new, even if they were made of precious materials.

The descriptions of stolen items corresponded closely to a list sent by the London Metropolitan Police Force of oriental objects recently sold in that city, including the ruby and pearl chalice. That sale and several others had been handled by Rettingate and Sons, dealers in oriental antiques, located at 58 Smythe Street in South Kensington. A good address near Kensington Gardens and the museum, Kamil noted. He remembered elegant rows of brick and stucco houses with black-lacquered doors and polished brass knockers. Perhaps the tent of facts could be anchored at that end. He penned a telegram to Detective Inspector Joseph Ormond, his contact at the Metropolitan Police, or as it was commonly known, Scotland Yard.

In the letter accompanying the list, Ormond had suggested Kamil contact Magnus Owen, the cultural attaché at the British Embassy in Istanbul. Kamil wrote a note requesting an appointment with Owen and gave it to Abdullah to deliver to the embassy, only minutes away.

Half an hour later, the door to the office flew open and an enormous man with a heavy beard fell into the room. With one hand, he extricated himself from Abdullah’s grip, with the other he dragged Avi, who squirmed in pain.

Kamil jumped to his feet and bellowed, “Drop that child right now. What is the meaning of this?”

The man stopped but didn’t loosen his grip. Abdullah renewed his attempt to pull the stranger from the room.

“Let the boy go or I’ll have you arrested.”

Reluctantly, the man complied. Trouble seemed to stick to this boy like metal filings to a magnet, Kamil thought irritably. He noticed that the man’s sash protruded at the side, indicating a weapon, most likely a long-handled knife. With a stealthy flick of his fingers, he slid open a drawer, putting his Colt revolver within easy reach.

“Abdullah, take the boy out.”

Abdullah looked doubtfully at the intruder, but did as he was told. He left the door open.

“Your name?”

“The boy belongs to me,” the man said in the thick accent of Istanbul’s back streets. His hands were scarred and his fingernails blackened. He took a wrestler’s pose, feet apart, arms loose at his side.

“Your name?” Kamil repeated angrily. He smelled anise; the man had been drinking raki.

“Mustafa,” he muttered grudgingly.

“What do you mean, the boy belongs to you?”

“He works for me. His father gave him to me.” Mustafa became animated, gesturing with his hands. He took a step toward Kamil. “I have the agreement.” He reached into his vest, pulled out a tattered piece of paper, and held it out to Kamil. “He signed it and I signed it.”

Kamil took it and read it. “This is a bill of sale for a young sheep,” he said finally. “It says you paid five hundred kurush for it. That’s quite a sum for a sheep.” There were two names at the bottom, Mustafa the Tanner and another name that was illegible, with an X penned under each.

Mustafa looked stunned. “That can’t be. Let me see.” He reached over the desk and snatched the paper from Kamil’s hand. He looked at it intently, but it was clear to Kamil that the man couldn’t read. He looked at Kamil helplessly. “I paid him for an apprentice.”

“Didn’t you go through your guild?” The tanner’s guild regulated the hiring and training of apprentices.

Mustafa shifted nervously. “I needed the boy to do some extra work. It wasn’t really an apprenticeship.”

Most likely something dangerous, Kamil thought, something the guild wouldn’t agree to. Tanners worked with caustic chemicals that ate the flesh from hides and from the workers’ hands. The stench of drying hides stung the eyes and throats of residents within a wide radius of the tanning sheds just outside the city wall.

“You can’t purchase a free subject of the empire. The boy isn’t a slave. And as far as I know, both his parents are deceased.”

Mustafa looked surprised, then said, with a sly smile revealing broken and blackened teeth, “So he needs a home. I can give the poor orphan a home.”

“He has a home. And I’m going to report this to your guild to make sure you don’t use up any of your other boys like kindling. You can go.”

The man glowered at Kamil, then turned and stomped angrily out the door.

