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.
6
The threatened rain didn’t materialize, and Sunken Village basked in the unexpected warmth of a late autumn afternoon. The shadows of the cistern wall crept into the orchards and gardens, but hadn’t yet reached the village square. After the ritual in the prayer house, the Habesh men had gone to the Kariye Mosque for afternoon prayer. Two prayers are better than one, Balkis always said when explaining this tradition. Abundance reaped abundance. It was a law of nature. In the morning, the men had set to roast over a charcoal pit the sheep Balkis always provided. She knew that many of the villagers filled their bellies with cabbage the rest of the week and looked forward to the Friday feast.
Having returned from the mosque, the men joined their families lounging on carpets spread before their homes and in the square, spooning rice and mutton from their bowls. Children ran through the chatting groups. Gudit brought a tray of more generously apportioned plates to the big house, where Balkis rested on the divan. She had removed her ritual clothing and put on a gold-embroidered robe. Malik had remained at the Kariye Mosque.
Saba sat on a cushion on the floor. She leaned back against the wall, eyes closed as if asleep, fingers curled quietly in her lap. Such a lovely child, Balkis thought wistfully, but they praise a horse’s swiftness, not its looks. Saba needed to wake up.
Amida sat opposite Balkis on the divan, still in his jacket, his back straight, as if rebuking the cushions that invited him to recline. He had her build, short and portly, but his father’s dark complexion and eyes-small, deep set, and unreadable. Wavy brown hair fell to his shoulders and Balkis found herself wondering what it felt like. She sensed he wouldn’t like her reaching out to touch it. Was it soft or coarse? When he was a boy, before he went away to the monastery in Abyssinia, it had been light as angel feathers. Balkis remembered suddenly that she had never touched her husband’s hair, not once. Why was it that those closest to us often seemed like perfect strangers?
Saba offered Amida some grapes. When he refused, she joked, “When you were little, you were angry at me once when I wouldn’t give you my fruit ice. Do you remember?” She laughed. “Mama made me give it to you, though. She really spoiled you.”
“He was older than you, Saba,” Balkis interjected. “And he was going away for a long time.” Children remembered the oddest things. An ice, from so long ago, yet it stuck in her daughter’s memory like a fishbone.
“That’s right. She got to stay while I was shipped off for eight years to that rat-infested pit in the mountains. You thought a fruit ice would make up for that?”
“Was it really so bad?” Balkis asked, taken aback by the bitterness in his voice.
Amida looked at his hands. “It was a school run by old men who’ve spent their entire lives on that mountain,” he muttered. “What do you expect?”
If Amida had had a bad experience at the monastery, Balkis thought, it might explain some of his anger. Malik had never spoken about his years at the monastery either. She had mourned her son’s childhood passing without her, but had never given much thought to what monastery life was actually like. Young men of the priestly Melisite line were always sent there to be educated. There had been reports that Amida had run away, sometimes disappearing for months before the monks tracked him down and brought him back, but she had put it down to the rebelliousness of youth. After leaving the monastery for good, Amida had taken his time returning to Istanbul, lingering for almost a year in Cairo. What had he been doing there?
“Well, you’re with your family now,” she consoled him. “And when you become caretaker, I’m sure the things you learned at the monastery will make sense.”
“You can’t draw milk from a dead sheep.” Amida adjusted a cushion on the divan, then pushed it away. “Anyway, I told you I don’t want to be caretaker of a mosque where nothing ever happens. It’s a waste of time.”
Balkis looked squarely at her son. “Being caretaker isn’t about the mosque. It’s about four hundred years of tradition and our family’s duty, your duty, to guard the Proof of God. You’re going to be caretaker and Saba will be priestess. You’ll be leaders of the Melisites, just as it’s always been.”
“Leaders of what?” Amida scoffed. “Nobody believes that Melisite crap anymore. The young men in the village are Muslims. They don’t plan on raising their kids in the old way.” He raised his hand to his chest and pleaded, “But if you let me, I could modernize things. We could make decent money and build proper houses, instead of these shacks. Make Habesh a term people respect, instead of assuming we’re all slaves.”
Balkis was dismayed. She knew he was unenthusiastic about becoming caretaker, but this was the first time she sensed the depth of his skepticism about the sect itself. His rejection was seamed with anger. That meant he couldn’t be lured back by argument or appeals to his faith. He had to be cajoled, brought into the stable like a skittish horse. She would tread carefully so as not to drive him away. She couldn’t bear to lose him again.
“You’re right, my son. Our business is failing and I’m glad you have some ideas about how to set that right. What do you propose to do?”
Amida flashed her a smile, leaned back against the cushions, and crossed his legs. “The way we do things now is a waste of time. We’re just middlemen between Charshamba and the bazaar. The bazaaris sell the stuff to someone else and pocket most of the money. I say we bypass the bazaar and go straight to the buyer.” He clapped his hands. “We take orders, meet customer demand.”
“But we’ve been working with the bazaaris for generations,” Balkis cautioned. “We have obligations.”
“This is the modern era. You make contracts for services, not vague promises that last for generations. A business has to be able to change with the times. You say the merchants are our friends. Well, you know what friends pay friends: nothing. When you’re in bed together, the services are free.”
“Amida,” Balkis chastised him. “We deserve your respect.” He was smart and he had courage and determination, she thought, qualities the Habesh needed in their leader. But the bird doesn’t fly with one wing. She had yet to see much evidence of character and maturity. The pain in her stomach increased. Her eyes rested longingly on the glass-fronted cabinet across the room where, in a crystal bowl, lay the envelopes of powders Courtidis supplied her with.