The Abyssinian Proof

27

Omar turned the pin over in his hand. “This is Malik’s. If Amida had it, then he must have taken it from Malik the night he died. What a pimp. First he steals from his own uncle, then he kills him.”

They sat under the scarlet leaves of the grape arbor in Omar’s garden, eating lunch that Mimoza had left for them before going to take some food to a sick neighbor.

“Why would he kill Malik? I mean, I can understand his motive for stealing the reliquary. Then when he or his buyer saw it was empty, it makes sense he’d go back for the contents. But kill his uncle?” He pushed his plate away. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I agree. But here’s the evidence that he was there that night.” Omar held out the pin. “His associates from Charshamba are more likely. But why would they kill the old man? For his books?” He snorted in derision. “There was nothing in it for them. Those thugs won’t move unless they’re paid. There’s something that we’re missing. Well, we’ll pick him up tonight and then we can ask him, together with that Frankish bastard he’s dealing with.”

“Avi’s out following him again? You think the boy will be alright?”

“He’s a talented little kid. Heart like a lion. The wife has taken quite a liking to him.” He frowned. “Are you going over to the Kariye to look for this Proof thing?”

Kamil nodded. He should have been pleased at finding Malik’s killer, but the whole thing felt wrong. He couldn’t picture Amida murdering Malik or going along with others torturing him. Yet he had been there that night.

Omar put his spoon down and leaned back, replete. “I have some business to see to this afternoon, a burglary. The house right behind the police station, if you can imagine. Brazen bastards. They won’t be smirking anymore when I’m done with them.”

He lit a cigarette and offered one to Kamil, who declined.

“The sooner I get over to the mosque, the more light I’ll have.” Kamil looked up at the ashen sky. “It gets dark so early now.”

“October is the gateway to hell, we used to say in the army.”

“Why is that?”

“It starts to get cold and dark, and before you know it, you’re frozen in a ditch hoping someone will pee on your hands to thaw them.”

Seeing that Omar looked serious, Kamil choked back a laugh. What did he know about the brutalities and absurdities of war?

Omar accompanied him to the gate. “If you need me, send a message to the station. You know how to get to the Kariye from here?”

Kamil smiled and pointed up the hill where the plump domes of a little mosque were visible above the roof lines. “Not far.”

“It’s farther than it looks. Sure you don’t want to borrow my horse?”

“I need to stretch my legs. If I keep going uphill, I’ll get there eventually.”

“Lots of hills around here,” Omar warned. “But ask anyone and they’ll point you in the wrong direction.” He chuckled.

As soon as Kamil entered the narrow lanes, the mosque disappeared, as did the hill, and he became lost in the chaotic, ruin-choked streets. Every shopkeeper gave him different directions, but eventually he caught sight of the domes again and oriented himself. Before long, he rounded a fountain and entered the little square before the mosque. The door of the mosque was locked, so he knocked at the imam’s house.

“He’s not here,” a man shouted helpfully from a window of the neighboring house.

“Where can I find him?”

The man shrugged and ducked back inside.

Kamil walked through the square under the gaze of a group of men who were playing backgammon in the shade of a plane tree. Their calls and the slapping of wooden pieces on the board punctuated the quiet afternoon. “Shesh-besh!” “Penj-u se.” “Du-shesh!”

At the back of the mosque he found Malik’s classroom. The door was shut but unlocked. Inside, Kamil stood for a moment, surveying the room. It hadn’t been touched since he was last here with Malik. At that moment, Kamil felt the loss of his friend more deeply than before, when his emotions had been flayed by anger. Now he registered every nuance of the man who was gone, his intelligence and gentleness, his devotion to his community, his family, even to a poor street boy like Courtidis. Kamil wished he could pray for Malik’s soul to whatever God was listening. He tried, but his mind wouldn’t hold still. Look for his killer, he told himself. That’s all you can do.

Kamil opened the cabinet. The key to the mosque lay on the top shelf. He was surprised that the imam still left it here, when it was likely that Malik’s murderer also knew its location.