Kamil heard a mutter, followed by a sharp scream of pain. He ran to the door and saw Avi collapsed in a heap on the floor, blood streaming from his head. Abdullah and Ibrahim were holding on to the bearded giant as more men ran toward them to help. But with a shrug of his massive shoulders, Mustafa broke free and ran away.

“Let him go,” Kamil called to Abdullah. “I know who he is. Help me with the boy.”

They laid Avi on the divan. Kamil watched while Abdullah washed and bandaged the deep gash on the boy’s forehead where Mustafa had hit him with the hilt of his knife. When Avi opened his eyes, he found Kamil sitting next to him, reading.

“Welcome back, my son,” Kamil said. His relief ran deep, but currents of anxiety still pulsed through him. He crossed his arms. Is this what people feel, he wondered, when they have children? That life can never again be taken for granted and you can never know peace? It seemed a precarious way to live.

Avi smiled weakly. His eyes were bloodshot. When he tried to move his head, he whimpered in pain.

“When you’re well enough to move, we’ll send you back to Amalia Teyze in a carriage.”

Avi frowned and tried to shake his head.

“Don’t worry. When you’re well, you can come back.”

Tears spilled down Avi’s cheeks. “She’s dead.”

Kamil paused. “Who’s dead?”

“Amalia Teyze,” Avi whispered. “I didn’t know she was sick,” he cried. “I could have done something.”

This news didn’t surprise Kamil, who already suspected something of the kind. But surely another family in the village would have taken the boy in. “Bashin sagholsun, my condolences, son. There’s nothing you could have done. These things just happen. Tell me, where did you stay after that?”

“One of the men from the village took me to Tanner Mustafa and told me I had to work for him. But he beat me and I ran away. I’m sorry, bey. I’m sorry I lied to you. I was afraid you’d send me back there.” His thin body shook. “Please don’t send me back.”

Kamil fought down his anger. He would see to it that both sides of this devil’s bargain would regret it. He took out a linen handkerchief and wiped the boy’s face. “Don’t worry. You’re not going back. We’ll find you a place in the apprentices’ quarters. But first you need to get better.” He placed his hand on Avi’s hot cheek and held it there, thinking. Then he rose and told Abdullah to get a carriage ready.

It was a short ride to his sister Feride’s mansion in the suburb of Nishantashou. The carriage swayed to a halt inside the stone gate, and three men dressed in scarlet and blue livery ran to greet him. The ambition of his brother-in-law, Huseyin, was emblazoned even on the backs of his servants, Kamil thought sourly as he gave them instructions to carry Avi inside. Kamil disliked his self-centered brother-inlaw, a distant cousin and minor member of the royal family whose exact function in the palace bureaucracy was unclear.

Feride greeted him in the reception hall, a massive room decorated in the European style. Kamil thought the ropes of gilded plaster and oil paintings of fruit and dead pheasants an abomination of taste. He was certain it was Huseyin who had insisted on this décor. In contrast to the room, Feride had the calm demeanor and classical lines of a Roman marble. Her face was a long, pale oval, with a straight nose and thin lips that gave her an air of repose. As always, she was fashionably but simply dressed. A light silk scarf edged in tiny pearls fluttered from her head. He never understood why she had agreed to marry Huseyin against his advice when she had had her choice of men of good family seeking her hand.

Feride smiled happily and held out her hands to Kamil. “My dear brother, what a wonderful surprise.”

He kissed Feride’s cheeks. “You’re looking well, Ferosh,” he lied, using the affectionate form of her name. The strain of her marriage and their father’s suicide had begun to show. Two deep lines had settled permanently above her nose, the beginnings of sorrow on her otherwise flawless face. He reached up and gently brushed away a strand of hair, then kissed her forehead. He was rewarded with a brilliant smile that made her look young again.

“You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you?” she pleaded.

The events of that morning were still fresh in his mind and he did not want to spend precious time in idle conversation, but not wishing to disappoint Feride, he acquiesced. He also wanted to ask Huseyin about Hamdi Bey.

