The Abyssinian Proof

8

Dressed in a charshaf that exposed only her face, Saba stood inside the door, hand on the jamb, looking out at the candlelit windows of the village. Beyond the cottages and gardens, the cistern wall rose like a black page. A group of men clustered in the road outside the courtyard. She could hear their low voices and an occasional laugh. When they saw her, they bowed respectfully, but didn’t disperse. They, like her family, were waiting for a man named Kubalou.

The men’s voices rose suddenly like the sound of leaves in a great gust of wind, then fell silent. Saba saw a lamp approaching and hurried into the receiving hall.

“He’s coming.”

Her mother sat regally on one side of the U-shaped divan, arrayed in her most imposing gold-stitched robe and brocade caftan, with a silk scarf wound over her hair that was pinned in place by a diamond brooch. Her right hand held the Melisite scepter, the other lay calmly in her lap. All the lamps had been lit, and the high-ceilinged room blazed with light. Servants were lined up at the far end of the hall, out of earshot, but ready to spring into service. She noticed Bilal, Amida’s servant, among them. He was a comely boy, a few years younger than Amida. They had returned from Abyssinia together and were inseparable.

Saba surveyed the room with pleasure and thought about all the other women of her blood who had sat here over the centuries, confident and powerful. She wondered whether she could absorb that confidence just by being in its presence.

A few moments later, Amida came in carrying a lamp. While he paused to place it on a chest, a tall, heavyset man in an ill-fitting suit strode past him into the hall, as self-confident as if he were in his own living room. Saba disliked him immediately. His watery brown eyes met hers and she felt the cunning in him like a blow. He wore a bowler hat, but swept it off as he entered, revealing a halo of orange hair. She wished Uncle Malik were here, but he rarely interested himself in the business of the community and she doubted her mother had even told him about the dealer’s visit.

The man’s eyes rested a moment longer than necessary on Saba, appraising her, then his face broke out into what she was sure was meant to be a charming smile. Black spaces showed at either end of his grin where teeth were missing.

“Ma’am?” he said to her in English. He had an odd, high-pitched voice, totally incongruous with his bulk. But what did she know about how the English spoke? Uncle Malik had taught her some English and French-“The tongue is sharper than the sword,” he had told her, “and the master must know how to wield every kind of blade”-but she had never heard a native speak. And if this man were Cuban, as his name suggested, then she knew less than nothing, since she had no idea what that was.

Amida led the man to the side of the divan opposite the priestess. Kubalou’s eyes roved among Amida, Saba, and the stately woman on the divan before him. He probably wasn’t used to dealing with women, Saba realized, and didn’t understand that he should address the priestess. Her mother looked wary.

Saba was shocked to see Amida sit down at the priestess’s right hand, when he knew their place at a formal audience was on the third leg of the divan. He clearly wished to show himself to Kubalou as having more standing than he had. Saba debated whether she should sit in the appropriate place, but then decided she wouldn’t let her brother alone claim equal status with the priestess. She sat at her mother’s left hand, feeling awkward at breaking the rules. She stole a glance at her mother’s face, but saw no reaction to the unusual seating. Her eyes were riveted on the visitor.

“Selam aleikum, peace be upon you. We welcome you to Sunken Village.”

Amida translated into broken English, and there ensued an exchange of customary pleasantries interrupted by awkward pauses while Amida wrestled with the words. The servants brought tea in crystal glasses and pastries on plates, morsels as small as the end of Saba’s finger. Bilal served Amida, and Saba saw a fond look pass between them. She saw that Kubalou had noticed it too.

Saba listened to Amida mangle the translation. She considered offering to translate instead of her brother, but to do so would humiliate him. Hopefully, she thought, we’ll have no future dealings with this man anyway. She also found herself struggling to understand Kubalou’s English. She noticed that he left words out, didn’t play by the rules, parried when he should have thrust straight to the heart of the subject. She adapted quickly, and his meaning was soon clear: work directly for me and I’ll make you rich.

She could see the priestess had also understood, despite Amida’s mangled translations.

“How long would this agreement last?”

“It’s a bottomless cup.” Kubalou smiled agreeably. “We can drink from it forever and not let it run dry. And I understand from Amida that you can get hold of some particularly, what I’d call, interesting items.”

Amida looked frightened at this, and Saba noticed that he mistranslated Kubalou’s words as “You have access to many places.” Had Amida told him about the Proof of God? Impossible. Surely even Amida wouldn’t reveal the central secret of the Melisites. Saba suddenly felt chilled, remembering their conversation that afternoon. Did Kubalou have the stolen reliquary?

Kubalou regarded Amida with a bemused smile, as if aware of his translator’s counterfeit. He took a piece of pastry in his big fingers and washed it down with tea.

“Who would make the decisions about which objects are taken, from where, and how?” Balkis asked him. “What would be the role of the Habesh?”

“We’re only interested in certain items. We tell you where they are, your men get them, and we pay for them.” He spread his hands, palms up. “Very efficient.”

