The Abyssinian Proof

22

By the time they brought Ali’s body to the Fatih Mosque and handed it over to the imam for washing; by the time Omar and Kamil had located his family in a shabby two-story wooden house up a steep, narrow lane; by the time Omar had delivered the news of Ali’s death to his elderly parents and to his shy, young wife, her face hidden behind a veil, in the sparsely furnished sitting room of the house they occupied together, it was nearly night. A scruffy boy with wide eyes and Ali’s ears pressed himself against his mother’s legs. She bent her head low over the baby in her arms and rocked back and forth. Ali’s mother went over and put an arm around her.

Kamil couldn’t help but look for the hole in the floor from which Ali claimed to have fished, but saw only a threadbare carpet.

He and Omar stepped out to find an orange sky blazing across the landscape as if the whole city were on fire. From this height, they could look down through the tight canyons of streets to the Golden Horn, which at this moment channeled not water but molten copper. Without a word, they both stopped and watched. Omar took out a cigarette but didn’t light it. Kamil thought about the looting and burning of Constantinople by the Turkish armies. He wondered whether someone, a Byzantine, had stood at this very spot and watched his city go up in flames.

“Want one?” Omar murmured. When Kamil nodded, Omar handed him the cigarette, took another out of a battered silver holder, and clamped it in the corner of his mouth.

When they’d finished smoking, they began to walk down the steep hill. The sky had quieted too, matching their mood. Shades of gray bled into feathers of pink, slowly smothering them. Kamil was aware of Omar walking beside him, but in the twilight he felt invisible, alone. Sounds seemed to come from a long distance away, or were muted, as if from another room. Children cried out and pots clanged from a kitchen window; a street vendor called out, “Melons like honey, melons.”

“Should we head over to Malik’s house or leave it for tomorrow?” Omar asked.

“Might as well go now.”

A pigeon had somehow managed to get into Malik’s house and fluttered about like a dispirited ghost as the two men systematically searched the rooms. They were in no hurry this time, so they moved slowly and deliberately, Kamil on one side, Omar on the other, lifting each object and examining it carefully before placing it on a cotton sheet that Kamil had spread on the floor. The pile grew: shattered crockery, worn leather slippers, a broken pair of spectacles, the detritus of a simple life.

“What does this Proof of God look like?”

“A box of some kind, probably lead, or individual pages of a very old document written in Aramaic.”

“And what does that look like?”

“Like odd Arabic.”

“Well, that narrows it down,” Omar huffed, picking up a book in Ottoman Turkish, written in Arabic script.

“Just look for anything you can’t read.” Kamil wished he could show Omar the letter-maybe Omar could see clues that escaped him. But Malik’s letter contained too much information that Kamil didn’t want anyone to know about. It was too new, too raw.

After he and Omar had finished with all the other rooms, they stood at the entrance to the study and eyed the sea of paper with trepidation.

Kamil bent over and picked up a fragment of old linen parchment, brown and crumbling at the edges. His eyes had been caught by the brilliant colors that surrounded the Greek text-vivid purple, green, and red, ornamented in gold leaf.

Omar looked over his shoulder. “Malik collected those. He said they were done by monks at the Kariye when it was a church.”

Kamil wondered what the monk who had copied this particular page had been thinking when he painstakingly painted the flowers and vines, the tiny distorted faces peering from behind highly elaborate letters. Did monks have a sense of humor? Were they bored by the texts and looking to entertain themselves? Why would their superiors allow such a thing?

According to Ismail Hodja, the Chora monastery had been built by Theodore Metochites, a Byzantine minister of state and diplomat who in his later years became a monk there. Had he devoted himself to studying these texts or did he while away his remaining days painting whimsical designs around their edges? Perhaps he had written his memoirs, as aging statesmen were wont to do in any age. If so, they hadn’t survived. Only his image on the wall of his church and on the reliquary had survived him.

Kamil picked up another illuminated page. They were beautiful.

“Well, the old rake,” Omar exclaimed, throwing on the table a depiction of a man penetrating another from behind in an explosion of colorful robes.

“This is Japanese,” Kamil commented, noting the eyes and elaborately knotted hair of the two men and their exquisitely detailed kimonos.

“Well, I guess the Japanese aren’t choosy.” Omar dropped another page on the pile, an ink sketch of a woman holding up her kimono and straddling a man. She was leaning forward and every detail of their joined organs was lovingly depicted. Discomfited by the memory of his dream, Kamil placed a page of Latin text on top of the Japanese drawing.

Omar looked at him with amusement. “I didn’t know you were so squeamish, Magistrate.”

“Let’s not forget what we’re doing here,” Kamil responded irritably.

Omar shrugged and lumbered back into the pile of papers on the study floor. He picked out the spines, shook each one, then laid it out flat on the table.

After an hour, the table was covered in papers and book spines, but the piles on the floor didn’t look much smaller.