He heard a distant patter of feet and squatted, waiting for his seven-year-old twin nieces to appear. They flew into the room, matching flurries of white and blue, and threw themselves into his arms. He kissed their red hair and breathed in the scent of soap and innocence. Feride pried them away and sent them to tell the cook to add a place at the table.

“Ferosh,” Kamil said, “I’ve brought you a gift, another child. A boy, this time.”

Feride looked shocked, then laughed. “You’re always teasing me. I can’t wait for the day when you really will be married and bring your children to see me. When will that be, my wild-blooded brother?”

“I’m serious. But he’s not mine.”

“Whose then?”

“An orphan.” He told her about Avi. He had considered bringing the boy to his house, but thought Avi might benefit from staying in a family with other children.

“The poor child,” she exclaimed. “Of course he can stay here.”

She swung her arms around wildly. “There’s enough room here for an entire city of boys.”

Feride gestured to a servant waiting at a discreet distance and consulted with her. The woman led them to the servants’ quarters. There, they found Avi on a mattress under a quilt with a matronly servant squatting beside him, spooning broth into his mouth from a bowl. When Avi saw Kamil, he relaxed.

“This is Feride Hanoum, my sister.”

His nieces peered around his legs. “And these are her daughters, Alev and Yasemin.”

The girls giggled.

“You’re welcome in my house,” Feride said, touching Avi’s bandage and lifting the quilt. She turned to the woman. “Bathe him and get him some clothes. And fetch the surgeon. This bandage needs to be changed.”

“You’ll be well treated here, Avi,” Kamil said softly. “When you’re feeling better, I’ll expect you back at your post.”

Feride looked at her brother in surprise.

Avi struggled to keep his eyes open, smiled, then fell asleep. The twins crept close and kept watch over him.

“You’re full of surprises today, dear brother,” Feride said when they were in the corridor. “I heard the way you spoke to that boy. You care about him, don’t you?”

“I suppose so.”

She beamed at him. “It’s a start. We’ll domesticate you eventually. Come along. I have a surprise for you too.”

“Elif is a distant cousin of Huseyin’s from Macedonia,” Feride explained, as they made their way back to the main part of the house. “She landed on our doorstep five days ago, as thin and dirty as a street urchin. And as tough. I can’t believe what she has been through. I wouldn’t have been able to survive it.”

“I think you’d be surprised at how tough you are.”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “They shot her husband right in front of her and then, when she was fleeing, bandits killed her five-year-old son and stole her carriage. Somehow she got hold of a horse and rode until she arrived here. What amazes me is that she seems so kind and considerate. I could never be so pleasant if I had gone through all that.”

Kamil thought, that being pleasant was a survival strategy. The woman probably had nowhere else to go.

He let Feride draw him into the dining room.

“Where have you been?” Huseyin growled when he saw Feride, waving her in with one large, pale hand.

Face flushed, Huseyin sat at the head of a long table that was set with silver and fine china. He wore a frock coat with a wide blue sash and a large diamond starburst order on his chest. His thick neck was encased in a starched collar. Kamil found the medal to be an affectation when worn at lunch with one’s own family. The woman sitting by Huseyin was partly obscured by a silver candelabra.

Spying Kamil, Huseyin jumped to his feet and hurried over. “Brother-in-law, what a surprise.” He grasped Kamil by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. He smelled of expensive French cologne. “What are you doing away from the court in the middle of the day?” He gasped before each sentence, as if he couldn’t get enough air. “Did we commit a murder or did Nizam Pasha fire you?”

For Feride’s sake, Kamil forced himself to smile.

“Not yet, Huseyin, but you’ll be the first to know.”

Huseyin laughed too heartily and pounded Kamil on the shoulder. “Come and sit.” He pulled out a chair next to his.

The woman turned her head toward Feride and a smile appeared on his sister’s face. Kamil liked Elif already. He saw opposite him a delicate blond woman with chin-length hair and clear blue eyes. She looked tired and thin. The planes of her face were angular, her cheeks hollow, and there were deep circles under her eyes. She appeared to be in her late twenties, although her ordeal might have aged her. A small silk kerchief was pinned to the top of her head, almost as an afterthought, concealing little. Her face and hands were tanned like a peasant’s, but her neck was pale.

