The Abyssinian Proof

29

At the Galata end of the Grande Rue de Pera, Kamil and Omar made a sharp left down a steep canyon of five-story buildings, stone and plaster interpretations of the traditional wooden houses. Candlelight shimmered in the windows. It was almost eight o’clock. They passed a rococo fountain in front of a small mosque. The buildings might be taller, but this place is still a thieves’ den, Kamil thought, looking around at the men sitting in the dark. The men’s eyes followed them suspiciously.

A street of steps spilled into the square before the Galata Tower. Built in 1348 by a Genoese colony of traders, the round stone colossus dwarfed even the tallest buildings in its vicinity. Enormous arches circled the top. Above them, a terrace wound beneath two small chambers stacked there like warming pots. The ground was littered with stones from the collapsed Genoese walls that had once connected to the tower.

“Gustave Flaubert wrote about the view from up there,” Kamil whispered when they reached the square.

“Well, that’s not very original,” Omar replied. “You can see up a swallow’s ass from there.” He looked meaningfully at Kamil. “Now that’s original.”

Kamil laughed quietly. “Where did Avi say they were going to meet?”

Omar pointed to a short stretch of wall, about ten feet high. At one end was a vaulted arch, a deep scallop scooped from the wall. “I came earlier to have a look. No back exit.”

He nudged Kamil. A figure was hurrying along the street toward the arch. There were few lights in the square and the night sky was obscured by clouds, so the man appeared and disappeared, stepping between shadows. He was tall and wore a coat, and his hat was pulled low around his face, which was obscured by a scarf. Another man appeared inside the arch and motioned to him.

“Amida,” Omar mouthed.

The sight of Amida made Kamil’s hand twitch in anticipation of landing a blow. Amida must believe that he and Elif were still locked behind that iron gate, where they would eventually die. Kamil had told Omar what had happened, although not about the translation of the Proof of God.

They crept closer. Kamil pointed to a low wall by a tree, where they would be close enough to hear without being seen.

Already there was a quarrel in progress.

“You said you had the Proof of God last time, but it was just a piece of junk. You’ll have to do better this time.”

The voice spoke Turkish, the language of the street, with a foreign accent. English, Kamil thought.

They couldn’t hear Amida’s reply.

“If you can’t deliver it, I’ll take my money back and we won’t be doing any more business. I don’t deal with amateurs.”

“I have it. I’ve got the Proof.” Amida’s voice rose with excitement.

“That’s what you say. Let’s see it.”

“No. I mean I know where it is.”

“You told me you’d have it tonight. I agreed to meet with you for that reason alone. Otherwise you deal with Ben and Remzi.”

“I can get it.”

“You insufferable idiot!” the man said in English. Then, in Turkish, “Why should I believe you?”

“Because you need me,” Amida sounded defiant. “I’m the only one who knows where it is.”

There was a lull. Kamil imagined them sizing each other up.

Finally, Amida said harshly, “I want more money up front.”

The man huffed into his scarf. Kamil realized he was laughing.

“You have your money.”

They couldn’t hear Amida’s reply.

“How much?” the man asked.

“Ten thousand gold liras.”

Kamil and Omar looked at each other in surprise. Omar pointed to his testicles and raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t fuck with me,” the man snarled in English.

“Other people want it,” Amida responded. “I could take it to them.”

“You have no idea what you’re getting into, do you? I’m the only one who can get it out, you fool.”

“Suit yourself,” Amida said and walked out of the alcove.

“Two thousand.”

Amida turned. “Five.”

“Four. I’ve already paid you a thousand for that worthless reliquary.”

“Where do you want me to bring it?”

“I’ll pick it up at your house.”

A note of wariness entered Amida’s voice. “I’ll bring it to you. It’s not a problem.”

“I know where you live. I’ll be there tomorrow after five. And if you don’t have it, my associate Ben will talk to your sister.” The man’s voice remained ominously pleasant, as if he were discussing the weather. “He’s taken a liking to her. Or maybe Remzi. He dislikes you for snitching on him.”

“My sister doesn’t know anything.” Amida sounded nervous.

“Of course not. Now get out of here.”

As Amida stepped into the street, Omar ran from the shadows to intercept him, but tripped over a stone in the dark and faltered, giving Amida enough time to turn down an alley and merge into the backstreets.

Omar cursed. “Son of a donkey, I know where you live,” he muttered as he ran back to the square.

Kamil approached the arch carefully. He wondered why the man hadn’t come out. He must have heard Omar. Maybe he was armed and lying in wait.

Kamil took out his knife and nodded to Omar, who moved quietly to the other side of the alcove, holding his revolver. When Kamil stepped into the opening, Omar moved in quickly behind him, pointing the gun straight at the man who should have been there. But the arch was empty.

“Well, go fuck a donkey,” Omar exclaimed, turning about in the enclosed space. “Where did he go?”

They lit a lamp and looked around. In the corner of the arch was a low opening in the wall just big enough for a man to squeeze through.

“How did I miss this?” Omar picked up a stone and looked at it in the light, then felt around among the other stones on the floor. “The son of a bitch. He stacked them so they looked like part of the wall. All he had to do was push them aside.” He threw the rock down in disgust. “This damned city is full of holes.”

Kamil closed his eyes and threw his head back. “I can’t believe they both got away.”

“My fault, pasha.”

Kamil shook his head. “There was something familiar about him.”

“English, right?”

“Sounded like it.”

“All English sound alike.”

“Bey, Chief.”

They whirled around at the voice. Avi stood outside the entrance.

“What are you doing here, you rascal?” Omar asked sternly. “Trying to be a hero twice in one day?”

Avi didn’t respond and Kamil saw that he was embarrassed. His pockets were bulging.

Kamil went over and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We didn’t have much luck, Avi. Let’s take you home. It’s been a long day for all of us.” He sounded dispirited.

Avi pulled an engraved silver money clip from his pocket that was bulging with British banknotes, and handed it to Kamil.

“What…?”

Omar said nothing, but looked at Avi with a mixture of admiration and wonder.

Avi reached into his other pocket and fished out a key and a cigar.

Kamil turned the cigar over in his hand. It had a yellow and red label with a picture of a red rose and the word Cuba on the band.

“Where did you get these?” But Kamil already knew the answer. Cuban cigars, as Magnus Owen had pointed out to him, were rare. He found himself profoundly saddened by the realization.

“I took them from the man’s pocket when he got stuck in the wall.” Avi stood with his head bowed.

Omar burst out laughing. “You pickpocketed him while he was stuck in the wall? Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.” He stopped laughing when he noticed Avi was crying. “No, no, my son,” he said gently, putting his arm around Avi. “I meant that in a good way. I blundered and you saved the day. Again.” He punched him lightly on the arm. “So, how many times are you going to be a hero today? Are you trying to show us up?”

“Avi,” Kamil chimed in. “This is very helpful. I think I know who the man is, thanks to you.”

“Who?” Omar asked curiously.

“First I want to be sure. I need to check on something, but I’ll let you know. Why don’t the two of you go home and I’ll see you tomorrow. You can take the day off, Avi.” He smiled at the boy, then frowned when he noticed his scraped hands. Some of the scabs had begun to bleed. “Where are your bandages?”

“I took them off so I could work better.”

Kamil remembered the desperate, skinny boy who had accosted him on the street. He had wondered how Avi had survived. Now he knew or at least could guess. He would never truly be able to grasp that kind of life. He thought about the young refugee woman on the street with her baby.

Kamil watched Omar and Avi turn the corner, the police chief’s big hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, then set off in search of a carriage.