After Hamdi Bey had gone, Huseyin commented, “He has a tongue that could sweeten vinegar. He should be in parliament. If we had a parliament.”
Kamil responded, “That’s how he gets the government to support all of his projects.”
“After he’s gone, we should gild his tongue and display it in the museum.”
Kamil couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re jealous.”
Huseyin stuck out his tongue at Feride. “Mine’s already gold, isn’t it, wife?”
Feride blushed and ran after Elif, who had gone to put her drawings away.
Kamil got up to leave.
Huseyin clapped him on the shoulder. “Brother-in-law, you look like a camel on the far side of the desert. Just skin, bones, and determination. Sit with me for a moment before you rush off back to that desert of yours.”
Kamil allowed Huseyin to lead him into an adjoining sitting room. He settled in an armchair by the unlit fireplace and took the glass of scotch Huseyin handed him. He set the glass down, then drifted off. He was awakened by Feride pulling at his sleeve. Next to her stood Avi, a bandage on his head, watching Kamil intently.
“Well, my boy,” Kamil said, sitting up straight. “How are you feeling today?”
“I’m very well, bey,” Avi said in a firm voice. “I’m ready to come back to work.”
“Good riddance.” Alev’s little-girl voice floated across the room.
Huseyin laughed. “No golden tongues in this family.”
Feride scolded Alev. “Don’t be impolite. Avi is our guest.”
Alev folded her arms and scowled. No doubt the girls weren’t used to sharing the adults’ attention. Yasemin was perched on a chair, admiring her embroidered skirt, which was splayed across her legs like a fan. Kamil wondered which moments in childhood predict the adult.
Then he noticed Elif, or rather, he caught the scent of her as she approached the back of his chair. It was a fresh, green scent, not floral like that of other women. She sat in the chair next to him and crossed her legs. Her foot arched elegantly, animated by the beat of her heart. Her toes were long, but not bony, the clefts between them almost erotic, a tiny country of vulnerabilities. There was a slight plump rise on the inside of her foot near the heel. He wanted to press his mouth there, feel the resilience of the flesh at her instep, at the span of her arch.
Elif was watching him, her face flushed. Kamil was embarrassed. Had he been asleep and dreamed this? He looked down quickly. Her feet were tucked under her chair. She was asking Avi about his life in Middle Village.
14
That evening, Kamil was in the winter garden, repositioning his orchids to compensate for the shifting autumn light. He set the pot of Orchis lactea down carefully. Its long spikes were densely set with milky white conical flowers flushed with rose. He had discovered the plant growing in a patch of wildflowers just outside the city walls, despite the stench and effluvium of the nearby tanneries, and had managed to bring it to bloom in his winter garden for the second time this year. The lacteal orchid, however, was a simple fishwife compared to its delicate, high-born cousin in the next pot, the rare Orchis pinetorum, which grew only at high altitudes in the Taurus Mountains and whose pure white blossoms looked like tiny hummingbirds feeding on the stem.
He thought he heard a tap on the glass and peered out the window. In the half-light, he made out Malik’s worried face.
“Malik, welcome,” Kamil said. “Please come in. Have you eaten? The cook has made some wonderful kabak dolmasou.”
Malik stood in the winter garden, looking about as if he had never been there before. Kamil was concerned. “Has something happened?”
“May I sit for a moment, my friend?”
“Of course.” Kamil gestured toward two comfortable cane chairs under a potted palm. “Let me take your cloak.”
Malik ignored his request and sat down in the chair, eyes closed.
Kamil waited, trying not to show how tired he was. The light had faded, leaving a gray pall that infected the air and made the colorful blooms of his orchids look like the wings of dead moths. When Yakup appeared at the inner door with a lamp, Malik turned so his face remained in shadow. At a look from Kamil, Yakup retreated without a word.
“I need your help,” Malik said finally in a weary voice, “but more than that, I need your silence.”
“You have my loyalty as a friend, Malik, but you should know that if you tell me anything about a crime, I can’t keep that to myself.”
“Of course. I would expect no less from you. This is about a crime that I need your help solving, but there are other things that must remain between us.” He leaned back and regarded the palm fronds above him. “It’s so restful here.”
“What is it you wish to tell me?”
“It’s about the reliquary.”
Kamil nodded.
“It’s more important than I told you.” He leaned forward, his face in his hands.
Kamil reached out and laid his hand on Malik’s arm. “Is there something valuable in it?”
Malik looked up at Kamil with red-rimmed eyes. “I know I must tell you, but understand that this is difficult for me. If word gets out about its true nature, there will be more death.”
“No silver box could be that valuable, Malik.”
“You see, that’s my dilemma. If I don’t tell you about it, I know you’ll do your best as a friend to locate it, but I’m not ignorant of your other priorities. If I do tell you, I’ll be revealing a four-hundred-year-old secret and putting my community at great risk.”
Kamil waited, but Malik was silent, clearly struggling with his decision. Kamil got up and opened the door into the house. Yakup reappeared immediately, the handle of a revolver protruding from his belt.
Kamil nodded towards it. “That won’t be necessary, but you can bring us some coffee and water. Just leave it here,” he pointed to a small table outside the door, “and knock. Make sure we’re not disturbed.”
He closed the door, sat down again, and, after a few moments, said gently, “I’ll do whatever I can, my dear friend. You know you can trust me.” He wondered what secret could agitate the old man so deeply.
“I’ll tell you what I can. You are one of us, in a way.”
“What do you mean?”
There was another long silence. Dry leaves skittered across the glass ceiling.
“Let’s discuss that tomorrow at breakfast in the light of the new day. Here in the darkness, let me tell you a story.”
Kamil settled back in his chair. He was having difficulty keeping his eyes open.
“Sunken Village is home to a sect,” Malik began, “called the Melisites. It dates back to the time of the Conquest.”
This was not at all what Kamil was expecting. He was suddenly wide awake. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“There’s a reason for the secrecy.” Malik shook his head. “No, not because of any criminal activity, although…” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Although Omar isn’t wrong. They do deal in stolen goods. I’ve kept out of it myself. My sister runs the commercial affairs of the village.”
Kamil kept his excitement at bay. He knew a door had opened, and that he must enter slowly so it didn’t swing shut again. He waited for Malik to continue.
“But these aren’t the people you’re looking for,” Malik added quickly. “Everything’s on a small scale. The Habesh don’t steal, so much as provide a service to those who do. They buy stolen items from professional thieves in Charshamba and sell them to merchants in the bazaar. They’ve been doing this for generations.”
He held up his amber-skinned hand, then turned it and looked curiously at his palm. “I am Habesh, so I suppose I’m culpable. You understand that I would rather discuss the reliquary.”