There was something intriguing and elusive about her. She wore no jewelry and her vest was unornamented. Even the kerchief on her head didn’t have the usual fringe. She was trembling. Kamil remembered what Feride had told him about the young woman’s experiences. He had heard stories about the fighting in the Balkans, some brutal beyond his imagining. He thought again of Marko’s childish face as he’d pulled the trigger. How much horror the boy must have seen to have met death so serenely.

Feride watched him, and he thought he saw an element of calculation enter her eyes.

“Kamil, this is Elif.” She turned to Elif, who sat with her eyes down, hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I’ve been telling Kamil about you.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Elif Hanoum.”

Elif nodded her head in acknowledgment, but said nothing.

Servants bustled around the table, filling everyone’s bowls with fragrant leek soup. Kamil realized he was hungry.

“Watch out, Elif. Feride’s mission in life is to get her brother married off.” Huseyin pointed his spoon at Kamil. “You’re better off a bachelor. Wives are trouble.” He was already halfway through his soup.

Feride placed her hand briefly on Elif’s arm, then pretended to busy herself with her food.

Elif, Kamil noticed, was not eating. He caught her looking at him before her eyes slid away. “Elif Hanoum, Feride told me something about your tragedies and difficult journey. May the worst be over.”

Elif inclined her head, but still said nothing.

“It will be,” Huseyin grumbled, waving his spoon, “now that Macedonia has an Ottoman governor again. I don’t know how the Russians managed to grab it from us ten years ago, but I tell you, it won’t happen again. They’re like magpies, snatching territory here and there. Greater Bulgaria. What the hell is that, I ask you? It’s a good thing we got Macedonia back. Now at least there’s a chance it’ll become civilized. A slim chance.”

“I’m not so sure,” Kamil responded, thinking of Marko. “The Christians of Macedonia have tasted independence. It’s not surprising that they feel betrayed-by their own leaders, by the Russians who gave them back to us, and by the British who brokered the deal. One people’s just cause is another’s lost territory.”

“We gave them a Christian governor, for Allah’s sake. What more do they want?”

“They want control over their own land. They feel betrayed and now they’re attacking their Muslim neighbors. Have you seen the refugees in the streets?”

Huseyin nodded. “I’ve seen them, but I tell you the Christians are busy killing each other too. Take the Bulgarians. They had Macedonia for only the briefest moment, but to them, that still makes it part of Bulgaria. Now they cut out the tongue of anyone who even says the word Macedonia.”

Feride was puzzled. “But surely the Bulgarians are Christians.”

“Bravo, my dear. The Bulgarian Christian guerillas are fighting the Macedonian Christian militias. I say let them kill each other and save the governor the trouble.”

“How can you say that?” Elif cried out in an anguished voice. “You have no idea what it’s like there. Ordinary people are caught in the middle and slaughtered like sheep.”

“Couldn’t our army protect you?” Feride asked with concern.

Elif’s eyes flew up and met Kamil’s. In their blue depths he saw an ocean of grief. “The Ottoman army isn’t blameless,” she said softly.

“We should just give the province up.” Huseyin gestured to a servant to refill his raki glass. “We don’t have control over it anymore. It’s just a hole in our pocket.”

“You can’t let the province go now.” Elif’s voice was shrill. “Thousands of people would be killed.”

“What do I care about Christians who want to kill each other. Let them, I say.” He shrugged. “Whoever’s left can try to run things without our help. They’re so primitive, they wouldn’t know how to govern themselves. They’ll be barking in the trees like monkeys.” He chuckled, spearing a piece of meat. “Monkeys,” he repeated, shaking his head.

“You don’t understand, Huseyin. Most of the people don’t want to fight,” Elif insisted. “They’re ordinary people with families. All they want is peace.” She appealed to Kamil. “Our neighbors were Christians. Our children played together. When there’s someone to keep order, people do get along. You can’t just say, ‘We’ve had enough trouble,’ and walk away.”