Lips pressed in a thin line, Kamil picked up the heavy iron key and a lamp and made his way around the back, through the overgrown garden, to the front door. The men across the square watched him unlock the door and enter, but didn’t interrupt their game.

Kamil locked the door behind him and lit the lamp.

Elif was sweating under her hat but didn’t dare take it off. Some children had gathered behind her, chattering and pointing at her easel. Two men approached and greeted her. She answered in French. Better that they think her a Frankish man, thin, blond, odd like all Franks, and untouchable. But she was getting nervous and this made it hard to concentrate on her drawing.

She had captured the four domes of the cheerful little mosque, its red-tiled roof, and the fat tower of its minaret with a narrow balcony around the top from which the imam called the faithful to prayer. The minaret was topped by an unusual ornament shaped like a drop of water splashing onto its roof. Behind the mosque, the city fell away in a tangle of red roofs and trees. She had traced the outlines quickly in pencil, then charcoal, and finally pastels, one study after another, allowing the shapes and colors to dominate her senses until she felt as though the landscape were painting itself.

The carriage was parked in the lane below, out of sight from her perch on the hillside. She had told the driver he could have lunch and drink tea at one of the cafés in the square, but he said he preferred to wait. She presumed he didn’t want to have to answer the locals’ questions. But there was no escaping them, she thought, glancing with exasperation at her growing audience. She would have to leave soon.

Just then, she saw someone come around the mosque from the back and walk toward the door. He turned and for a brief moment regarded the square. She recognized Kamil. Heart racing, she packed up her things and began to run down the hill.

Kamil pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He glanced down the list, written in Elif’s sprawling script:

Mary

Mother of the Word

Message

Container of the Uncontainable

Slain children

Samaritan

Dwelling place

Matthew 2:16

He raised the lamp and, as before, stood transfixed under the lush garden of figures and scenes in gold and brilliant color that crowded around him. He found the image of Theodore Metochites and stood before him for a few moments, wondering what kind of man he had been. He knew much more about him now. He wondered what it had been like for Malik to come face to face every day with his ancestor. Of all the caretakers before him, only Malik had worked out the location of the Proof of God. He needed Malik’s help now to find it again. The thought resurfaced that perhaps Saba had already worked out where it was and had taken it. Or was she waiting for Kamil to find it and bring it to her? She had had Malik’s letter only for the briefest time and had been distraught when she had given it to Kamil to prove the truth of her mother’s story. No, he didn’t think she had found the Proof.

He bade farewell to Theodore and returned to the outer hall. He planned to begin in the south bay and work his way systematically through all the mosaic panels. The figures were so lifelike, they appeared to move. Nonsense, of course, but he admired the workmanship that made such an illusion possible. He thought he could feel Malik’s presence, and wished he could ask him to explain the images. Kamil realized he had little idea about Christian stories and iconography. Well, he would have to look for a word, a message, a container, and, improbably, slain children.

Just then, he heard a booming noise. Someone was knocking on the door. Annoyed at being interrupted, Kamil went to the door and pulled it open.

A slight figure in a broad hat slipped inside with a gaggle of children close behind. “Close it.”

“Elif!” he exclaimed. “How did you get here?” He tried to sound pleased.

Elif noted his tone and looked puzzled. “You said you’d be here this afternoon, so I waited for you. I was up on the hill sketching the mosque. Weren’t we planning to decipher the mosaics today?”

“Yes, of course.” Obviously he hadn’t made it clear he wanted to do this alone.

She took a few steps forward into the corridor and looked around. “Oh” was all she could say in amazement. She took her hat off and set her box of drawing materials on a ledge.

Kamil locked the door again. He found a second lamp, lit it and gave it to Elif. “There are windows, but the corridors with the mosaics are dark. This is the outer narthex.” It was as if he could hear Malik’s voice reciting in his ear. “And that’s the inner narthex.” He pointed at the inner corridor that gave onto the nave.

“These are wonderful,” she exclaimed breathlessly, walking up and down, shining the lamp on the walls.

“What do you know about Christian saints?”

