Neither Kamil nor Avi mentioned that they had just eaten, but spooned yoghurt onto the peppers and ate them with pleasure, if not an appetite. The next course, a plate of rice, gave Kamil more difficulty, although he saw Avi and Omar wolf down theirs.
“Health to your hands,” Kamil complimented Mimoza.
She watched Avi eat and looked pleased. “I was in Sunken Village last summer. I was buying vegetables at Charshamba market and happened to look down into the cistern, where I saw these amazing birds strutting about in someone’s yard. Their tails were like enormous shimmering fans. I’d never seen anything like it, so I went down the stairs into the village and asked the woman who lived there if I could see them close up. She let me into the yard. They’re called peacocks. They’re vain birds.” She laughed. “Just like people. The more beautiful a woman is, the more likely she is to peck out your eye. She let me have one of their feathers.” Mimoza got up and disappeared again. After a moment, she returned holding a gleaming green and blue feather. She gave it to Avi, who turned it back and forth, catching the light. “She said they raise them for a local festival.”
Avi laid the feather carefully aside, then jumped up to help Mimoza carry the dishes to the kitchen. Kamil had a glimpse of Mimoza patting Avi’s hair and cupping his cheeks in her hands. Omar had seen it too, and Kamil caught a worried frown passing over his face.
As Avi came back into the room eagerly balancing a tray of glasses, Kamil felt an unworthy tick of jealousy. Avi seemed so comfortable here. He marveled at the resilience of children.
Finally, they sat in the garden drinking their tea and Kamil laid out his plan. If he wanted Omar’s help in catching Malik’s killer, he would have to tell him something about the Proof of God. He had considered carefully what could and could not be revealed. It would be a tricky conversation.
“We’ve been doing this haphazardly,” he began, “following tips like the tobacco raid, or individual people, like Remzi and Amida. But as soon as we have a lead, it leaps sideways and we don’t know where it’s headed. It’s like herding rabbits. Too many murders with too many motives, too many people, too many stolen objects. We need to focus on the European connection. We need to act, not just react. One antiquity that the thieves are after and that we have a decent lead on is the Proof of God.”
“The Proof of What?”
“The reliquary that Malik reported stolen. It contained papers that some people believe are sacred. Malik took them out to study them, so when Amida stole the reliquary, he didn’t know it was empty. Whoever hired him to steal it, presumably this Kubalou, went back for the contents.”
“Are you telling me he was killed for some papers?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Well, what else? What’s in these papers? Aren’t you going to tell me any more?”
Kamil hesitated. “I can’t.”
“You can’t?” Omar’s voice was incredulous.
“Malik made me promise not to tell anyone. He thought it would put his community in danger.”
“I should bloody well think he trusted me too,” Omar bellowed, getting to his feet and overturning his tea glass. “Now what the hell is all of this about?”
Mimoza, with a concerned look on her face, leaned forward and righted the glass.
“Sit down, Omar. I’m not going to tell you anything while you’re stamping about like a wild boar.”
Omar crossed his arms and remained standing. “Well?”
Kamil calmly sipped his tea. Finally, Omar sat back down, still frowning.
“Ismail Hodja said these papers are important enough that some secret societies have been following the reliquary for centuries and that some of them would even kill to get it.”
Omar threw out his arms. “You told Ismail Hodja, but not me?”
“He already knew about it. All but the connection to the Habesh. I’m sorry, Omar. Malik was adamant that no one should know.”
“Fine. I can respect a man for keeping his word.” Omar sounded disgruntled, but resigned. “What do you propose to do?”
“I think the only way to control this is to find the document ourselves. Then we can decide what to do with it. Malik asked me to give it to his niece, but now I’m not sure that would be wise. She’d be in danger, and if she puts it in the prayer house, it would be stolen again. Ismail Hodja thinks it would be safer in the Imperial Museum.”
“Where is it now, do you think?”
“Either in Malik’s house or in the Kariye Mosque.”
“We should take another look at his house. We didn’t really know what we were looking for the last time,” Omar pointed out. “At least I didn’t. And if we don’t find it?”
“We pretend we have it and dangle it in front of Amida’s nose, then follow him when he tries to sell it.” Kamil looked at Avi, who was stroking the peacock feather. “I thought the boy could help tail him. He’d be less visible.”
“He’s just a child,” Mimoza protested. “Let a man do the dangerous job.”
“It’s not dangerous, teyze, really,” Avi spoke up eagerly. “And I’m good at this. No one will see me.”
Kamil saw Omar meet his wife’s eyes. Being married, Kamil thought, must mean learning an entire new vocabulary of words, looks and gestures known only to husband and wife, each couple a nation with its own language, government, and history. He wondered whether modern life would bring families out of their self-imposed exile and whether that would be a good thing. If the language of family faltered, he couldn’t imagine what would take its place.
When Mimoza went to the kitchen, Kamil offered Omar a cigarette and they smoked in companionable silence. Avi sat beside them, still intrigued by the feather, which Mimoza had told him he could keep.
When she returned, Kamil stood up. “Thank you for your hospitality. Sadly I have to go.” He leaned over and looked steadily into Avi’s face. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s perfectly alright if you don’t.”
Avi scrambled to his feet. “Yes, bey. You can rely on me.”
Kamil turned to Omar. “I’ll set it up.”
“Agreed. You know where to find me.”
Kamil nodded.
“I’m glad to have met you, Kamil Pasha. And thank you for bringing us this young man.” Mimoza reached down and put her hand on Avi’s shoulder. “You’re welcome here any time, my son.”
Avi beamed. “Thank you, teyze.” He buttoned his jacket carefully over the feather, then took it out again and handed it back to Mimoza. “Would you keep this for me, please?” he asked politely. “I don’t want it to get crushed.”
Kamil and Avi filed through the gate into the dusty square. Mimoza looked after them, twirling the peacock feather in her fingers.
Kamil rapped on the door. After a few moments, Amida opened it, unshaven and in a hastily donned robe.
“What do you want?”
“Peace be upon you.”
“Upon you be peace,” Amida responded lazily.
Avi stood in the shadow of the oleander, where he could see Amida but not be seen. He was wearing patched brown trousers too short for him and a ragged sweater and his feet were bare. He looked like any one of the hundreds of poor village boys sent to earn a kurush for their families on the city streets.
“Forgive me for disturbing your sleep,” Kamil said. “I’ve come to speak to your mother and I thought you’d like to be present.”
Amida stared at him for a moment, suddenly alert. “Give me a moment. I’ll be right over.”
Kamil went next door to Balkis’s house. Avi again took up position, this time under a thick ilex by a window that looked into the receiving hall. From there, he could hear and see whoever was sitting on the divan.
A servant led Kamil into the receiving hall. Balkis, dressed in a formal robe and caftan, came to meet him. He smelled almond oil on her hair, mingled with a faint sourness. She looked exhausted. They exchanged the standard words of greeting.
“I wanted to speak with you and your son.”