“We wouldn’t abandon Macedonia without making sure there’s a government in place, Elif Hanoum,” Kamil said soothingly.

“Don’t be an ass, Kamil,” Huseyin interjected. “We’ve already gone. Look what happened to her.” He indicated Elif with his fork. “They shot her husband. There’s no law and order there. It’s a sham. So it’s better that we call it a sham and save ourselves the effort.”

Elif grimaced and pressed the palms of her hands against the table.

“What about the Muslim population?” Kamil countered. “We just abandon them to be slaughtered?”

“Well, let them join the Ottoman army or get out. They’re all coming here anyway.”

Elif sprang to her feet, swaying as if she might fall. Feride put her arm around her, but Elif pushed her away. She glared at them.

“You know the roads aren’t passable.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “There are bandits everywhere.”

Kamil remembered that her son had been killed on the road.

“Elif Hanoum,” Kamil began.

Feride reached out, but Elif shook her off again. “The empire has a duty to protect its citizens,” she said in a harsh voice.

Huseyin looked amused and waved his fork at her. “Sit down, Elif. Allah protect us. We have to be realistic.”

Before Kamil could object, Elif fled the room. Kamil noted with surprise that she was wearing men’s trousers and a loose white shirt under her brocaded vest. Feride followed her out.

Kamil stood, unsure what to do. Huseyin seemed not to notice.

“So, are you working on any interesting cases?” he asked, peering at Kamil over the rim of his raki glass.

“Why did you taunt that poor woman, Huseyin? Hasn’t she been through enough?”

Huseyin shrugged. “She’s got to get over it. It doesn’t do her any good, treating her like a victim. She arrived here half dead. I’m just helping to pull her back into life. Of course, it’s not going to be easy. You know, sometimes I think people prefer to sink in their well of misery. Everyone else runs around and does things for them. Nobody challenges them. They live in a fantasy world in which the only thing that counts is what happened to them. You see how she’s dressed. That’s how she arrived, dressed as a man. I suppose it helped her to get here, but it’s time she put on a skirt. I won’t let her out of the house in that getup. She’ll be arrested. Hell, we’d all be arrested. I don’t think her attitude is healthy and I won’t stand for it in my house. If she wants to be coddled, she can go elsewhere.”

Kamil sat back down and lit a cigarette, offering one to Huseyin. Much as he hated to admit it, what Huseyin said made a certain sense. “Give her time, Huseyin. Go too fast and your cure might kill her.”

Huseyin clicked his tongue. “She’s as tough as camel hide, Kamil.” He drew on his cigarette. “She’s a member of my family, and as you well know, we’re all tough bastards.” He grinned mischievously.

Feride came into the room and heard the last sentence. “That’s certainly true,” she agreed, prompting a guffaw from Huseyin.

Elif returned to the table. “I apologize,” she said softly to no one in particular.

The servants replaced the untouched food with plates of warm rice, lamb, and eggplant puree.

“Eat,” Huseyin ordered Elif.

For a while, the only sound was the clink of cutlery.

When he had eaten all he could, Kamil pushed his chair back. “You asked about my cases, Huseyin. I have a challenging one.” He told them about the antiquities thefts in the Old City and, to amuse Elif, he added the story of the policeman Ali’s discovery of a cistern beneath his house. She smiled when he described Ali fishing through his floorboards.

“So all these Byzantine structures are still there. What happened to the people?” she asked.

“They survived,” Huseyin explained dryly. “Mehmet the Conqueror allowed his soldiers three days of looting, and then there was peace. The Byzantines became Ottomans. End of story.”

“That’s horrible,” Feride exclaimed. “Why punish a population that has already surrendered?”