Omar rubbed his back and stretched. “Guess I’m not going to smoke here,” he observed. “Back in a minute.” He tramped down the stairs.

Kamil heard the iron entrance doors clang. After a few moments, he heard voices, Omar’s deep bass and a rapid-fire response. He opened the window and looked out. The night air, tinged with coal fumes, filled his lungs and he had to wrestle a desire to cough. The yellowish haze was illuminated by the moon and seemed almost alive, twining itself around the ruined Byzantine arches and foundations.

He could make out the top of Omar’s head and broad shoulders by the door, and the top of a fez and long hair of a man facing him. The latter glanced up and Kamil saw it was Amida.

“Greetings, Magistrate,” he called out. “I saw a light and thought I’d investigate. Could have been thieves or the murderers, back for another go. I didn’t expect it to be you.”

Kamil went downstairs and set a lamp down just outside the door so it illuminated the nattily dressed Amida and a wary Omar, his eyes locked on the young man.

“What are you doing in this part of town?” Kamil asked, noticing Amida’s stambouline jacket and trousers. “It’s not somewhere you get dressed up to go promenading.”

Amida shrugged, “I had some business around here.”

“At this time of night?” Omar’s eyes flicked to a nearby Byzantine arch, then returned to Amida.

“I was concerned that someone was breaking in,” Amida said defensively. “Why am I suddenly under suspicion?” He pulled open his jacket. “There’s no crowbar in here. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Getting a haircut,” Omar said in a tone that warned Amida not to ask further.

“Fine.” Amida shrugged. “I’m glad to see our civil servants are burning the midnight oil. I’m going home.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the dark lane.

Kamil turned to go back inside, but Omar grabbed his arm and indicated he should wait. Omar sauntered down the lane in the direction Amida had disappeared and when he’d assured himself that he was gone, he walked back to the dark hulk of the Byzantine arch and smiled. “You can come out now, you rascal.”

Avi emerged, dressed in rags, his face and hands filthy. Omar smiled broadly and boomed, “A disguise worthy of Saladin!”

“Well done, Avi,” Kamil said. “Let’s go inside.”

“Have you eaten, son?” Omar asked as they trooped back up the stairs.

“Yes, Chief. Thank you.”

Kamil wasn’t so sure. The boy looked pinched. He decided to take him home and ask Karanfil to feed him. He and Omar could return the following day to sort through the rest of the papers.

But Avi was almost jumping with excitement. “Can I report now?”

“So, my son,” Omar asked obligingly, “where was our friend Amida this evening in his fancy suit?”

“He was in Beyoglu.” Avi turned to Kamil, his eyes alight. “He met with a Frank and they agreed to meet again tomorrow night at eight o’clock by the Galata Tower. I didn’t hear his name, but Amida is supposed to bring him something.”

“Well done, Avi.” Kamil said, patting his shoulder. He wondered if this Frank was the mysterious Kubalou. “Let’s get you home.”

“If you permit, the boy could stay with us,” Omar suggested shyly. “We’re close by and he’s tired.”

Kamil hesitated. He felt strangely disappointed and realized he had been looking forward to Avi’s company. “Well, Avi, it’s up to you. If you decide to stay with Omar, I’ll have some clothes sent to you there.”

Avi looked at the floor and said nothing, but Kamil had seen the flash of pleasure in his eyes at Omar’s invitation.

“He might as well stay with you, then,” Kamil said, smiling. “Set him on Amida’s trail again tomorrow morning.”

“In case the little pimp changes his plans.”

“Right. Let’s meet at the courthouse at seven.”

“Yes, bey,” Avi chimed in.

“Not you, Avi. You’ll have done your job by then. This might be dangerous.”

Avi looked disappointed.

“If we manage to arrest this Frank and if he’s the central player we think he is, then you’ll have done your empire and your sultan a great service. How many other young boys can say that?”

Omar motioned toward the door. “Shall we look some more?”

“None of those papers looked like they might be the Proof of God. I suspect they’re too delicate to be lying around in a heap. They must still be in that lead liner. If the thief had found it, he wouldn’t have turned the house upside down.”

“There’s no lead box in there. We were thorough.”

“I’ll search the Kariye tomorrow and I’ll also check the bazaar.”

“You won’t find anything in the bazaar.”

“Maybe the reliquary.”

“We know it’ll trace back to Amida.”

“It’s part of the puzzle. And you never know what else might fall into our hands.” He wished again that he could share Malik’s letter with Omar. He had seen nothing in it that indicated where the Proof was hidden. Had Saba? More than anything, he understood, Saba wanted the Proof. Perhaps she had already retrieved it from its hiding place.

“Searching for the Proof of God,” Omar chuckled. “You and a thousand theologians. Good luck, then.” He put his hand on the boy’s thin shoulder and steered him out the door. “You’ll make a fine policeman, son,” Kamil heard him say.