She tore her eyes away from the mosaics. “Quite a bit. My father-in-law was a devout Christian. He took my son to church and read him stories about the lives of the saints.”

He handed her the list of terms.

She scanned it, then looked around and said, “Mary is everywhere. The whole church seems to be dedicated to her.” She pointed to the next term. “Mother of the Word. That’s Mary too. Maybe it means the words are in the church dedicated to her. Same with the next term, Message. But I don’t understand Container of the Uncontainable.”

What had Malik shown him? Kamil tried to remember. They had walked through the inner and outer corridors, but Kamil hadn’t paid much attention to the location of the mosaics Malik had spoken about. He remembered something about a clay container, an amphora, but he didn’t see it.

“Let’s start over here and work our way through,” he suggested, leading Elif to the north end of the corridor behind the door.

They stood in the first bay surrounded by panels and inscriptions.

“I wish I could read Greek.” She squinted at the panels. “I think I recognize some of these. This looks like the story of Jesus’s birth. That bearded man might be Joseph, Jesus’s father. There’s Mary pregnant.”

They followed the panels along the corridor. “Here’s a familiar scene.” She pointed.

“The birth of Jesus,” Kamil said, regarding the shepherds and, in the next panel, three richly clothed men, “and the wise men from the east.”

Elif pointed up at the vaulted domes, “We’re not looking at the pictures in the domes. Look. There’s John the Baptist. There’s so much here. If we look at everything, we’ll never finish.”

Kamil had no answer. They had reached the middle of the outer narthex by the front door.

Elif strained her head backward, exposing the arch of her throat. The mosaics in the vault were badly damaged, but a dazzling image of Christ guarded the entrance to the inner narthex.

“Come with me.” Kamil took her hand. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

He drew her through the opening and they stopped beneath the lunette over the entrance to the marbled nave.

“This is Theodore Metochites.”

“What an extraordinary hat.”

Kamil told her what he could remember of the man.

“So he’s responsible for all of this magnificent art!” she exclaimed. “Bravo. That explains the hat too. An artist.”

Kamil thought she looked happy-vital and less vulnerable. He wondered why that should disappoint him. Was it that she needed him less?

Since they were in the inner narthex, they continued along that corridor, Elif reading stories into the images wherever she could. She was puzzled by some of the panels until she exclaimed, “It’s the life of Mary. Look, there she’s born and there she’s with her parents. An angel is feeding her.” She stopped before a panel that showed a rod sprouting jewel-like leaves.

“I know this story. I’ve always found it a bit risqué.”

“Risqué? In a church?”

“When it was time for Mary to be married, the high priest called all the widowers together and placed their rods on the altar.”

Kamil began to laugh.

“Then he prayed for a sign. Joseph’s rod began to sprout green leaves, so the priest gave Mary to him.”

“Well,” Kamil said. “I won’t repeat that story to the devout gentlemen who pray here every Friday.”

They smiled at each other in the gloom. Kamil looked through the door into the nave and noticed the light failing through the windows. Elif followed his glance and found herself drawn into the marble-paneled room.

“Another time,” Kamil warned her. “We need to hurry. The imam will be here before long for the evening call to prayer. Let’s do this systematically. We’re looking for very particular images.”

They went back to the outer corridor and began at the door, moving south. They passed an enormous mosaic of Mary and Jesus, whose eyes seemed to follow them. Kamil looked for the image of the clay urn that Malik had shown him. Somehow he thought it was important, perhaps as the Container on their list, but he couldn’t see it. They were passing the panels quickly now, scanning them and moving on. He could see the stairway to the minaret. They must be near the spot where Malik died.

Suddenly he saw Elif in the final bay before the minaret, standing stiffly and looking up at something, her face aghast. He hurried to her side and followed her line of sight. It was an image of King Herod on a throne instructing his soldiers. To his left, a soldier held a baby aloft by its feet and thrust a knife through it. Behind him a black portal like a tomb opened into the rock. The baby’s mother sat bereft on the ground, hands aloft, her head turned away in despair.

“The slain children,” Kamil exclaimed.