Huseyin shrugged. “That’s war. The Byzantines lost and that’s how armies paid their soldiers in those days. Anyway, it was only three days. After that, he built the empire we still have four hundred years later.” He swept his hand expansively around the room. “Civilization. You don’t know a thing about gardening, Feride, but let me tell you, the best roses bloom in shit.”

Feride ignored him and asked Kamil about Balat and Fatih, where she had never been. Kamil tried to describe the districts, leaving out the filthy streets and gangs of thieves.

“I would love to see those places,” Elif said, surprising everyone.

“Not in that outfit,” Huseyin growled.

“You could draw them,” Feride said with excitement. “I could come with you.” She turned to Kamil. “She’s a wonderful artist. You should see her drawings.”

“I’m not having my wife and cousin drag themselves like whores around the worst areas in the city,” Huseyin interrupted. “But Elif,” he pointed at her with his elbow, “no one can tell her anything.” He grinned. “Isn’t that right, Elif? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. The rest of you might have come from monkeys, but our family is descended from a goat.” He laughed so hard, he nearly choked.

Feride hurried over and patted him on the back. “Definitely a goat, my dear,” she agreed, trying to smile.

“Where did you learn to draw?” Kamil asked Elif, sensing that this was a safe topic and one that might engage her.

“Paris. My family sent me there as a child when the troubles started. I lived with my aunt and uncle. Have you been to Paris, Kamil Pasha?”

“No, regrettably. I’ve been to London and Cambridge, but no further. I’d like to see more of Europe someday. Perhaps when you have the time you would consent to tell me more about Paris.”

“I’d be delighted. In exchange, you will tell me about the Old City?”

“Agreed.” Kamil could see Huseyin’s point about a stubborn streak. It had probably helped her survive.

Feride followed the exchange with a satisfied smile on her lips. Huseyin also observed them closely over his spoon of pudding, but said nothing.

“Show him your drawings, Elif,” Feride urged.

“They’re nothing special,” she demurred.

“Don’t be so modest. That’s not a family trait.” Huseyin turned to Kamil and said jovially, “If I say her drawings are good, I know you’ll believe me because I never say anything good about anyone.” He looked at Feride. “Isn’t that right, dear? Why don’t you go get them, Elif, and let Kamil have a look?”

“I’m sure he’s not interested,” Elif responded shyly.

“On the contrary, I’d be honored if you would share them with me.”

Elif rose from the table, but then just stood there. She had begun to tremble again almost imperceptibly.

Feride put a hand on her arm and said, “Sit, Elif, dear. I’ll go and get them.”

Elif nodded and sat back down, her face the color of chalk.

Huseyin caught Kamil’s eye and raised an eyebrow.

After Feride left, Huseyin pushed himself to his feet and led the way into a sitting area just off the dining room. A fire crackled in the fireplace.

“Join us, cousin,” he called to Elif. “It’s warmer in here.”

As Elif came around the table, Kamil saw she was barefoot. Her clothing was a striking combination of East and West, with no ornamentation at all beyond the carnelian-colored vest. Still, dressing as a man was unacceptable and dangerous for a woman. He understood his brother-in-law’s concern.

Huseyin cut the end from a cigar. “Whatever the evidence to the contrary, Elif, you’re still young and accommodating. Just wait till you bloom and then see how many thorns you have. Right, Kamil?” He took a couple of shallow puffs. “My brother-in-law is an expert on flowers.”

“Only orchids,” Kamil replied, smiling at Elif. “I like to read about them. I used to go on botanical expeditions. There are so many varieties of orchids in the empire, but you rarely hear about them. I have some rare specimens in my winter garden. Occasionally,” he added shyly, “I try to capture one on paper.”

“What medium?” She took a seat by Kamil’s side, crossing her legs, her bare foot arched like a Roman bridge.

Kamil could see her leg pulsing with each heartbeat.

Huseyin was in the chair opposite him, cigar clamped between his lips, engrossed in a newspaper.

“Pardon?” Kamil asked Elif.

“Watercolor? Paint? Charcoal?”

“Watercolor mostly. I like watercolor because the delicacy of tone and transparency of the color allows me to capture those qualities in the flower.”