Saba noticed they were covered with yellow calluses. What kind of high-status dealer had hands like this? She also wondered about his too tight clothes.

“The Habesh work as a team.” The priestess sat stiffly upright. She hadn’t touched her tea. Saba felt proud of her mother and, as always, awed by how flawlessly she inhabited the institution of priestess.

Kubalou shrugged. “I don’t care how you work, as long as you deliver.”

“What is the chain of command?”

“Ma’am,” Kubalou explained pleasantly, “you can be the Queen of Sheba as long as we get what we ask for.”

Saba was furious and saw that her mother recognized the insult just from his tone of voice. If she were priestess, Saba decided, she would have ended the interview right then. Unlike her mother, Saba understood what had been said. Uncle Malik was right. Knowledge was power.

Balkis looked pointedly at Amida, but he avoided her eyes and didn’t translate. She turned back to Kubalou and waited, her face betraying nothing.

“If you want your son here to head up some kind of group,” he added, “that can be arranged. I mean, assuming he can get them to follow his orders.” He gave Amida a fatherly smile.

Amida looked uncomfortable and glanced at his mother, but the priestess showed no emotion.

“What I mean is, do we deal directly with you or does someone stand on the ladder of authority above the Habesh?” Balkis asked again, rephrasing her question.

“We have some men in Charshamba. They’ll be in touch and let you know what we need.”

Balkis thought for a moment, then said, “The Habesh work alone. We make our own decisions. This will only work if we deal directly with you. We can then tell you whether or not your assignment can be carried out.”

Kubalou shook his head in frustration. “Ma’am,” he said, “we can’t deal with a hundred separate gangs. Ask your son there.” He nodded at Amida. “He’s a smart kid. He’ll tell you success lies in organization.”

“You misunderstand us. The Habesh are not a gang.”

“Fine, you’re a minority. It doesn’t matter if you’re Hottentots. There’s got to be a chain of command. I told you we’d include your son. Or did you want in on this? I mean, that might be a little awkward seeing as how you’re, well, a female person.”

Saba noted that Kubalou’s frustration had begun to break through.

Her mother closed her eyes for a moment and suddenly looked weary. But when they opened again, Saba saw no weakness there, only a simmering anger. She wondered if her wrath was directed at Kubalou or Amida.

Saba felt suffocated by her own silence. She wanted to speak her mind, in English, to this arrogant foreigner. She felt sure that of all the people in the room, she could handle him best. Kubalou was a predator, she saw that clearly. She imagined him as a wild boar with saber-sharp tusks. She looked directly at the man for the first time. He appeared startled by her direct gaze, but immediately caught it, locking his eyes with hers. His thick lips curved into a slight smile.

The way to deal with a predator, Saba thought, was to treat it as prey, never taking your eyes from it. She had learned that from her mother.

Kubalou’s eyes hardened and he turned back to the priestess.

“Well, have you thought it over, ma’am?” he asked her impatiently. “What do you say?”

“We decline your offer.”

The lines around Amida’s mouth deepened. He looked angry.

“Christ. Women and business,” Kubalou muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Mother,” Amida said urgently, “this is our big chance. There aren’t any other jobs that pay as well as this and it’s not something we don’t already do. You said yourself we have to do something to stop the young people from leaving. What else have we got to offer them?”

“Heart,” Balkis said simply.

Kubalou asked Amida what had been said. When Amida told him, he snapped, “You’d be better off using your head.”

Amida hesitated, then translated it for his mother.

Balkis turned her icy gaze on the man who now stood before her. “Thank you for making us this generous offer, Kubalou Efendi. I regret the Habesh cannot join your organization. I bid you good night.”

“Oh, I ain’t Mister Kubalou, ma’am. Mister Kubalou couldn’t come, so he sent me instead. But I speak for him, don’t think that I don’t.”

Saba could see that her brother was as surprised as they were.

“Who are you?” Balkis demanded.

“No need to get all worked up, ma’am. I never told this boy otherwise. I assumed he knew I wasn’t Mister Kubalou. Never occurred to me he didn’t know, or I would’ve set him straight. But it makes no difference, as I told you. My word is his word. I’m what you might call his right-hand man. Name’s Ben.”

Amida staggered through the translation. Even Saba could make little sense of some of the words.

The man put his hat on. “Well, ma’am. I’m sorry to waste your time, and you mine. Good night to you.”

“Go in peace,” Saba heard her mother say.

Outraged as much at Amida as at the man she had thought was Kubalou, Saba rose to her feet. As the man passed her, he said in English in a low voice, “I hope we meet again some time, Miss Saba.”

He must have noticed that she had been following the conversation, Saba realized, and it chilled her that he knew her name. She wondered what the real Kubalou was like. What kind of predator were they dealing with?

“I doubt it,” she responded coolly in English, then turned and walked away.

Amida passed her and followed Mister Ben out. She saw from the surprise and alarm on Amida’s face that he had heard her speak English. What did he want with this counterfeit Kubalou?