“The massacre of the innocents,” she said softly, her eyes riveted to the scene.

Kamil put his hands on her shoulders and turned her away. “We’re getting close.” He looked around. “Do you see a Samaritan or a container of some kind?”

They raised their lamps and scanned the wall panels and domes. In the northwest corner of the bay was a damaged mosaic of Christ speaking with a woman at a well.

Elif looked at the image for a few moments, then said, “I’ve always assumed the story of the Good Samaritan was about a man, but I remember another story about Christ meeting a Samaritan woman at a well. She told him she had many husbands. That’s why I remember it. I noticed that the images in here all seem balanced. Whenever there’s a man, there’s also a woman.”

“So if there’s a male Samaritan, there would be a female Samaritan?”

“I’m just guessing.”

“In the interest of balance, did the male Samaritan have many wives?”

“Don’t be daft.”

Kamil squinted at the mosaic. There was no image of a container, clay or otherwise.

Below the dome, the walls bowed inward and parts were whitewashed. He remembered Malik telling him that the walls here had to be very thick to bear the weight of the church tower and now the minaret.

“Find a chair or a ladder,” he called out suddenly.

They hurried through the rooms until Kamil came back dragging a ladder he had found in a storeroom. It was spattered with white paint. He leaned it against the wall under the Samaritan woman and climbed until he came to the corner of the wall where it began bow inward. “Hold up the lamp.”

He felt along the wall, then rapped with his knuckles until he found what he was looking for. He pulled his knife from his boot and began to chip away at the plaster. It was fresh, so it came off easily. There was a pounding at the door. Elif looked around nervously.

He ignored the noise and concentrated on his task. Beneath the plaster, he exposed a hollow clay ring. Weepholes, he remembered they were called. Clay jars embedded in the walls to wick off moisture. The pounding became louder and he could hear the voices of several men. He reached into the hole but felt only debris. Something scurried over his hand. He thrust it in deeper.

“Hurry,” Elif whispered, clutching the base of the ladder.

He was surprised by the depth of the jar. Finally, he felt something smooth and cold beneath his fingertips. Water had beaded on it and it was slippery and heavy. He pulled it out slowly. It was a slim lead box two hands’ breadth long. He thrust it inside his jacket, slipped the knife back into his boot, and with one leap was on the floor. He pushed the ladder through the neighboring bay into the storage room. Elif put out the lamps and slapped her hat on her head. She took up her painting box and they stood, panting, before the door. From the other side, they could hear raised voices.

“Well, there’s no one in there now. I did not lose the key. Of course I know where it’s kept. Do you think I’m senile?”

Kamil whispered, “Wait.”

After a few moments, the voices stopped. Kamil imagined the imam walking behind the mosque to the classroom and rummaging through the cabinet, looking for the key. The men in the square would accompany him to prolong the excitement of their imam being locked out of his own mosque.

Kamil turned the key, pushed open the door, and peered out. As he had suspected, the square was empty, the backgammon boards abandoned. He locked the door behind them and dropped the key in the weeds beside the entrance where someone could easily find it. Keeping to the edge of the square, they slipped behind the fountain and down a narrow side street.

A man fell in step behind them.

“The carriage is behind the hill,” Elif said, her voice shaking. Her paint box was clutched under her arm.

Kamil’s heart was beating hard. He felt exhilarated and lengthened his stride up the steep hill. He had the Proof of God in his jacket. He felt it move against his chest like a second heart.

He stopped and turned around. “Come, let me carry that box.” Elif was gone.

Kamil stopped short. “Elif? Elif?”

He retraced his steps to the fountain and looked around the corner into the square. The men had returned to their backgammon boards. The imam stood by the door looking puzzled. A boy tugged at the imam’s sleeve, pointing down at the ground.

Kamil turned and surveyed the lane. The houses barely held together. They listed into the street and there were large gaps in the walls where boards had rotted away. Rusty stovepipes twisted from their sides and roofs. Clean sheets flapped from a line between facing windows, looking as though their weight alone could pull the houses in on themselves. All the doors were shut tight. No women sat knitting on the stoops here. The only sign of life was a scarred tomcat lying in a patch of sun.