They talked in this way for a few minutes before Feride returned and laid a battered binder on the side table.

They gathered around the table, watching as Elif paged through the drawings and watercolors one by one. “This is all I managed to save,” she explained.

Rather than the usual facsimiles of life through detail, the landscapes pulsed with shape and motion brought alive by color. They reminded Kamil of the French Impressionists. He had seen several of Monsieur Monet’s feverish and intensely colored paintings in the London drawing room of a wealthy Ottoman collector. These were easily as good. There were also studies of a young boy’s head, some quick sketches, others more detailed, showing his delicate lashes and the seashell of his ear.

“Who’s this?” Kamil asked.

“My son,” she responded in a barely audible voice.

As she turned a page, Kamil saw on the back a charcoal sketch of the boy with his eyes closed, mouth slightly ajar, a brown smudge at the corner of his lips that looked more like dried blood than paint. Elif quickly hid it under another drawing. Huseyin caught Kamil’s eye and nodded slightly. Kamil understood. It was the boy’s death mask.

“These are brilliant,” he said honestly. “Are they in the Impressionist style?”

“Yes,” Elif seemed pleased that Kamil recognized it.

“They should be in a museum,” he insisted, sweeping his hand toward the drawings.

“They’re good, but not good enough,” she said, her mood darkening again. “I wasn’t able to finish my training.”

“Why not?”

She said nothing for so long that Kamil thought she wouldn’t answer. “I married a fellow artist,” she said finally. “A painter. When I had a child, he insisted I stop working and return with him to Macedonia. But it’s not work,” she said, her anguish breaking through. “He of all people should have understood that.”

Elif gathered up her drawings and put them back in the binder, carefully tying it shut with string. “I knew an American painter in Paris, Mary Cassatt. I studied at the Académie Julian, but it was Mary who helped me develop my own style.”

“I saw one of her paintings in London,” Kamil said. Painting was a subject Elif felt comfortable talking about and he wanted to draw her out. “It was of a woman holding a baby. Remarkable. The brush-strokes were loose, as if it were a sketch, but somehow it looked more real than if she had painted in every detail.”

“During my last summer there, Mary took me and my son to her summer house at Marly. It had a beautiful garden. Mary’s mother was there, and her nieces. We did nothing but paint all summer.”

“We don’t have much of a tradition of painting or drawing of this kind,” Kamil said. “Except for Hamdi Bey. He paints in the European style.”

A servant brought coffee and a platter of fruit, which no one touched. Elif picked up her coffee and took a sip. Her eyes seemed focused on something beyond the room.

“Hamdi is a remarkable fellow,” Huseyin agreed. “He’s painting a portrait of himself with turtles.”

“Oh really,” Feride scoffed.

“It’s true. I saw the painting in his studio. It’s of a man with a pointy beard feeding his turtles. Looks just like him. He denies it, of course. Claims it isn’t finished. Maybe if I irritate him enough, he’ll put my face on it.”

“On the turtle, you mean,” Feride sniped.

Kamil was glad to see his sister showing some spirit. She hadn’t always been this assertive. Their father’s death had changed her, made her less willing to bend. There was a brittleness about her now, but also a new strength.

“I don’t know where he finds the time. He’s head of the Imperial Museum now and he’s also heading up our first archaeological expedition.”

“Soon we’ll be able to kick those thieves masquerading as archaeologists right back to Europe, eh, Kamil? Dig the stuff up ourselves,” Huseyin said, showing his fist. “I wish we could throw the Franks out of our treasury too. People think the Franks shit gold. What they don’t realize is, it’s our gold.”

“Huseyin,” Feride scolded. “You’re a beast.”

“Don’t I know it.” He winked at her.

Kamil saw Feride suppress a smile and wondered at the complex and, to him, utterly mysterious bond between husband and wife.

Elif had gathered up her binder and was hesitating by the door.

Kamil got to his feet. “It was a great pleasure to meet you, Elif Hanoum,” he said with feeling.