She looked over at her mother and saw that she was slumped forward.

“Mama, Mama. What is it?” She ran to her side.

Balkis’s mouth was open, her breathing erratic. “Nothing, dear,” she gasped. “Get me my powder.”

Saba opened the glass-fronted case and took out a slim envelope. She unfolded it and poured the powder into a glass of water, then took it to her mother.

“Get Gudit,” Balkis said weakly.

But Gudit had already appeared, as she always did, seemingly out of nowhere. She helped Balkis to her bedroom and closed the door behind them.

Amida didn’t return.

Saba hovered around her mother’s door until Gudit emerged.

“She’ll be fine,” the midwife told her gruffly. “Stop hanging about like an unweaned calf.”

Saba slipped on her shoes and went outside into the cold air. She felt emotionally exhausted, but also exhilarated. She had felt a power in herself tonight that she hadn’t known she possessed. A fulcrum that had found its center.

Her ears became aware of a commotion in the village square. Pulling her charshaf close about her, she ran down the road. In the square, she saw Amida and the ginger-haired man, surrounded by some of the young men of the village, talking in excited voices. A dark stranger with long, gangly limbs stood beside the counterfeit Kubalou, looking bored. Saba saw him whisper something to Amida, then pull on Mister Ben’s sleeve.

She stopped outside the glow of the lamp and watched, feeling her anger rise again. There would be only one source of power in this community, she decided. There was more at stake than a simple village and a way of life. Amida chose to ignore that at his peril. Perhaps he no longer believed in the Proof of God, in the mission of the priestess and caretaker, the charge left them by Melisane and Michael, their founders. People with no imagination believed survival depended on money. She would see to it that Amida didn’t sell the kernel of their faith so cheaply.

She suddenly remembered her mother’s face before she had drunk the powder. It was gray with pain. Her mother, she realized, was sicker than she let on. As she walked back through the darkness, Saba was suddenly afraid. If her mother died, there would be no one but Uncle Malik, who might not be much help against her brother and Kubalou. She stopped under the poplar tree just inside the courtyard. There would be no one by her side, no one to support her. She had never felt more alone.

Her mind wandered to Kamil Pasha. Why had Uncle Malik spoken so often about Kamil if he hadn’t meant for them to be together? Leaning her cheek against the tree trunk, she began to cry.

Aware of someone standing behind her, she turned.

“Pardon me, Saba Hanoum. I apologize for intruding.” It was Constantine Courtidis. “Someone rode over and told me your mother was ill, so I came right away. Are you alright?” The concern in his voice irritated her because it made her want to cry even more, and she had to force herself not to lean forward onto his chest and allow him to minister to her as well as to her mother.

She took a deep breath and said, “Mama is in her bedroom, Constantine. Come in. Thank you for coming so late.”

“I’m the slave of your eyes, Saba Hanoum.”

She thought his eyes brimmed as if he too were about to cry. Her melancholy needed stronger medicine than this well-meaning but artless young man.

Saba led him into Balkis’s bedroom. Gudit always disappeared as soon as Courtidis was sent for. Balkis was asleep, her chest rising and falling evenly, but her face retained traces of anguish.

“What’s wrong with her?” Saba asked in a small voice.

Courtidis looked closely at his patient and felt her forehead. “She won’t let me examine her, so I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“In cases like this, I need to see, beg your pardon, all of my patient. There must be an infection somewhere.”

Saba looked puzzled. “I’m surprised. I don’t think she’s conservative about things like that. She’s always been very practical. Have you explained it to her?” But as she said this, Saba realized she too had never seen her mother naked. Gudit always helped her with her clothes and in the bath. Perhaps Balkis was more prudish than Saba thought.

“I’ll talk to her,” she promised. “Can it wait until she’s awake?”

Constantine regarded his patient and suggested, “Shall I stay, Saba Hanoum? I’d be happy to keep watch over her.”

Saba saw the worried frown on his face. Suddenly distressed, she asked, “Is it that serious?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean to imply she’s that ill.” He took another look at Balkis’s face and felt her forehead. “Nothing like that.”

“Then please get some sleep yourself, Constantine. Will you come by in the morning and check on her?”

“Of course,” he beamed. “Anything. Anything at all.”

Saba laid her hand on his arm. “Thank you.”

Courtidis was overcome with confusion. He bowed himself backward out of the room as if she were a sultana. When he was gone, Saba vowed not to think badly of him anymore. He was kind and generous. She wished Amida had some of his qualities.

Saba wondered uneasily why Amida was so disloyal to his family. Why such unnatural feelings in a son? Amida had been gone for a long time, nearly nine years, but that didn’t absolve him of the responsibility to act decently toward his mother. She remembered Amida as a quiet, shy boy. Their mother had doted on him, even more than on her daughter. Saba remembered the fruit ice, but without rancor. Had something happened at the monastery to change him?

They would have to learn to work together. If there was a key to understanding her brother, she was determined she would find it.