The ground was still damp from the night’s rain and Kamil made out what he thought were Elif’s footprints, those of a very small man’s shoes. He followed them. They disappeared suddenly, as if she had been plucked from the ground. Larger footprints overlaid hers, then led in the direction of the brick structure.

Kamil thought it might be an ayazma, a small chapel the Byzantines built around a sacred spring. There were many in this part of the city, and some were still in use. Kamil ducked inside. Areas of painted plaster were visible inside its partially collapsed brick dome. He could make out images of an angel and the bearded head of a man, his eyes scratched out, perhaps by Muslims who took the injunction against representing the human form seriously, or more likely by bored local youths eager to prove their manhood through vandalism. Down several stairs, he came to a stone well.

He touched a brown substance on one of the stones. Fresh mud. Kamil peered into the well. It looked deep. Something was caught on a protrusion part of the way down. He hung precariously over the edge, reached down and pulled out Elif’s hat.

The image of Elif falling into the black pit below gave his actions the urgency of desperation. He flung his feet over the edge and lowered himself slowly, propping himself up with his arms, feeling with his feet. The stones were uneven and some had fallen in, so he found ready platforms. When he felt stable ground beneath both feet, he tested it, then crouched down to see, bracing himself against the stones.

He stood on a small ledge. Beneath him, he could sense rather than see the well open up. If someone had snatched Elif, they would surely have had a reason and wouldn’t have simply flung her down the well. He remembered that ayazmas were often connected to underground cisterns.

It was dark in the well, so he squatted on the ledge and felt around with his hands. Before long, he discovered an opening just wide enough to crawl through.

He felt his way along with his hands. On the other side of the entrance, a thin object rolled under his palm. He picked it up. One end was soft. A paintbrush, still damp. He rejoiced. Elif was alive and she was leaving a trail for him to follow.

After a while, the tunnel became higher, so he could walk upright. Fresh air circulated from somewhere, but it was pitch black. Kamil could see nothing at all, not even his hand before his eyes. His pupils created sparks and tiny spots of light that he knew weren’t really there. He took deep breaths to still the panic rising in him. Keeping one hand on the damp stone wall, he slid his feet forward, testing for holes in the floor. The tunnel seemed to be intact. It led downward. He flinched as a rat fell onto his shoulder, then leapt off.

When he bumped into a sharp protrusion, scraping his nose, he stopped and reached both hands ahead of him. They met a wedge of stone directly in front of his face. He listened for a few moments, the blackness pressing in on his eyes like weights, but heard only a distant drip of water and the scurrying of rats. Small sounds seemed to carry from great distances.

Guiding himself with his hands, he knelt and began to systematically test the shape of the walls. The tunnel divided here, he decided. He crawled in one direction for a few moments to gain a sense of things, then backed up and tried the other tunnel.

A sharp object pressed into his knee. He picked it up and recognized from its shape the small wood-handled paint spatula he had seen in Elif’s kit. He was relieved that Elif had kept her head, although it didn’t surprise him. He felt around, but there was nothing else. He stood and, hands stretched before him, strode as rapidly as he could through the darkness into the tunnel she had marked. He guessed that whoever had taken Elif knew this tunnel and had used it before, so he doubted there were any collapsed areas.

There was a glow ahead, so faint that Kamil thought his eyes had invented it. As he approached, he heard voices. They were distorted, so he couldn’t understand what they were saying, but he recognized Elif’s voice. The other was a man’s. Kamil slipped the knife from his boot.

He crept closer, keeping his eyes on the light, knife balanced lightly in his hand. His boots made no sound.

Something caught at his jacket. He swung around, knife raised, alert to the slightest motion. He heard scurrying, then a faint whisper.

“It’s me. Avi.”

He reached down and found the boy’s close-cropped head. He leaned close to Avi’s ear and whispered, “Don’t speak. There’s an echo.”

