Elif had taken off her hat and was looking out the window. He looked at the back of her small, neat head resting against the back of the seat. He wondered whether his feelings for her were appropriate. A woman who had faced the worst that humankind could offer didn’t need his protection.
He told the driver to let them out at the Nurosmaniye entrance to the bazaar. He had to stop himself from helping her out of the carriage. She hopped nimbly down onto the cobbled lane. As a precaution, Kamil asked his driver to accompany them a short distance behind.
They walked past the Nurosmaniye Mosque and fountain, then ducked through an enormous gate with iron-studded doors. Inside, a great vaulted street, lit by numerous lamps, burrowed down one side of the small city that was the bazaar. This was the gold market and the reflected light was dazzling.
As Kamil had feared, Elif dawdled at the shop windows, her hat drawn low across her forehead. When shopkeepers came out to ask politely if they could assist her, she walked quickly on without responding, only to be captured by the next display.
Kamil stopped and waited for her to catch up. “We’re going to the Inner Bedestan. That’s where they keep the antiques and the rare, precious items. It’s a building within a building that is locked up at night, with its own guards.” He could see the bazaar spinning in her eyes. It was too much, he knew. There were over five hundred shops under one roof. He hurried her up and down the connecting streets until they came to another large iron gate that stood open. Inside, the atmosphere was calmer, the shops smaller, the displays less prosaic. Porcelain vases, mirrors with carved silver backs, Roman coins, sturdy old books in leather covers, illuminated Greek manuscripts, Persian and Ottoman miniatures. Elif gravitated to these, fascinated by the brilliant colors and minute details. There were also some oil paintings.
“I don’t recognize these,” she whispered, “but they’re in the Impressionist style. They’re very good. See that one?” She pointed to one of a woman dressed in white, hand in hand with a child, standing on the side of a grassy hill silhouetted against the sun. They looked like clouds scudding across the landscape.
“I check the shops here regularly for stolen antiquities. This is where they end up if they’re sold locally. I’ll be back in a little while. Will you be alright?”
She nodded without looking away from the painting.
“The driver is nearby if you need anything and I’ll be just around the corner.” He motioned to his driver to keep an eye on her.
Kamil made his regular round of the shopkeepers. They knew the magistrate and why he was there, but they never knew when he would come by. After a while, even the most cautious of them brought their best items out and displayed them, hoping for buyers. Kamil had discovered several important objects here-a fifteenth-century Iznik tile taken from a mosque in Bursa, two icons from a Greek Orthodox church in Albanian Village, and several gold cruci-fixes. The shopkeepers always claimed they didn’t know the objects were stolen and bewailed their lost money when Kamil confiscated them. Only rarely could Kamil work his way through the thicket of middlemen to discover and sometimes even apprehend the actual thief. The bazaar was a closed world whose inhabitants protected each other against outsiders.
“Good day, Serkis,” Kamil greeted the shopkeeper of a tiny store.
“Good day, Magistrate. I hope you are well.” Serkis didn’t look pleased to see Kamil.
Kamil accepted a glass of tea. Serkis stood, ceding the padded bench to Kamil. They exchanged ritual greetings and pleasantries. Finally, Serkis said, “What can I help you with today, Magistrate?”
From where he sat, Kamil could see the contents of the entire shop. The walls were hung with framed illuminated manuscripts and shelves held trays of coins, old jewelry, and silver objects. “I’d be pleased to see whatever you have that’s new.”
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
Kamil sipped his tea as the most valuable missing antiquities ran through his head, like the diamond-studded chalice and the solid-gold plate still missing from the Fatih Mosque. Instead, he said, “A silver reliquary.”
“Nothing like that has come to me.” Serkis’s face was a mask.
Kamil reflected that the merchant had had a lifetime of experience in hiding his emotions. He waited.
“Perhaps I can interest you in something else? As a small token of my appreciation.” The merchant pulled out a tray of silver jewelry and placed it on the table by Kamil’s elbow. Kamil’s eye was drawn to an intricate and unusual pin.
“What kind of design is this?” he asked the merchant.
“I believe it’s Celtic. Excellent choice, Magistrate. I’ll wrap it for you.”
Kamil felt sure it was Malik’s and a great sadness descended on him, as if it were his friend’s spirit trapped on this profane tray.
“Where did you get it?” He dreaded the answer.
Alerted by Kamil’s tone, Serkis’s hands stopped their practiced dance of laying out paper. “I don’t know where it came from. I bought it two days ago as part of a job lot from another dealer.”
“What else was in the lot?”
“Some manuscripts. Nicely illuminated. I’ve sold those already. There are collectors just waiting for things like that to come on the market.” He gestured with his hand. “I send a message and a few hours later, they’re sold.”
“What else?”
Serkis ducked behind the curtain at the back of the shop and returned a moment later with a ledger. He leafed through it until he found the right page. “Here it is. Three more pins, a silver-backed hairbrush and matching mirror, and a cigarette holder.”
“Let me see them.”
Serkis bent over and pulled open some drawers. Before long all the objects were arrayed on a piece of green baize. Kamil didn’t recognize any of them.
“Is the dealer here in the bazaar?”
“Gomidian on the Street of Mirrormakers.”
“Please invite him here.” It was a command.
Serkis sent an apprentice the few steps to Gomidian’s shop. Almost immediately, a large head, topped by a fez, pushed through Serkis’s door.
“What’s new, what’s not?” Gomidian asked wittily.
Kamil introduced himself and saw Gomidian’s smile disappear. “I’d like to know who sold you this pin.”
The three men were crammed into the store, Kamil sitting on the only seat.
“I don’t remember.” Gomidian’s hair was thick with pomade, and like all of the shopkeepers, he wore trousers and a jacket. He had a thick mustache and a gnarled nose that looked as though it had been broken several times.
Kamil had a sudden urge to break it once more. He crossed his legs and leaned back. “I have plenty of time.”
The men began to sweat. Serkis told the dealer in an agitated whisper, “What does it matter? This is just chicken crap.”
“I have to protect my sources,” Gomidian exclaimed.
Serkis raised his hands in acquiescence. “Of course.”
When Gomidian turned and headed for the door, Kamil rose and blocked his way.
Serkis fluttered about nervously, worried about damage to his shop.
Gomidian shrugged. “A crazy blood from Charshamba named Amir or Amid or something. A virgin. Didn’t have a clue how to negotiate a deal, but loud as a rooster.”
Kamil’s disquiet deepened. He asked for a description, just to be sure, then he dropped the pin into his pocket. He thanked the men, and left the shop. They looked visibly relieved.
Two streets over, he saw Elif, hands in her pockets, head poised over a display of enameled French clocks.