“Also my pleasure, Kamil Pasha.”

Feride kissed him on both cheeks. “I’ll leave you to Huseyin now, brother dear, but do come again soon. Elif and I would love to see you. And,” she whispered, “don’t worry about the boy.”

Elif overheard. “What boy?”

Huseyin echoed her.

“A young apprentice named Avi.” Kamil explained what had happened. “I had hoped he might stay here for a few days until he’s better.”

“Of course,” Huseyin boomed amiably. “What have we got all this space for if it isn’t to take in strays.”

“Can we see him?” Elif asked Feride.

“Yes, let’s see how he’s getting on with Alev and Yasemin.”

Huseyin rolled his eyes. “More of those family roses, Kamil.” He raised an index finger and braced it with the fingers of his other hand. “They’ve already got thorns as long as your finger.”

When the women had gone, Kamil remarked, “So you know Hamdi Bey quite well.”

“Yes. Why?”

“I thought as director of the museum, he might know some of the antiquities dealers in Europe. I want to see what I can find out about the buyers.”

“I suppose you want me to set up a meeting.”

Kamil swallowed his distaste at asking his brother-in-law for a favor. “If you could.” He suspected Huseyin took pleasure in his discomfiture.

Huseyin reached for an enormous red peach, peeled it, cut it up, and divided the quarters between their plates. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

AS KAMIL RODE through Nishantashou on his way back to his office, he thought about Elif. What happened to people who had lost everything and had no family to take them in? The scent of roses and jasmine defied the rusts and reds of autumn creeping over the gardens beside the road, but Kamil’s eyes were on an inner scene of savagery, of neighbor slitting the throat of neighbor or turning away when a friend was threatened. He wondered what Elif had lived through and found himself wanting to cradle her small golden head. He worried that she would break in Huseyin’s well-meaning but compassionless hands.

He passed the city’s water-pumping station and the artillery barracks looming over Taksim Square. Prayer services in the mosques were over and groups of men were walking back to work or meandering to coffeehouses or home. Behind the French Hospital, the streets of Tarla Bashou were crowded with shabby two-and three-story houses, now deep in shadow. The Grande Rue de Pera, in contrast, was a broad boulevard lined with shops, cafés, and brasseries. A woman sat huddled at the corner of an alley next to a French café, an infant in her arms.

Kamil dismounted and put a gold lira in her lap, enough to rent a room.

“May it bring you blessings,” he muttered, embarrassed.

Surprised, the woman looked up for a moment, and Kamil saw that she was no more than twenty, her face ravaged by sorrow. She attempted a smile. Then, as tears flooded her eyes, she hid her face and, clutching the child, began to rock back and forth.

Kamil crossed the street and asked the gatekeeper at the French Hospital what he knew about the refugees on the street.

He shook his head in dismay. “There are more every day. They sit there and beg. Some of them just sit. They look like they’ve left this world already.”

“What happens to them?”

“The hospitals pick up the sick ones. Mostly the mosque hospitals, but this one too,” he motioned toward the entrance behind him. “The merchants of Pera don’t like people in rags lying in front of their shops. Bad for business. So the shop owners’ organizations and the foreign churches pay to have them picked up. I hear they take them to centers where they can get food and maybe learn some skills to support themselves. Especially the women. You know, sewing, needlework, women’s stuff. Maybe even find them husbands.” He smiled shyly. “If I had the guts, I’d take a look there myself. These were decent people.” He shook his head sadly.

“Would you make sure she’s taken care of?” Kamil pointed to the woman by the café, still huddled over her infant, rocking quietly. He handed the man another gold lira.

The gatekeeper craned his neck and looked across the street. His face registered surprise, then softened. After a moment, he nodded. “Of course, but I can’t take money for doing a kindness.” He gave Kamil the lira back.

Kamil thanked him and rode down the Rue de Pera to his office.

As soon as he entered the antechamber, Abdullah handed him a letter embossed with the British Embassy seal.