If Avi was here, Kamil guessed the man ahead must be Amida. But what did he want with Elif? How could he even know her? He had misjudged the young man, Kamil thought with exasperation. First Malik’s pin and now this.

As he approached, the light gained brightness. He could see Avi beside him now and gestured that the boy should stay back. Avi pressed himself against a wall.

Kamil could hear Elif and Amida more clearly. They were arguing.

“What do you want with this box? It contains drawings and my pens,” Elif said in a hard voice. Kamil realized that she was still keeping up her guise of being a man.

“Of course. And you’re Rembrandt.”

“Ah, an art lover,” she responded lightly. “Here. See for yourself. You dragged me into this hole for nothing.”

Kamil heard a crash, the sound of a wooden box splintering. He peered around the corner. Elif and Amida faced each other in a room lit by an oil lamp on the ground by Amida’s feet.

“Where is it?” Amida asked. He looked enormous next to Elif.

Kamil pulled his head back. He didn’t want to be seen until he had decided on a course of action. Elif seemed to be in no immediate danger and she didn’t appear frightened. If he listened for a few moments, he might get more information.

“Where is what?” Elif asked.

“Don’t play dumb. I know you have it. I saw you duck out of the mosque and drop the key. You think I’m as dumb as that imam? I know you’ve found it. It was written on your faces.”

“What is it you think we found?”

Amida let out an expletive. “You have the Proof of God. Kamil told me he knew where it was.”

“Well, I don’t have it, as you can see.”

“If you don’t, then he has it.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I plan to. I’m sure he’s wandering the streets right now looking for his friend. What are you, English?”

“French.”

He heard the sounds of a struggle.

“Look at that. You’re a woman.” Amida laughed. “What a scoundrel that Kamil is. And he makes himself out to be a holy man. I’m sure he’ll trade the Proof for you. You do make a good boy,” he added admiringly.

Kamil put his head around the corner again. He saw Elif kneeling before Amida, who had grasped the back of her neck with one hand. In the other, he held a knife. Kamil reckoned the distance and decided Amida would be able to use the knife before Kamil could reach him. He edged forward and saw Amida let go of Elif and fumble at his trousers. Then, Elif, still on her knees, jabbed something into Amida’s groin.

“You bitch,” he howled and raised his arm to strike her. The knife glinted in his hand.

Kamil leapt into the chamber and grabbed Amida’s arm. They struggled, but Kamil managed to pull back Amida’s thumb so hard he had to release his knife. Elif immediately picked it up. Kamil noticed she brandished it blade-down, like a street fighter. Her face was grim, somehow inhuman, and Kamil half expected her to thrust the knife into Amida’s chest while he held him. Instead, she stepped back into the shadows.

Amida bellowed and twisted in Kamil’s arms. Kamil looked down and saw that the front of Amida’s trousers was stained with blood. He let go of one of the young man’s arms. Amida reached down and plucked out of his crotch a small knife of the kind used for sharpening pencils. Before Kamil could grab his arm again, Amida had thrust the pencil knife into Kamil’s chest. Kamil shouted and let go.

Elif stood frozen against the wall, Amida’s large knife still poised in her hand.

Amida grabbed the lamp and ran into the tunnel, with Kamil following right behind.

There was a crash and the light went out. Kamil heard scuffling, then someone running. There was a loud rattle, which sounded like heavy chains, and a crash of metal against stone.

“Elif, Avi,” Kamil called out into the darkness.

“I’m sorry, bey.” Avi was crying. “I tried to stop him. I didn’t think about the lamp.”

“Come over here, Avi. Follow my voice.”

“I’m here.” It was Elif’s voice, her hand on his arm. “Avi? Come, hold my hand.”

Kamil bent and felt around for the lamp, but couldn’t get it to light. The fumes of spilled oil filled the air.

“We can find our way out,” Kamil said more calmly than he felt. He wondered what the noise had been. Perhaps a trap. His hand found the place over his heart where Amida had stabbed him. There was a hole in the fabric of his jacket, through which he could feel a deep nick in the lead case that had been in his jacket pocket. “Let’s hold on to each other.”

He stepped forward carefully, Avi’s hand tugging at his jacket, Elif to the rear. After a while, Kamil felt a difference in the direction of the air and thought they must be approaching the fork in the tunnel. Abruptly, he walked into a set of iron bars. He ran his hands along them. They felt as thick as a child’s wrist and seemed to reach from floor to ceiling.

“What is it?” Elif whispered.

“The bastard has shut us in. It’s a gate. Avi, can you squeeze through?”

Avi pushed through his leg and arm, but his head and chest wouldn’t fit.

“If we can’t go forward, we go back,” Kamil announced.

“That room had a lot of shadowy corners,” Elif said. “I was looking for escape routes, but it was too dark to see properly.” Kamil admired her calm. He wondered, though, about the glimpse of violence he had seen earlier, a darkness he could only guess at.

They turned and felt their way along the wall until they encountered an opening. The smell of oil was stronger here. They entered the room where Amida had held Elif. She put her hands flat against the wall.

“We can start here and work our way around.”

“There’s a slight breeze. Maybe it’s coming from above ground. Let me see if I can trace it. Stay where you are.” Kamil put his hands out in front of him and took five steps directly into the darkness. He stood for a few moments, turning his face slightly, trying to catch a current of moving air, but he was sweating and could discern nothing. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out the lead case, and stuck it into the waistband of his trousers. Then he took off his jacket and shirt, placed them on the ground by his feet and stood again quietly, eyes closed, this time letting his body listen to the atmosphere. The air felt good against his naked chest. He turned slowly in a circle. Like a dervish, he thought, communing with the divine harmony.

It was barely noticeable, a fraction of a change in temperature against his skin, but the air was slightly cooler, the force of it infinitesimally stronger from one direction. He walked slowly toward the flow of air until it was right above him.

“It’s over here. Come toward my voice.”

“Keep talking,” Elif said from somewhere to his right.

Kamil began to sing an Italian aria he had heard performed several times in a small establishment in Galata. He sang it badly and loudly.

By the time Elif and Avi arrived beside him, they were laughing softly.

Elif’s fingers settled on Kamil’s chest, grazing his nipple. Startled, Kamil stepped back and the hand withdrew.

“I’m so sorry,” Elif said in a thick voice, her breath fluttering on his chest.

“Don’t be.”

He felt her step away from him, but imagined he could still hear her breathing.

“You’re right,” she said, her voice coming from a few steps away. “The air does seem to move more here. Where is it coming from?”

“I’ll look,” Avi offered.

They could hear him scrabbling about, his feet bumping up against stone, scraping noises, then clambering. A falling brick landed with a soft chalky explosion.

“Be careful,” Kamil called out.

Suddenly, there was a shower of bricks. They jumped back and both called out Avi’s name.

“I’m up here. I’m in a chimney, I think.”

Most likely it was an air shaft. “How did you get up there?”

“There’s a pile of bricks on the ground. They must have fallen out of the chimney. I was following the air and it came from up here somewhere, so I climbed up the bricks.”

“Does the chimney have stairs?” Elif asked, still puzzled.

“No, but there are a lot of gaps on one side where the bricks have fallen out. You can put your feet in them and hold on.”

“How wide is it?” Kamil asked, already visualizing their escape. “Can we fit through?”

“Sure, bey. Want me to climb up first and see where it goes?”

“Yes, but be careful.”

They listened as the scuffing and tapping sounds of his climb became fainter, then disappeared altogether. They settled themselves on the floor to wait. Kamil wished he had his shirt and jacket, but didn’t want to leave Elif alone while he searched for them.

“Do you have the Proof of God?” she asked.

“Right here.” He pulled it from his waistband and patted it with his fingers like a dull, flat drum.

“I wonder who built this tunnel. And imagine that iron gate!” she exclaimed. “They must have had a lot of enemies to go to all that trouble.”

After a few minutes, Kamil called Avi’s name, but received no response. “I hope that’s good news.” Kamil was more anxious than he let on.

He searched the darkness for Elif’s hand. He was chilled to the bone. Her hand was cold too and he rubbed it between his.

After a while, they heard scratching noises; Avi was coming back. They jumped to their feet.

“It goes outside.” Avi’s voice announced happily. “There’s a small tunnel that crosses the chimney halfway up. We can crawl through there.”

“Wonderful,” Kamil exclaimed. “Well done.”

Kamil consulted with Elif. “I’m going to lift Elif up, Avi,” he called. “Can you guide her so she has something to hold on to?”

“Sure, bey. Don’t worry, Elif Hanoum. Nothing will happen to you.”

“I feel safe in your hands, Avi.”

Kamil cleared a space to stand in the middle of the pile of bricks. He wrapped his arms around Elif’s legs and lifted her.

“Stop,” she called out. “I have to find the opening first or you’ll break my neck.” She was as light as a child.

She felt around the ceiling with her hands. “Avi, say something so I can find you.”

Avi began to sing a lullaby. “Dandini dandini dastana. The cows are loose in the vegetable garden.”

“To the right,” she directed Kamil. “Back a little.”

Kamil pushed bricks aside with his feet and moved sideways.

Avi kept singing. “O gardener, drive them away, so they don’t eat the cabbage.”

“Here it is. I found it.” Kamil could hear the tears in her voice. “Lift me up now.”

He put his hand under her foot and hoisted her above his head. She bounced twice in his hands, then was gone. He could hear her breath laboring as she pulled herself up through the shaft.

“I’m in.” Her voice sounded distant. “How will you get up? I can’t reach down that far.”

Kamil had already started stacking bricks. “I’m making a platform.” The haphazard edifice Avi had clambered up had collapsed, and Kamil had kicked most of the remaining bricks out of the way to make room while he hoisted Elif into the shaft. The opening was little more than an arm’s length above his head, but he needed a stable base to reach it. He marveled at Avi’s agility. The boy must have thought himself up into the shaft.

As Kamil fumbled around the floor for more bricks, he sang a few lines of the operetta, but soon stopped. Building in the dark required all his concentration. Before long, he was out of bricks. When he tried to climb the platform, the loose bricks shifted beneath his weight and came apart. He stood for a moment, sweat cooling on his bare chest, wondering how to stabilize the platform. Then he took off his shoes, socks, and trousers, and tucked the Proof of God into the front of his linen drawers. He wrapped the trouser legs tightly around the pile of bricks, but there wasn’t enough material to tie the truss in place. Frustrated, he tried again to climb, barefoot this time, his toes seeking crevices among the bricks, but then one tilted under his weight and Kamil toppled backward. He cursed as he landed awkwardly, twisting his ankle.

He had a sudden idea. “Elif, throw me your sash.”

After a few moments, a length of soft material brushed his face. He pulled it down and measured it with his hands. As he had hoped, it was a single piece of silk, more than long enough. When he had secured the sides of the platform with the sash, he climbed up and, head bowed beneath the ceiling, scraped his fingers across it until he found the opening. He put his head inside and stood up straight. The shaft ended just below his shoulders.

He slid his fingers over the walls of the shaft until they encountered some broken brickwork, hooked his fingers into the gaps, then hoisted himself up. He swung his legs up, wedging them against the opposite wall. Back braced against one side, feet against the other, he worked his way up the shaft crabwise. He was sweating profusely and his fingers started to slip. He tried not to think about falling.

Elif’s hands touched his shoulders. “Almost there. Here’s the ledge. Can you follow my hand?”

Kamil pulled himself onto the ledge. He lay there for a moment, waiting for the spasms in his muscles to lessen. The skin on his back was shredded and throbbed with pain. He sat up.

“Watch your head,” Elif warned. “It’s high enough to walk, but only if you crouch.”

In the cramped space, he felt Elif’s hand brush against his naked leg and then the Proof of God. He heard her small cry of surprise, followed by soft laughter.

“What’s so funny, Elif Hanoum?” Avi’s voice came from the darkness ahead.

“You’ll see later, Avi. Why don’t you show us the way out?”